Teaching My Son about Race

"Did you like that palangi lady's house son?"

"What is palangi dad?"

"Palangi means white; she was a white lady."

"What are we dad? Are we palangi?"

"No son, we're Tongan; we're brown."

"Tongan?" he asks puzzled. He points to the brown stripes on his flannel shirt. "Is this Tongan?"    

My family has a pickup truck they use as a utility vehicle. It is a 1992 Ford F-150 with mud swamper tires. It's pretty beat up, with rust marks along all the wheel wells, faded maroon paint and the seats have tears throughout with the foam protruding out where ever it can find sunlight. He handed me the keys and said if I could register it, I could have it. Gee, thanks I guess? I never knew how valuable this truck would become to me and my family. As a trade in, a dealership would probably point and laugh, and pay me just to take it off the lot. However, in my family, this truck's value far exceeds its Kelly Blue book listing. Because we use this truck to serve others and the road trips can be miles away, it creates a comfortable environment for my son and I to converse. This truck is invaluable as it creates a safe haven for me and my 4 year old son to contemplate life's deepest questions. One such event took place last month when my son asked about race and the dialogue that followed.

I thought very carefully about what I would say and the direction I would take this conversation. I realized that situations very similar to this play out around the world every day, between father and sons. This pivotal moment in my son's perception of the world and his own cultural identity were at stake. I had the opportunity now, as many fathers in this position have, to pass on ideals of bigotry and close mindedness, to fill his mind with poison and ethnocentrism and corrupt this blank canvas. OR I could use this opportunity to teach my son the beauty of the human race. To teach him we're all brothers and sisters of different shades and levels of melanin under skin tissue made up of 99% same DNA. And to paint a beautiful mural, on that same blank, innocent, canvas of all the colors in the world. No pressure though, it's not like I could turn this child into a racist by a simple misunderstanding or a slip of the tongue. It's not like his lifelong behavior and attitude about ethnicity rested on this moment alone. Wait, it does rest on this moment. I'd better take this time to enlighten my son, as his memory of our heart to heart conversations, were photographic.

"Son we're Tongan because Nana and Papa were born in Tonga, and they moved here a long time ago. The palangi lady's family comes from somewhere else too, but we're all the same. We're human beings." He smiled softly as he looked out the window in to the sky, as if he was being reminded of something he had known for ages.

    I remember the moment I taught my son that we were human beings just a few years earlier. I never thought I'd need this crucial bit of information to explain to him what different races were. He was eating a bowl of cereal and he finished the bowl until there was nothing left but milk. He placed the bowl on the ground and started to lap the milk up like a cat. I told him to pick up his bowl. We are humans; only cats drink milk like that. Immediately I could see through his eyes, the gears in his head turning. Thus another barrage of deep, life questions began which lead us to our conversation about race.

    As a father, it is a big day, when your child can come to you for answers to questions that he has floating in his head. It is comforting to know that he trusts you and feels comfortable talking to you about tough questions. The fact that I'm the only adult in the truck right now, and the only person who can answer his questions is not important. I like to think we have a great relationship and it will never change. Often I would take him to run errands with me so that we could have these conversations. I know that in the near future, quality father and son time like this will become scarce.

    Now that I'm grown with a family of my own, I don't spend much one on one time with my own father anymore. Our conversations are now about my children and the issues I'm dealing with. Questions of parenting styles and experiences are the topic of our conversations now. However I can remember when I would ask my father questions to life's challenges and problems and I just knew that my father had all the answers. He showed me the value of teamwork and equal partnership in a marriage. Dialogue and conversation between father and son was welcomed, and he enjoyed answering my foolish questions of Who? What? Where? And Why? I feel this is why I am able to continue this type of parenting with my son.

    My son and I are sitting in line, against the wall at Ray's Barbershop on 2100 East and 1300 South. We're waiting for my cousin Red, a popular barber here in the valley because of his skill in cutting designs using one's hair. My son loves to have designs shaved in the side of his faux-hawk and the attention it brings him. The barbers and patrons are predominately minority, as it takes a special barber and training to cut ethnic hair. Several flat screen TV's are playing a variety of major sports events. Pictures of special haircuts and do's and a photo album of famous people who frequent the Shop adorn and decorate the walls. A young black man in his early 20's walks up to me and asks,

"Are you waiting for Red?"

