Being My Child's Ally

One of my first lessons in advocacy.

Last week or the week before, I was waiting for you at the bus stop when a girl tells me she used to see me and my son walking home. I let her know she means my daughter. “No,” she comes back. “There’s a lady with a dog just like yours who walks with her son.”

I am that lady, I say, and she’s my daughter.

You race over just as a friend joins her. Behind the hand whispers follow. A finger pointed casually in your direction. “That’s a girl,” she giggles. “She looks like a boy,” her friend whispers back.

My mind wanders through all the ways difference divides, sometimes more benignly, like these girls, other times decisive and relentless in its unwillingness to admit any similarity. We’ve had some tough conversations this week, you and me, wading through past and present moments where difference seems to take center stage and beg to be harpooned, shouted down by the illusory safety of sameness.

I look at you, and want to build you a world where reason reigns and tempers the easy, instant knee-jerk reaction with time and thoughtful consideration.

A world where tragedy can exist without sucking up every last bit of light, and fear isn’t allowed to silence our better selves.

A world where we understand that there is no single way to measure somebody’s humanity, and that we can be angry without being vengeful.

A world where difference doesn’t have to be constantly defended.

Then I think of your teacher telling me how when you gave your Student Congress speech, centered around your usual theme of creating a community of acceptance at school where you used yourself as an example, your classmates stood up and applauded—and I realized, you’re building this world for yourself, and I am but your ally.