Jada

When my daughter Jada was a baby, probably six months or so, we were at the Bread Company with my in-laws. A woman at another table became infatuated with my baby girl’s chubby cheeks and killer smile. She eyed me for a while before bolding asking if Jada was adopted. When I cautiously nodded, her face lit up even more.

Jada herself has always been drawn to African American faces. She stared and smiled at the woman mercilessly, batting her thick black eyelashes over dark coal colored irises. The woman was sunk.

I expected her to ask to hold her and readily agreed when she did. I did not expect the hundred dollars she gave me when she returned my baby to my arms.

“Don’t try to give it back.” She told me. “God is telling me to do this. Buy something fun for her.”

I did. The next day I got her the most fabulous exer-saucer I’d ever seen. I’d been eyeing it for weeks. It moved horizontally on parallel bar like tables full of noisy baby friendly toys. I loved it and so did Jada. I emailed a thank you to the woman. She replied if I ever needed anything, just let her know.

I never spoke to her again. Jada grew up and grew out of the toy. I re-gifted it to someone. I don’t even remember who. I wish I could say that I think of the woman from the restaurant and her gift a lot, but I don’t. It’s a story I’ll tuck away for when Jada is older and can understand. It’s another link in the chain of her cultural identity. I know it doesn’t seem like a big one, but it is.

You see the woman had identified herself with Jada. She’s seen this beautiful black child and wanted to give my baby something from her. If Jada had been a White baby or an Asian baby or a Hispanic baby, she may have smiled at her, but she wouldn‘t have felt connected enough to pull a hundred dollar bill from her wallet and give it to me.

She saw my black baby, and wanted to give her a gift from a black woman. That’s something I’ve treasured long after the amazing baby toy has served it’s purpose. That’s something my daughter will come to know. It’s something that will help her become the strong black woman that I alone can’t guide her to be.

She’s guided by the stranger in a Bread-co, my coworker who politely informed me that four is to old for afro-poofs.(Tammy you were right.), in the women who stop when I’m looking lost in the hair care isle to tell me what they use on their babies heads.

She is guided by the cover of every magazine this December, proudly displaying our uniquely lovely first lady. It happens every time she touches a picture of Sasha and whispers ‘She’s brown like me’. I see it dawn on her in mysterious ways, when she realized her own babies would not be pink like her brother, but brown like her.

“Will you hold my brown babies Grandma?” She asked innocently, pushing back the braids of her Barbie, squealing in delight when my mother told her she would be honored.


There will be hard times. She will hear racially motivated jokes, receive stares, frowns and questions she might not find as unobtrusive as I do. She is already starting to see it. She over heard on television that people might be scared of Barack Obama because of his color. She watched intently, I held my breath. She turned to me, dark eyes blinking curiously.

“I’m brown and I’m not scary.” She told me absolutely. I had to agree. She’s captivating.

When we adopted transracially, we were told to prepare. People would judge. People of every race would have negative comments. People would not accept her as black or white. Luckily, that has not been our reality. It’s happened a few times, but not often. I’ve mostly found it to be the another way.

I was told prepared for division, not unity. I certainly wasn’t prepared for a hundred dollars from a stranger. I wish I remembered her name. I wish I still had her business card. I’d like to show her the amazing girl my curly haired baby is today. I’d like to thank her for helping me be a better mother to her.