When you adopt, especially when you adopt transracially, as a parent you often find yourself in strange social situations. You get people who ask strange questions about how your family came to be. You get people using inappropriate phrases when discussing your child. You get prying, insensitive questions. It happens.

And today, I got all that and more. For today was the first time since we brought Stinkerbelle home that I have had to deal with racist comments.

Now, let me preface this by saying that, in many cases, the stupid and insensitive comments and questions I have often gotten usually do not come from a place of malice. They often come from people who are curious and just don’t have the experience or the tools or maybe just the common sense to discuss adoption in a more enlightened manner. And that is okay — I don’t mind that so much. I find that people often have good intentions, but their execution is flawed. And so, in those conversations, I try to use appropriate adoption language, and model more sensitive phrases, and correct where I can.

Racism, on the other hand… well, it never comes from a place of good. How could it possibly?

And so, today, I found myself in a very strange conversation. I had taken Stinkerbelle to her class at The Little Gym. It’s a small class, maybe 8 kids and their moms or dads or caregivers, and That Baby is usually one of the most enthusiastic participants. She’s definitely the most visible, in the centre of every activity, expressing her full-throated joy.

Plus she’s the only black child, and has a white mom, so she is highly visible.

One little girl in the class, Riley, is a sweet little slip of a thing. Strawberry blonde, quiet, but physically the top of the class. Riley got game. And often times, she is there with her nanny — at least, I would assume that the woman is her nanny, as Riley is as white as white can be, and the woman with her is, I believe, Filipino. Plus, I’ve seen Riley’s mom or dad come in to pick her up after class, so the woman with her is not her mom.

Anyway.

After class today, Stinkerbelle and I were getting our shoes and socks and sweaters on to go home. We were seated on the floor in the reception area by the cubbies, with all the other moms and kids. And Riley and her nanny were standing nearby, looking at us.

Riley’s nanny began to ask some questions. Now, she was as pleasant as can be. She was really, genuinely trying to be nice, and Riley seems to like Stinkerbelle, so I think she was encouraging them to be pals and was trying to befriend me as well. But it was one of those situations where, as nice as she was trying to be, the questions were ALL WRONG.

Nanny: Is she your daughter?
Me: Yes, she is my daughter.
Nanny: Oh that’s nice. How old is she?
Me: She’s two and a half.

See? Nice, right? Friendly and everything. Then…

Nanny: Is her father black?

Oh, lady. Really? But then I thought, okay, here’s someone whose first language is not English, and also, cultural differences being what they are, perhaps blunt is the norm for her. I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.

Me: No, he’s not. Stinkerbelle was adopted.

She seemed quite pleased with that. I guessed that this was where she was going with her questioning, and perhaps didn’t have the language. So I cut to the chase. Plus, I’m quite proud of having grown our family through adoption, because I have always wanted to adopt, and think it is a fantastic way to bring families together. And I would never want Stinkerbelle to think it wasn’t something I was not proud of.

So the nanny carried on:

Nanny: Oh that’s nice. Did you adopt her here in Canada?
Me: No. Stinkerbelle was born in Ethiopia.
Nanny: Oh, wow! So you travelled to Ethiopia to adopt her there?
Me: Yes. Yes we did.

Phew. Conversation back on track. I was feeling better about it, because it seemed as though this young woman was interested and generally positive about Stinkerbelle and her story. And sometimes in a second language, it really IS hard to know what is appropriate and what is not. I relaxed.

Nanny: She’s so happy! She is always smiling and laughing.
Me: Yes, she is ALWAYS cheerful. We’re very lucky.

The Nanny encouraged Riley to talk to Stinkerbelle, and seemed to want them to be shake hands or hug or something and be friends. I warned Riley off, because Stinkerbelle has a cold.

Then she said:

Nanny: You couldn’t have your own children?

Whoa. Holy innapropriate questions, Batman! I stammered. I think she may have twigged that something was wrong, because she quickly added:

Nanny: Do you have any of your own children?

Alright, missy, I thought (but thankfully managed not to say out loud), my cutting you some slack in this conversation is rapidly coming to a middle, here. And the best friend forever thing you’re trying to encourage between Riley and my daughter is kinda teetering on the brink right now, because you keep talking!

