I don't like the dollar section toys. They are pointless money-suckers that last from the checkout to the trunk before self-destructing—poof—like a covert message from spy headquarters. But I loathe the gumball machines that dispense the toy world's rejects. Inevitably, my children want not a toy from the machine, but the toy that is highlighted on the propaganda sheet plastered to the front. The cute toy, say, a water squirting flower ring or a rainbow-colored hi-bounce ball, catches their fancies. They don't get that toy. They get the rubber kitty who made it past the QC folks at the toy factory; kitty's face resembles runny egg yolks because the manufacturing process melted it like so much butter.
But I do sometimes relent. And when my preschool daughter was able to pry a quarter from my miserly grip this weekend, she made her selection. She got a pose-able, smiley-faced figure, in black.
As I was taking her and her new bendy buddy to the ladies room she announced that she would love him, and hug him, and feed him, and name him Little Blackie.
I would have rather she asked me to describe, in detail, the act of coitus rather than tackle racist comments in the public toilet. Like any good parent stalling for time, I ignored her.
That was ineffective. She continued to coo over Little Blackie. When she said it a third time I realized this wasn't going to go away without some intervention.
Me: Maybe we can call him Bendy McBendsalot.
Her: I like Little Blackie.
Me: Or Rubber Man, Stretchy Guy, or please stop saying that!
Her: Why?
Me: It's offensive.
Her: —
Me: Can we talk about this in the car later?
Naturally, when we rejoined my husband, I told him about our daughter’s new toy’s name and how I planned to pick up our discussion of 1950s racial slurs in the privacy of the minivan. He trusted me to handle this situation with efficient parenting, marked by the use of less than four million words so as not to confuse my daughter further, but prepare her for a life of social awareness and sensitivity. Here's what really happened.
In the car . . .
Her: So why can't I say “Little Blackie?”
Me: It's offensive to some people. It can be understood as a term that debases, dehumanizes, or humiliates a particular ethnic group, nationality, or sometimes, a religious group. It's in very poor taste to mention such slurs privately or publicly.
Her: —
Me: Um, so, if you have a group of girls, and the boys call you all “stinky pants” that's—remember when we lived in Georgia? And you know how Georgia is associated with peaches? I guess, actually, peaches are associated with Georgia, really. The fruit before the state, right? So, anyway, what if someone called you “peachface,” but they didn't know that it was mean to say that, and um, you knew it was mean and got. You were crying, but—
Husband: Don't call your toy that, it's rude.
Her: Why?
Husband: Because we said so.
Me: —
Husband: (to me) What were you talking about? That was like watching a car drive off a cliff into a river of lava.
Her: That's funny, Daddy. Say that again.
Husband: Listening to mommy was like watching a fast car careen off of a steep cliff into a burning hot sea of lava.
And that is why, when they ask me how the sperm gets to the egg, I’ll pass that chore to my husband so that I, too, will have the opportunity to watch him flounder and fail. After all, this is an equal partnership we have going, my husband and I. I’d never deny him the opportunity to screw up our children.
About the Author
