Peach Legos, Pink Roses, Black Skin

Melissa Fuoss Relationships

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I live in a racially polarized city. The same city where Michael Brown’s death led to violent protests and unrest. I am a white woman. No one watches me as I linger in the candy aisle at Quick Trip. I do not get a lump of fear in my throat when I see a police car in my rear view mirror. I am not questioned when I am running through the streets of University City at night wearing a hoodie to keep my head warm. I see people that look like me almost everywhere I go. I don’t have to search for children’s books that contain kids that look mine. I see “my face” on billboards, and in boardrooms. I had teachers that looked like me, bandaids that matched my skin color, and my success has never been attributed to affirmative action. I’m pretty sure this only a fraction of what the phrase “white privilege” means. I feel free from the fear of racial discrimination. In fact, it is a freedom I rarely even take the time to recognize or notice.

My white husband and I have two sons. Two white sons. I do not fear that they will judged to be lazy when they don’t turn in their homework. I don’t worry that will be labeled as a problem student when they talk too much in class. Their shampoo is easy to find in Target, and all their Lego guys match their skin. I don’t worry that anyone will assume the gun they made from sticks at the park is real when they play “bad guys” on the playground.

The other day my seven-year-old said, “Mom, did you know that while Martin Luther King was alive that some of the peach people treated the black people badly for no reason at all?!?” I told him that I did know that, and added quietly that it sometimes still happens today. “In what country?” he asked, astonished. “In this one,” I said.

Race is such a hard thing to talk about. We are afraid to say the wrong thing. We don’t want to seem racist, or ignorant. Sometimes this leaves us silent, saying nothing at all.

I want to tell you about Kenneth. Kenneth was one of my high school students in my class when I was diagnosed with breast cancer. He hated that I was sick. He got me a “get well soon” card before my first chemo. He opened the door for me in the morning, and sometimes helped me carry my bag. The day after I had my head shaved Kenneth presented me with a bouquet of pink roses.

Kenneth is sweet, and kind, and good. And Kenneth is black. Which means Kenneth has stories about how he has been stopped and questioned by police for just walking home. This is a reality for him, and for so many of my past and present students of color. This weighs on them. This perception of guilt, of wrong doing.

I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t have answers. But I see it. I know it exists. It is not made up. As a society we have come so far. But I know we cannot get comfortable. This is not good enough.

Recently one of my blog posts was run on a well-known parenting website. I was writing about my personal experience dealing with breast cancer. Someone commented that it should have been written about ALL cancers, not just breast cancer, didn’t I realize that “all cancers aren’t pink!” But this was MY experience with BREAST cancer, I wanted to scream!

And then I thought about the #blacklivesmatter movement. I thought about how so many of us were quick to respond with “all lives matter.” Yes. All lives matter, just like all cancers are terrible. But this movement is asking us to look out at our society again with new eyes. This movement is reminding us that the oppression of racial discrimination is still here. I talk, and write, and think about breast cancer because I had breast cancer. Our black sisters and brothers are talking, writing, and thinking about black lives because they are grieving the inequality that still exists. And I grieve with them because: “No one is free until we are all free.” – Martin Luther King.

It was easier to write about cancer. It was so much easier to push “publish” after I detailed my heartbreak about not being able to run to the park with my kids following chemo. Writing about race is scary. Talking about race is scary. It is easier to look away, to pretend that we don’t have work to do. But we do. We ALL do. And when I get scared and tired of talking about it, I can lace up my shoes, pull a hoodie over my head, and head out on a run in the moonlight. I can take a break, a breath. But some of our brothers and sisters never get a break. Let’s reach out to each other. Let’s think and talk, and write, and when we are given the opportunity– let’s DO something. Because together it is possible.



About the Author

Melissa Fuoss

Melissa Fuoss is an alternative education teacher, a mother of two adorable boys, and a wife to man who knew he would marry her the day he met her. She loves the challenge of getting her students to get lost in books and share their personal stories. Before she became a teacher she was a reporter/photographer for a small daily paper in Kirksville, Missouri where she literally cut, waxed, and pasted her stories on a board before they went to press. She was raised in St. Louis by a dad who inspired her with his love of life, and a mom whose chicken soup made everything better and who was never afraid to keep it real. She was diagnosed with breast cancer the day before Thanksgiving. You can read about her journey at .

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