But I composed myself, and, trying to model appropriate language, said:

Me: Stinkerbelle IS our child. Our only child.

I got up to get more of our stuff from the cubbies. Nanny smiled and said:

Nanny: She is very lucky.
Me: No, we’re very lucky. We are blessed to have her. She is a wonderful child.

I carried on getting Stinkerbelle and myself dressed, hoping this woman would just go away.

And it was then that she came at me with the coup-de-grace. With her most sincere, lovely, admiring smile, she said:

Nanny: You know, EVEN THOUGH SHE IS BLACK, she’s very beautiful.

And there you have it, folks! DING DING DING, I thought, WE HAVE A WINNER IN THE INGRAINED RACISM SWEEPSTAKES!!

OH HOLY HELL. You didn’t, you COULDN’T, have just said that to me. Not here, not in front of all these people. And not, worst of all, not knowing how incredibly, horribly wrong that was.

I took a step back, mentally and emotionally. I am trying to learn to NOT wig out about these situations, because first off, I am a big, loud woman, so I try to pick my public scenes with care — and I was not sure if this one was worthwhile.

But secondly, I don’t want to call attention to these comments within earshot of my child if she may not have noticed them, and clearly she didn’t; she was playing with her shoes. Plus she’s two and a half. The only thing she’d notice right now is that her mom went apeshit. She’d notice the anger, and the shouting, and the me going all thermonuclear on someone’s ass.

I paused, and very loudly and clearly said, simply:

Me: She IS beautiful. She is a BEAUTIFUL GIRL.

At that moment, Riley’s mother came in to the gym, and thankfully, the nanny was diverted.

I was not sure that wigging out on Nanny’s ass would have been the right thing to do in this particular scenario. First off, I genuinely believe that the Nanny’s questions and comments, however inappropriate they may be, came from a place of wanting to be friendly and were genuine. I cannot be in her head, but her tone, her body language, all led m to believe she was simply trying to be friendly. And I also wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, that perhaps language barriers may have contributed to some of it.

Having been a teacher of ESL and having worked with people of many, many different cultures, I know that institutionalized racism still exists in the world, and that it is still acceptable in many cultures to think of other peoples through racist eyes. Does that excuse the inappropriateness and ugliness? No. But here is where the crossroads was: If I were to assume that her comment was racist in INTENT, which would take into account where she came from, and that is was not just a misfire in her expression in a second language of something a little more innocent, then I would indeed be just as racist.

And I don’t want to be that person.

So I took the conversation in the light that I hoped it was intended — as someone who was curious about how our family came to be, and wanted to pay some compliments to my daughter, but lacked the language and cultural skills to do so effectively.

I don’t believe it will happen again. I truly don’t. But, if it happens again, I WILL correct her, and no mistake about THAT. I have no problem doing THAT. But I will be sure to speak to Riley’s mom, her employer, about the issue.

It has become apparent to me that, no matter what you try to do as a parent to stop it from happening, your child will become the victim of a stereotype. It’s an ugly, ugly thing. But it’s out there, and it happens.

Oh yes. I’m talking about GIRLS AND THEIR SHOES.

I tried to shield her from it for as long as I could, I really did. The last thing I wanted for my girl was for her to become some slave to fashion footwear. But you can’t protect them forever.

My kid? LOVESLOVESLOVES the shoes. She’s got a bazillion pairs of shoes. Ill-fitting. Expensive. Leather. Cheap. Bedazzled. Shiny. Rubber. My kid loves them ALL. There are days when she already has a pair of shoes on and then goes and tries to put ANOTHER pair of shoes on.

Granted, most of her shoes are hand-me-downs, and so they are of so many different sizes and styles and seasons that, at any given time, only a few pairs will actually fit her well. But she does not care. She has SHOES, and she LOVES THEM ALL.

However. Next week, she will be starting a class that will involve organized time in the gym, running and playing games and the like. And so today, I had a look in her closet to see if she has appropriate footwear. It doesn’t specify that she needs them necessarily, but the weather is getting cooler and the crocs and sandals aren’t going to cut it for much longer. Plus, her beloved sandals are getting small enough that her toes are beginning to poke out over the front.

