why will the children's children of white men are not alone
Answers
White people in America—especially well-meaning white people—have a long history of calling the police when they suspect that black people are up to no good. Sometimes the responding officers merely harass or arrest the black folks in question—like the two men arrested while waiting for a business meeting at a Starbucks this year in Philadelphia or the napping Yale student who was confronted by police last month after falling asleep in her dormitory. But on other occasions when phones are deployed before facts—think John Crawford or Stephon Clark—African Americans end up dead.
This violent history weighs on me every time I take my sons out of our house—to a park, playground, swimming class, or doctor’s office. They’re white. I’m black. And in America, few things appear more suspicious than a dark man living with, laughing with, and loving white children.
My sons are beautiful, sweet, and perfect—I’d change absolutely nothing about them. But I never imagined they’d turn out white.
When my husband and I began to search for an egg donor to help us start a family a few years back, we immediately knew what we weren’t looking for—the blond-haired, blue-eyed donors so conspicuously desired by certain types of gay men eager for children who fit some sort of anachronistic “all-American” ideal. I’m mixed black and Jewish, my husband is an olive-toned Argentinian. We wanted a biological mother—or “bio-mom”—whose complexion and ethnicity would place her somewhere between us both. The donor we eventually chose seemed perfect—mixed Latina and Celtic, with skin the color of dulce de leche, piercing green eyes, and an endearing smile. She was healthy and smart and, unlike myself, remarkably athletic and slim!
While there were no guarantees her eggs would actually “work,” we figured any babies that resulted from this union would be lighter than me, darker than my husband—and certainly not Caucasian-appearing.
The donor’s eggs did work, so well, in fact, that we’re now parents to a pair of nearly 19-month old twin boys who are the lights and delights of everyone they encounter. They’re charming and chubby and affectionate and adorable and make me wish we were 10 years younger so we could give them a sister or brother.
They are also far whiter than we ever imagined. Aaron, born first, has a slightly ecru-colored complexion and beautiful auburn-colored hair that flows into loose curls reminiscent of a Greco-Roman statuary. Upon closer inspection, he’s clearly of ambiguous(ish) ethnicity—and can certainly look “of color” in the shade. But he’s very, very fair. Luca, meanwhile, wound up with milk-colored skin and piercing blue eyes—far lighter than my other half; he is, in a word, white.
I’ve spent my whole life at the intersections of ethnicity and identity and sexuality. Raised by my Ashkenazi Jewish mother without my black Baptist father—and with, perhaps, the most “Jewish”-sounding name imaginable—I’m far too accustomed to people prying into my racial background and family structure.
Well into adulthood folks would openly wonder “how I knew” the woman, my mom, sitting or standing or chatting next to me. And while I understood that my own family—what, with its two dads—would also invite intrusion and confusion, I hoped (if not prayed) that folks would never, ever question my inviolable status as their father.
So far, most haven’t—not really—but I know it’s merely a matter of time. In Manhattan, where we live, there’s nothing unusual about dark-skinned women toting white kids around town; they’re usually the nanny. Indeed, generations of white American children have been raised by black and brown women whose servitude—often forced and unpaid—kept them from their own families and children as they toiled away in the “big house.”
On the other extreme, there’s been a mini “boom” in white female celebs—think Sandra Bullock, Angelina Jolie, and Madonna—adopting African and African American children. Prominently featured in endless paparazzi
Answer:
The children's children of the white man will never be alone because the spirits of the dead Red Indians will always be there for them and everything in the Red Indian's place holds memories and life.
Explanation:
Not the perfect answer, but hope it helps :-)