"Yeah, my son and I are getting fades."

"I'm gonna get designs in my head right here" my son points to the right side of his head.

    The young man nods to Red to let him know his place in line, and takes a seat next to me. There isn't really a number system at the Barbershop, the Barbers just take a mental note of the order that customers come in. They can still choose which order they want to serve the patrons. Just as the young black man stands up and walks towards the vending machine, my son turns to me and whispers,

"Dad, why is he black for?"

    I chuckle, here we go again. I would've never known that the questions this brilliant child asks would educate me far more than it would him. With each question and conversation we have, it makes me step back and evaluate my position on such topics as race, science and politics. My son has taught me so much, and continues to open my mind to the innocence he possesses and the excitement and positive outlook he has on the world around him.

"I love your truck Dad, its huge!" he doesn't notice the $60,000 2011 Toyota Tundra next us at a red light. He doesn't care about the rusted bedsides, or broken window knobs. He'll never notice that the radio is missing out of the dash which allows us to have these conversations instead of listening to meaningless garbage, some call music now. To him, this is the best truck in the world. I completely agree.

"Son, when you're 16, you can have this truck! What do you think about that?"

"That's a good idea!" He smiles at me from his booster seat, a foot away, and looks to the road as we continue our drive down I-15.

The One That Got Away

I would like to just jump into this and see if this Blog Therapy helps. I don't mean to anger or offend anyone, but know these are my feelings, and this blog will be quite personal. As most of you know, We have been blessed with three very beautiful and bright, intelligent, rambuctious children. A few weeks before my youngest son Kime turned 1 on June 22nd, we found out that we were pregnant expecting our number 4! The rest of the story gets a little foggy as I've tried to forget about it....
Tonight my Wife and I were cleaning up our room (a never ending process) and we came across a zip lock bag with three pregancy tests in them and the nubmer 4 written with a marker on the outside. My wife has saved all the positive pregnancy tests of all our children, including number 4. I know, some may think this is weird maybe even a little gross but we are so excited each time we find out we will be bringing in another soul into this world, specifically our family!
She held the bag up and said very softly "This was our number 4" we paused and the room suddenly felt very empty as quiet filled the room. My eyes teared up. "The one that got away" I whispered. We refer to our baby as She. Pua and I are convinced she was a girl. A little sister for my daughter Salote. It was too early to tell as we were only about 10-11 weeks along. The whole miscarriage at the U of U hospital was quite dramatic. I almost lost my wife that day. I saw the embryo and could not help but speak to this small developing body as if She could hear me. I knew she couldn't but who cares, She was still ours, and I felt she needed to hear her parents loved her. I can remember thinking, when my wife passed out in the ER bathroom, I'm going to lose my wife and baby. How am I supposed to raise my three kids without their Mother? Without my wife and best friend? She is the rock of our family. Just then the doctors and nurses rushed in and revived her with peircing pokes to her sternum to wake her up. I felt like punching the Doc in the face! It's 2010 and we've made leaps and bounds in Medical technology, and the only way you can revive her is by jabbing your fingers in her chest? really? but it worked. An assistant rushes to the bathroom as we move my wife to the bed. He then stares at the ground and calls for help in "cleaning up." "What is it?" I ask anxiously. "A doctor will be with you shortly" he relpies then rushes out the door. My wife, groggy, asks whats wrong. I tell her I think they found baby. We embrace and begin to weep in each others arms. The 15 year old looking doctor walks in the room and tells us what we had already expected. We weep uncontrollably again. He tries to comfort us by saying it was the body's way of telling us something was wrong. It still hurts so bad. Guilt sets in as I think of the doubt I had in  my mind when I first found out that we would have 4 kids under 4. Was I being punished for being ungrateful? Should I not have had these doubts while my wife was pregnant? Could this unborn child have heard these thoughts, and did she have feelings of regret coming to an unsure family? But I did want her, so bad and now