Motherhood in Black and White

Motherhood in Black and White

By

ViAnn Prestwich

Copyright 2016 KR Publishing

Electronic Edition

Printed in the United States of America

Cover Art, copyright 2016, by Seth Bennett

Photo—Jamie Hall

All rights reserved.

Author’s Foreword

The cover picture, although slightly photo shopped, is real. Out of our five children, these two spent the most time physically competing with one another. She looks confident and dominate; he appears intent and determined. One might say this is a statement about race in America.  These two didn’t know such things matter. This was not a clash of black and white. If the same picture were to be taken now, he would definitely be the stronger of the two. So they argue now.  To see the picture without any alterations, go to our website, KRPublishing.org.

Please note, all of us make mistakes, what a sad world we would be living in if we forgot the good in individuals because we see something bad. For that reason, many of the names in this book have been changed. Most of the people who made insensitive statements shouldn’t be remembered only for their indiscretions.

Praise for 'Motherhood in Black and White'

This book shines with the author's humanity, wisdom, and intelligence, along with a sly humor that made me laugh out loud several times on each page.  Read it and be reassured that there is hope for the world after all.

Four of ViAnn five children are adopted and one is not.  Like Crayolas, the five range through colors from peach to dark brown, and the book tells the story of shepherding them through the years from birth to all grown up. Like every mother, adoptive or otherwise, ViAnn worries about how to do it right.  She struggles with the conflict between her simple - simple? - love for her kids and the esteem-challenging monkey wrenches that life, culture, and the community throw at her. It comes as no surprise that, in addition to the usual parenting issues, the mixture of the children's colors elicits gratuitous commentary from friends, relatives, and random passersby - commentary that (again, no surprise) ranges from the excruciatingly cruel to the breathtakingly dumb.  But no need to rush to the author's defense. She takes it all on with an admirable equanimity that comes from her emotional steadiness together with the hanging-on-by-your-teeth that is the death-defying roller coaster of motherhood. 

-       Joan Traub, New York Attorney/Writer. Mother of three grown daughters.

Years ago ViAnn opened her home to children —regardless of race.  In these stories, she opens her home again to us and shares her journey of adoption and inter-family racial relations.   Motherhood in Black and White provides a unique and equalizing microcosm of race relations.  ViAnn uses her family’s experiences as a backdrop for the emotions of both blacks and whites as well as adoptive parents and children.

While many might assert that race relations in the United States have regressed, ViAnn provides us opportunities to see additional possibilities of growth - provocatively and movingly presented. It is a journey that grows and matures in a compelling and persuasive way, and will take the reader along with it.  And as she, at the end of the first chapter, makes a specific plea, we can hear a general one – will we, both black and white, overcome our fear, and help?

-       Dr. Verl T. Pope, Professor of Counseling, Northern Kentucky University.

While reading this book I realized the insights offered in these pages aren't just for those who are raising children of difference races, they are for everyone. The author shares her story in an eye-opening and honest way, giving the reader an understanding of the unique challenges and rewards involved in raising a family of adopted children of different races. It's a compelling read, complete with humor, introspection, and a way of looking kindly past the foibles of others and choosing to remain positive and loving - a wonderful message for everyone.

-       L. Whiting, Adoptee and Public Relations and Career Specialist

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Chapter 1

When Colton called at 12:30 in the morning, he slurred his words and made little sense.

He had been living with my sister’s family in an upper middleclass neighborhood a few miles outside of Salt Lake City, Utah. Not exactly the diversity capital of the world. I answered the phone from our home in Washington State.

The Utah night was icy and bitter. This is a fact I was aware of because just four hours earlier, Colton and his father had been talking about the weather and how the frigid temperatures were affecting a construction project our son was helping with.

Mom, he said as I fumbled awake at the sound of panic in my son’s voice. I can’t pay for the car. He started to cry.

Colton! What? Adrenaline woke me fully.

The tire’s off. It exploded maybe. He sounded confused. Maybe I hit the barrier.

