Frederee & Me

One of the subjects of many conversations in my work with educators is cultural sensitivity. I thought it was something I rarely thought about or experienced. I'm a WASP and was raised in a mostly WASPy neighborhood. I'm a white middle-class girl. I ate white bread, white rice, bologna, and mac 'n cheese. Today it hit me. I had two white parents and one bonus parent -- a woman of color named Frederee. Frederee's version of the story begins with my mom bringing me home from the hospital, handing me to Frederee, and saying "this one is yours." I was the fourth of four girls and a late-in-life "oops" baby. I didn't know what color anyone was or who had what place in the social statusphere. I didn't even know what food was yet. But I knew Frederee. And I felt her love for me. I experienced her "beneath her skin." I felt her heart. She did what moms do -- fed, bathed, rocked, carried, talked, and sang to me. I was about four years old the first time I commented on her skin color. I asked her why she was brown. She said it was the pigment in her skin. I heard "pigment" and I thought "pig" and "dirty," so I asked if I could wash the brown off. It meant nothing significant to me. It was just a feature like height or weight. And I still think of people of other cultures that way. Born in 1912, she had seen many historic events and had a lot of stories. She talked about race quite often. It struck me today that our relationship and her stories might make a good book. "Frederee & Me." I'm writing this now to commit this idea to existence. I'm excited. More to come.