Which Water Fountain Would I Drink From?
Talking Black History With My Biracial Daughter.
Nothing can prepare you for the questions kids ask. One day I was talking to my then three-year-old daughter, Raegan, about my Grandparents, whom she adored. They had recently passed away, and Rae was curious about their whereabouts.
“Where are they now?” Rae asked.
“They’re in heaven,” I responded, anticipating my eventual stumble through explaining my views on the afterlife to a three-year-old, which may or may not be correct.
I explained that after we pass away, our souls continue to live through our memories and the people we’ve loved on earth. After explaining that her Great Grandparent’s physical bodies were left on earth (I spared the details of cremation), I assured her their souls were together, living well and peacefully in the afterlife.
My daughter looked at me, and with a straight face, she asked, “But if they don’t have mouths anymore, how can they talk?”
It was one of my favorite moments of fatherhood.
Some questions are so dang cute that you can’t help but smile. Some questions cut deep, which makes sense coming from kids without regard for social cues. Others make you realize there is a whole world ready to rock these kids, and I can do little to stop it.
I’ve talked with my kids about Black History Month and the Civil Rights movement for as long as they’ve been alive. We have books about Mae Jemison, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Rosa Parks, John Lewis, etc. I want my girls to understand the work others have done to allow our multiracial family to exist.
These conversations are crucial because right now, there is a concerted effort by far right-wing propagandists and politicians to erase Black history. From banning books to banning college courses, white supremacists are using the framework of their ancestors to distort our past, proof that we aren’t so far removed from history.
Being 1/4 Black, my girls will find themselves in spaces where acquaintances, colleagues, and neighbors will make racist comments around them. While their hair is often a giveaway that they’re mixed, their skin tone is light enough to be considered “passing” in some circles. I know this because when I first brought my daughter to church, my white pastor told me, “Bro, she doesn’t even look Black!”
My daughters will enter many doors I didn’t have the privilege of walking through. Some of those doors will be like private chat rooms where people can say how they really feel about their Black acquaintances. The people who proudly proclaim, “Ugh, I love the Obamas,” while silently complaining that Black people just need to get over the past and move on already. People tell me they love the Obamas all the time. People will never demand I get over slavery because, deep down, they know how awful that sounds. They would never say that to a Black person directly. Unfortunately, my girls will eventually hear this nonsense often because their roots aren’t as obvious as mine.
While Raegan and I read our book on Rosa Parks, we read about the Montgomery Bus Boycotts and how these protests were recognized as one of the first major civil rights protests in the 1950s. These protests would eventually lead to several positive changes for Black Americans. I told her that Black people had to sit in certain sections of the bus, and when the white area was packed, bus drivers would require the Black riders to give up their seats. Even my daughter knew this wasn’t right.
The Montgomery Boycott conversation led to the Greensboro sit-ins, which led to talking about the Freedom Riders, which led to us talking about Ruby Bridges. I’ve had these conversations with adults, but finding ways not to overwhelm a five-year-old with this information can be tricky.
Throughout these books, my daughter learned that Black people could not share water fountains with their white classmates and colleagues.
“Why?” she questioned. A straightforward question that I wish somebody had asked when the first “whites only” sign was placed above a water fountain.
“I’m not sure, babe. Unfortunately, many people back then didn’t like people who looked like me and worked hard to make life difficult for us.” I tried my best to respond, knowing that my daughter had too much common sense to understand racism.
“Why?” she asked again. I knew my daughter was intelligent.
“Well, the short answer is I don’t know. I know many of those people were taught not to like us, and they never asked questions like you’re doing.” I’m working overtime here, trying to handle this topic to the best of my ability. But then she hit me with this…
“So, which water fountain would I drink from?”
So pure. So sweet. My daughter knows she has light skin but also understands she’s part Black.
“Well, you’re 1/4 Black, and a long time ago, a law said if you were more than 1/32 Black, then you were considered Black, meaning you and I would be sharing the same water fountain.”
“And mama would get to drink from the “whites only” water fountain?”
Geez, this girl is good.
“You know, yes, technically she could, but she wouldn’t because we wouldn’t tolerate any place that treated our family differently because of our skin color. So that’s why we should always be grateful for the people who work hard to change laws that we know don’t make sense.”
I’m trying over here. Hard. I’m navigating significant historical concepts and breaking them down for a child, doing my best to walk the line between watering down the message and Civil Rights 101. Yet, all the while, my daughter simply thought about the logistics, wondering where she’d get a sip of water if she got thirsty.
“If I lived back then, I would just bring my water bottle everywhere so I wouldn’t have to worry.”
What did I tell you? So much brighter than early 20th-century policymakers.
Somebody is going to teach my kids our history. I’ve seen how others explain concepts like redlining, and it’s impressive how wrong they are. If my girls are going to learn about historical inequities, I need to be the one who educates them.
As communities fear their consequences, like a historical boomerang thrown by their ancestors, more bad actors will push false narratives about Black history in hopes of silencing the giants who made our multiracial family possible.
The questions will only get more challenging to answer, and I hope they do because I want to show my kids that the world we build today affects the world they’ll live in tomorrow. I don’t have all the answers, but we can search for them together.
Kids handle complexities far better than adults. So don’t run from discomfort. People are curious by nature, and as parents, we help determine whether our kids grow in truth or live fearing their differences. States can ban books, and politicians can demonize our culture, but every ill-fated effort to censor Black history mirrors their unprocessed shame.
Racism is dumb. Outline the concept of racism to any kid, explaining how people with dark skin had to drink from a separate water fountain than people with light skin, and with all the confusion in the world, they’ll rightly ask, “Why?” If anyone could translate “because some people are dumb, baby” into a kinder, more age-appropriate phrase, I’ll take the recommendations.
Black history is beautiful, heartbreaking, but beautiful. Our kids will learn about our past one way or another, and they can learn it from you or the kid whose dad learned it from a meme on Facebook. Being biracial, my girls will have plenty of questions about their heritage as they get older. I’ll be ready to answer them all to the best of my ability. My job right now is to build trust, so they know when the factually-challenged individuals intentionally try to lead them astray, their foundation remains intact — rooted in a legacy of giants.