Timos began 2nd grade. It was in 2nd grade that he would encounter his first overt racism. He was told he was dumb because he was black and his parents are smart because they are white. That was the best thing Timos was being told. He was also called terrible things that I won’t give power to here. The school was woefully unprepared to properly deal with it. Timos got the same “consequence” as the perpetrator. “Stay away from each other and don’t sit together at lunch.” This little boy would then sit with Timos’ friends and laugh when Timos had to sit somewhere else.
I was highly frustrated, and I did what highly frustrated moms do. I posted the story to Facebook. That afternoon I got a two private messages. One would break my heart, but the other one would be a beacon shining the way so blatantly that even we couldn’t misinterpret it.
The first message came from the mom of Timos’ best school friend. I knew her fairly well, respected her even and was excited to get to know her better. She told me that what Timos had experienced in school had another side that I should know. Timos would brag when he won a soccer game at recess and that’s why the other child said what he did.
I was blinded by shock. I literally sat there for a moment, truly stunned that this liberal woman, this woman who had invited my son to her house, this woman whose son had been to MY house, was telling me Timos had done something to be called an egregious racial slur.
I took a deep breath and prayed about how to deal with this situation. I reached out to her and explained how what had been said to Timos, repeatedly, had deep ties to the Civil War, had been used to dehumanize black people during slavery and Jim Crow. I explained that Timos’ indiscretion was one that each of the first graders had done, and while it was wrong, it did not in any way make it okay to say terrible things to him.
She replied that she would never discuss these issues with me ever again and I felt so betrayed by a woman that I truly thought would be an ally for her son’s black best friend. This conversation was how I discovered what White Fragility means. My heart was broken for Timos. His lost his best friend because his best friend’s mom thought Timos deserved, on some level, the racism he was handed, because at 7 years old he bragged that he won a soccer game.
The second message we got was from another parent. A man Garen and I knew pretty well from soccer. His son and Timos had played together for a long time, and they were incredibly close. He asked us if we had ever considered putting Timos in Catholic School? I was shocked because I was pretty sure he knew we weren’t Catholic and I couldn’t understand why he would even broach the subject.
His wife was a teacher at their son’s school and she would come to soccer practice, with her youngest ones in tow, just in case I had any questions for her. The Principal told this sweet soul to give Garen and I her number so we could call on the weekend with any questions we might have.
I was so in awe of these kindnesses. They were in such sharp contrast to the behavior we had been dealing with that it truly was like a balm to my weary heart. Garen and I could not stop contemplating it. We kept saying things to each other like “I just can’t dismiss it from my mind”. In the end we decided to pursue the Catholic School angle since Timos HAD been born Catholic.
I wasn’t about to call the Principal though, because she was a nun, and for some reason, I was afraid of nuns. Poor Garen, I made him call. And it was on that phone call that Garen decided Timos was going to Catholic school.
We had a meeting with the Sister. The very first thing she did was give us a tour of the school. We ended in the darkened sanctuary and what happened next was powerful. Timos became still. We had seen this once before at the museum in New York City. I forget exactly what Sister asked Timos, but his response was, “I’m home” as he gazed on Jesus at the other end of the sanctuary.
Back in the Sister’s office we began discussing details. Garen dismissed the cost, telling me he’d do what he had to do. We were going through a list of classes for parents to take and one stood out to me in such a forceful way that I actually interrupted the Sister to ask about it. It was RCIA, a class for people converting to Catholicism. I don’t know WHY I was so shocked, but I burst out with, “Do you mean I can be Catholic too?” She kind of gave this little half chuckle like she wasn’t quite sure what to make of my question, but assured me that yes, people can convert to Catholicism. I signed up right then and there.
In the car Garen began laughing and said he just knew we weren’t leaving there today without me becoming Catholic too. I asked him if it bothered him, remembering that day in the Farmer’s Market a few years back, and he said it really didn’t, as long as it didn’t bother me that he absolutely never would. He then made the concession that on big days like Christmas or Easter he would come to church with us, but not every Sunday and definitely not as a Catholic.
Our anniversary was a few weeks after our meeting with the Sister. Garen bought me a beautiful rosary. A beautiful St. Jude rosary. I was really touched by the gift. It was such a sweet sign of support and was the first crack in the hardness that had completely covered our hearts towards one another.
I found an app for my phone that taught me how to pray the rosary properly. Now I was able to take that blue, plastic rosary off Timos’ dresser mirror and teach him how to pray it. That was a really good day.
One day I was home alone, and I was praying the rosary. It was a Friday, so it was the Sorrowful Mysteries, my favorite set of mysteries. As I’m praying, I suddenly begin to cry, tears that came from the center of my soul. Because in a flash of sudden insight I knew there was someplace I could turn to for help, for healing. Mother Mary knew my pain because she had lived my pain.
That morning Mary led me to the foot of the Cross and left me there to rest.
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