Kindness Don't Have No Boundaries

"Wasn't that the point of the book? For women to realize, We are just two people. Not that much separates us. Not nearly as much as I'd thought."

— Skeeter (The Help)

I confess to being a bad mom last week. I gave in to my children's endless requests to spend their afternoons lounged like zombies engrossed in mindless episodes of "Max & Ruby" and "The Fresh Beat Band." For you see, I had a book to read.

My wonderful little circle of friends was headed to the theater Friday night to see the premier of "The Help," and though I am a voracious reader, I had yet to read it. I believe it a sin against God and all that is holy to view a film before first reading the superior novel and therefore could not justify the girls' night without indulging in the prerequisite reading.

I enjoyed both the book and the movie. They are a testament to all that is good about the human spirit and also serve as a reminder of how horribly cruel we can be to one another. I left the theater that night feeling awkwardly aware of my whiteness, honored to be sharing the moment with seats full of black men and women, and proud of ourselves as a nation for coming so far in the matter of civil rights in such a short amount of time.

On Monday morning, the kids and I headed to Wal-Mart, because, well, it's what we do. And as I was shucking corn in the produce section, I noticed a little girl walking over to us. She said to her mom, "I'm gonna go talk to that white boy over there," and that is exactly what she did. This sweet little black girl walked right up to Brody and started just chatting away about corn and all the other vegetables she saw and which ones she liked and which ones she didn't. Brody didn't miss a beat and was happy to tell her all about the fact that he loves broccoli, but his sister thinks it's yuck. The little girl's mother came over and asked me about my gigantic Home Depot reusable shopping bags and we made wonderful small talk for a few minutes, mom to mom, woman to woman. As we walked away, the kids yelled bye to one another like they were old pals, and then, the moment ended.

That's when Molly said to me, "Mom, why did that girl call Brody white??!!"

And there it was. The easy answer was of course, because you are. But if I'm honest, Molly's pretty far from white. Even with the best efforts of Coppertone Sensitive SPF 50, she's really more of a rich caramel color after a summer spent splashing in the pool. And to be really truthful, that wasn't the "why" she was looking for. The real question she was asking was "why did that girl choose THAT PARTICULAR adjective, white, as opposed to tall or blond or with the Star Wars shirt on?" That was what she really wanted to know. Because in our family, using skin color as an adjective, is just something we've never done.

I looked at my naive little girl and told her the most honest answer I could come up with. I told her I didn't know.

What I wanted to do then was to walk myself right back over to that mother and take her by the shoulders, look her in the eyes and say, "you don't have to be black for us because we aren't going to be white for you." I wanted to tell her that I'm not teaching my children to see themselves as a color and I hope and pray they won't see your child as a color either. Unlike Mae Mobley, I will NEVER tell my children that they are better or worse or different in any way that matters from your lovely little daughter. It was in that moment that I realized, as good as I felt about how far we've come from the lives portrayed in "The Help," on Friday night, the ugliness of our past is still here, right below the surface on this Monday morning. And the reality for black children is that on some level they still feel defined by the color of their skin and define us by the color of ours. I could read thousands of books, both fiction and non fiction, about the realities of segregation in this country and I will never, never understand what it feels like to walk around in any skin but my own. The sad reality is that I rarely give the color of my skin a second thought (except when slathering on the dreaded sunscreen) yet it seems that other races are asked by society to consider it quite a bit.

I made it to the car before I cried.

A lifetime ago, there were four friends. Two were white and two were black. They taught in a school that was made up of children from every color of the rainbow. These four did everything together, both in school and out in the community. I believe they served as an inspiration to the children, parents, and faculty that love and friendship has everything to do with how you are on the inside and absolutely nothing to do with what you look like on the outside. They never resented one another for how different their upbringings were or felt awkward about asking one another the hard questions that needed to be asked. They pretended it was perfectly normal for two white women and two black women to be so close, but they all knew there were many who didn't understand or even like it. They learned a lot from each another, just by being a part of one another's lives.

This picture sits proudly in my home. Along with the pictures of the four of us at each of the other's weddings. Every once in a while, when they forget what I told them the last time, Molly or Brody will ask who those ladies are with me in that picture. I tell them that they are some of the best friends that Mommy ever had and probably ever will have. I tell them that God picks your friends for you. He gives you the people you need in your life. And if He sends you someone who looks or acts or sounds different from you, you better hurry up and get over it, because there's a reason they've been chosen to come into your life, and that reason isn't on the outside. It's on the inside.

I'm going to finish by stating for the record that I am a white woman. I obviously identify with Skeeter's character in the book, for many reasons in addition to her perspective. However, I would be lying to myself and to you if I didn't acknowledge that there is also a little bit of Hilly inside me as well. It's human nature to want to make yourself feel strong and unfortunately the easiest way to do that is to make someone else feel weak. Acknowledging that ugly truth about ourselves might be the fastest way to making sure that we move in the right direction when it comes to civil rights. I would also be remiss if I didn't also say out loud that I will never know what it feels like to be a black woman, but that won't stop me from being your friend.

If you have some time, read the book. It's certainly not perfect and I question it's credibility on many levels, simply by the fact that it is written by a white author. I wonder how different the book would be if the daughter of a maid would have written it. Would we be watching the film adaptation? Who knows. But, if nothing else, it can be an opening for dialog between you and your friends and neighbors and children.

Go out today and love one another. And always remember, "You is kind. You is smart. You is important." That goes for all of us.