Where are you? I asked. For years, I had asked him where he was going and when he would be back, but he was no longer a teenager. I wasn’t exactly privy to his schedule.

I was sick, so I left Nicole’s, he told me and started to cry again. I’m so cold. My head hurts. I’m so cold. He hiccupped with a sob and then berated himself. His speech was difficult to understand. He rambled about being a Marine. Marines don’t cry. And the lights keep coming. And they wouldn’t stop. Lights hurt you. I’m so cold.

Where are you? I asked. I’d flipped a laptop open searching for a phone number to call the Sandy City police station. As soon as he told me his location, I would send someone to help him.

I’m okay, he slurred. My head hurts. I’m so cold.

Where are you? I tried again. Are you off the road?

The lights keep coming, he said.

Where are you? If I kept repeating myself, would he finally answer? My child, who typically wore dark clothes, was he stumbling along an icy, shadowy road, his car smashed on the barrier?

My head hurts. I’m so cold, I could hear him shiver and swallow his own sobs.

Are you with your car? I asked.

The tire is gone, he cried.

A few years earlier I had watched him duck his head and wipe a tear when his 4 X 100 relay team got disqualified at state track competition. But other than the state championships, I had not seen or heard him weep since third grade when a kid on the bus told him black people caused most of the violence in the whole world.

Where are you?

In a parking lot now? His voice shivered in the arctic air. Most of his rambling was incoherent. My head hurts so bad.

Did you hit your head?

Ooh, it hurts.

Where are you? I’ll send someone to help you.

No. Don’t call. I’m okay, he sounded pathetic. I’m scared, he whispered. I can’t cry.

There was nothing for me to do except fearfully listen and beg him to tell me where he was.

The phone must have dropped. For a long time all I heard were unidentifiable noises.

After wandering the living room worrying about my son that night, I decided to finish this manuscript. Five chapters have sat for nearly a decade unread and untouched. I didn’t want to examine what I had written. Something about the stories bothered me. The incidents are true. I’ve left out anything too embarrassing. Why then could I not revisit this work and let others read about our happy bi-racial family?

Finally, I realized what disturbed me. Every time I started reading I would remember Carol’s comments. Carol was a good friend and writer. I’d wanted her to see if anything I’d written was worth publishing. She had perused a few pages and said, It sounds like you think people treat your family differently because you have black kids. Like there is a lot of prejudice around. And I just don’t see it.

At the time, several years ago, I was reluctant to put our cute little story of black and white kids bonding in a home, out into the world. I didn’t want to add to the clamor of the, Someone hurt my feelings, poor me.

In reality, our life was wonderful. I didn’t want anyone to think I was presenting a Woe is me, scenario. So many people would react like Carol saying, I see very little prejudice.

Then there are those on the other end of the spectrum who intimately know about the existence of intolerant behavior. The individuals, who, if by some miracle happened upon this story, would read my family’s cute little escapades of using real Clorox to put out pretend campfires in the living room and feel we aren’t concerned enough about the blatant as well as covert prejudice surrounding us. This latter group does not see our family as cute.

If Carol felt the general population was being maligned by the hint of prejudice, this other group feels even more strongly the need to protect a black child from white parents who couldn’t ever understand black culture or how it feels to be black.

Love isn’t enough, I have been told. You can’t love him enough to compensate for the white privileged attitude you have.

As I wandered through the living room on a bitterly, cold night worrying about my son, an incoherent black kid in a dark parking lot of an unfamiliar city, I decided to add to the clamor. Because whether or not you or I want to accept the fact, my son’s situation was made more complicated because of his skin. And you out there who tell me love isn’t enough. Well, it’s all I have. And when he dropped into our lives over 20-years ago, I was all he had. So both of you—you who don’t recognize prejudice and you who feel we should never have attempted to raise him--could we agree adoption issues, especially those involving bi-racial adoptions, have few absolutes.

While I begged my mumbling black son to read me some sign from a building or the road, I was angry at you both--You who don’t believe he is in more danger than a lighter-skinned man and you who would say he is in more danger because he wasn’t taught by a black man