My five year old daughter, Lola, is in Kindergarten. Understanding that Black History is not something that would necessarily be given much priority at that age, and knowing my daughter’s love of playing dress up, I set out to make learning black history fun for her…
Starting February 1, we recreated a photo of an inspiring, indomitable black woman, and talk about her legacy!
This set of photos from Maine-based Justine Johnson Photography celebrates a blended family of AWESOME: Manya and Brian live in Kenya with their four kiddos. These two were both divorced when they met, and happily joined her two daughters and his two sons together. When the six of them were altogether visiting grandparents in Maine last summer they decided to round up the gang for photos — and here’s what they came away with.
I first spied a few of the photos from this fun family session in our Flickr pool a week or so ago, and after seeing a few more I knew it needed to be shared. This family is basically the epitome of SO MUCH FUN — I love that their session took place at EMP in Seattle! This is the stuff of pop culture geekery dreams.
As an adult I find myself faced with the issue of race every day — I never know what to check when I’m filling out any kind of official form. The truth is, if it were not for my mother’s words I’d be incredibly frustrated by the situation. Instead, the idea that I belong to the human race is the foundation of my upbringing, and I realize that I cannot be easily defined by what my skin looks like.
My husband and daughter are Alaska Native; they are Tlingit. I am an even blend of nearly all things considered Caucasian. In our home we tend to embrace the Tlingit culture stronger than anything else, because, frankly, it’s so much more interesting than the average middle-class white-girl way that I grew up. The greatest thing about being a hybrid family is that we can choose what’s wonderful about being Tlingit. We love hunting, gathering, beautiful Tlingit art, the fantastic jewelry and Tlingit dance.
My own daughters, whose in-utero nicknames were Roomba and Scooba, were born late in September that same year. But it didn’t occur to me until a few months ago that they, too, could be considered “black and white twins.” Scooba is as pale as I am, while Roomba is perhaps only a shade lighter than her father.
When I met the wonderful man who would very soon assist me in bearing a son, and later become my husband, the first thing I thought was “Damn he’s hot,” not “Oh, I wonder what nationality he is.” It just didn’t even occur to me.
The problem with all of these required forms is obvious: my kids aren’t one box.