more then ever! I wanted her know that we would love her! We would take care of her and our family would make it. Some how I would do everything in my power to provide for my family, even if it killed me! But it was too late. She was gone, and their we lay in our room alone to ponder our lifes priorities, and thank the Lord for our blessings. My wife was ok. But she wasn't clear yet. They rush her to the 4th floor for emergency surgery as she loses an enormous amount of blood, and she won't stop bleeding. They prep her for surgery and we wait nearly an hour for the docs to finally wheel her in. During this time, she is shivering. Her face is colorless, her lips purple. She continues to have heavy contractions but She has no meds. She is the strongest woman I've ever known. They wheel her in and I wait in the in the lobby.
While waiting an operater over the intercom asks "If there is an LDS Priesthood Holder available, please go to room C202." I'm sure this hospital is full of Priesthood holders, someone will go. I'm waiting for my wife to come out of surgery. 30 minutes later the announcement is made again. Reluctantly I aproach the surgery receptionist and tell them I'm going to give a blessing, if my wife comes out before then let her know where I am. I rush to room C202. By this time the patient in the room has waited nearly an hour for Priesthood to show up. She is an elderly woman from St. George visiting her family and suffers a heart attack. She is a new convert to the church of only 2 short years. Another Gentleman and his wife walk in the room surprised to see me there and ask if a Priesthood Holder was needed in this room. I'm wearing street clothes, unshaved face, long curly hair sticking out my fitted cap turned backwards on my head and eyes blood shot red from crying. "I am hear to assist in the blessing as well. My name is Bro. Lao. Thanks for coming Sir." They ask why I'm at the hospital and I tell them my wife and I just lost our baby. I begin to cry again, then I'm reminded that I still have my wife. They comfort me, we talk. Then quietly we perform one of the most powerful priesthood blessings I've been a part of. I was meant to be there at that exact moment. That blessing brought comfort to more then just the grandma from St. George. I was reminded of the Power and Authority I held. I was reminded that my family was eternal. I'm not sure about the intracasies of which spirit children will be ours and which will not be. I don't know the exact stance the church has on miscarriages, but I believe I will see this one again.
Shortly after leaving the blessing I was informed that my wife was in recovery. I went to her room and waited at her bedside. For the first time in over two days, we both rested. Upon waking up, the pain set in. We were in the labor and delivery section of the hospital. We could hear the sounds of joy from other families that were welcoming their newborns. Yet we sat there in our room. Just the two of us. This time, for the first time, we would be leaving empty handed. We had some visitors, just close family members. I did not want to see a single person because I didn't want to hear "I know how you feel, I've had a miscarriage before too." You don't know how I feel. I promise you don't! A counselor came in the room to offer us advice. I hate psychologist and therapist. What the hell do they know. Hurry up and give us your card and leave us alone. But she did leave us with valuable advice that I use to this day. She said "people will say stupid things that might hurt. They might say 'I know how you feel' and you might get angry. Just know that they don't mean to hurt you. They're just trying to say what they think they should say. Just know they care and their intentions are good." To this day I keep that bit of advice with me.
We are stronger and closer today then ever before. I'm happy to say we will be welcoming our number 5 on July 4th. Pua thinks its a boy. I'm just excited we are still blessed to have children. Thanks for listening, tune in next time. I can't wait to see my daughter, The one that got away :) 

My first Post

This is my first experience with blogging and I must say, I'm pretty excited! I don't have any followers, and don't really care. I'm not writing for anyone. Just me :) And perhaps my wife and kids should I die unexpectedly. My wife, for some reason, finds me interesting still and said she was pretty stoked as well that I would finally start blogging. As I understand it, blogging is like an online journal made public to all who want to view. I will be posting thoughts as they enter my mind, and interesting conversations that I have with my Wife and Children that may provoke thought to those who read it, or remind Me of our children as they grow. Happy Blogging!