So I did a bit of an inventory today, to see what she had. She has two pairs of almost-new running shoes — actual, real-life runners. They’d be perfect, except for the fact that her feet are about 5 1/2s, so let’s say a 6 would suit her, and these were size 7. They looked like snowshoes on her. She also has a pair of those canvas sneakers with the elastic strap thingy across the top of your foot in lieu of laces, but knowing That Baby, she’d have them off in a second.

So today, it was time to go out to the mall and get her some running shoes.

This is not an easy proposition. Perhaps our mall is just ill-equipped for shoe shopping for small people, but there was not a lot of practical footwear to be had for the under-5 set. There were flip flops galore, and something resembling Ugg boots, and some crazy high-top lace-up canvas version of Chuck Taylor knock-offs… but nothing that looked like a kid could play a game of tag or Duck Duck Goose in them without spraining an ankle or whacking another kid in the head with a flying shoe.

So we went into Payless. They had quite a number of pairs of running shoes for little girls. You know how I know? THEY WERE ALL PINK AND SPANGLY AND COVERED IN PRINCESS SHIT. Every last freaking pair. Pink. And White. And covered in white-bread Disney Princesses. Or, doG help us, that Dora thing.

Sports shoes. With princesses on them.

DOES. NOT. COMPUTE.

I stood, dumbfounded, gazing upon commercial marketing gone absolutely fucking apeshit.

So then I thought, Okay, well, at least they’re sort of like running shoes, right? I mean, they’re made from a leather-like substance and they have rubberized soles and laces and stuff. So I picked up a pair.

THEY COST THIRTY DOLLARS.

THIRTY!!!11!11! For a pair of shoes for a kid who is not even THREE yet!!

Forgive me, but the last time I bought her shoes, Stinkerbelle wore them a grand total of three weeks before she hit a growth spurt and outgrew them. I was not about to spend thirty dollars on what could, very possibly, become in three weeks’ time something that takes up space in her closet.

It was all I could do to refrain from heaving them full-force back at the display.

The woman who was working in the store happened by, and asked if she could help. I stammered that I needed running shoes for my daughter, but…

And it was like she read my mind. She remarked that there was not a lot of choice — at which I blurted out “UNLESS YOU LOVE PINK AND ARE EASILY MANIPULATED BY MARKETING AND OH MY GOD THIRTY DOLLARS MY SHOES DONT EVEN COST THAT MUCH” — and that she didn’t even have anything on sale or in the back to offer me.

“But,” she leaned over and whispered, as if giving away a state secret for which she could be shot on sight if anyone overheard her, “if you don’t mind boys’ shoes there’s this pair for $17″.

She handed me a running shoe. Black and white, with a little red on it. Laces and velcro. No characters. No bedazzlement. Nothing lighting up or playing “Someday My Prince Will Come”.

Real Live Running Shoes. For SEVENTEEN dollars.

I almost kissed her.

Meanwhile, Stinkerbelle sat in her stroller, repeating “WALKINGWALKINGWALKINGWALKINGWALKINGWALKINGWALKING” like a record that was skipping. But like the record player was starting to overheat, because it was getting increasingly faster and higher-pitched and hysterical.

“I’ll take them,” I said.

I paid for the shoes and gave them to Stinkerbelle. She was enchanted. Moreso by the box than anything, but hey — new shoes AND a box to put them in. IT’S A GOOD DAY.

But I was feeling guilty. My kid wears a lot of hand-me-downs, and here we go out and buy her shoes, and I pick the cheapo boys’ pair. What kind of mom does that? But at least the money I saved on shoes I could put towards her therapy bills later, right?

No. BAD mommy. BAD.

So, we stopped at another couple of stores where there were racks and racks of shoes. But I could not bring myself to buy them. Silver rubber running-shoe-slash-flip-flop combos. Clear plastic flip flops. (Yeah. Size 3s. For a toddler. Who DOES that to their kid?) Crazy-ass thigh-high lace-up sneaker things. All priced in the thirty dollar range.

I couldn’t do it.

Then, in the deepest, darkest, back corner of Children’s Place, hidden away like the crazy old aunty you don’t want friends to know is living with you… were SNEAKERS. Regular old lace-up Keds-style sneakers. Sure, they were rainbow tiger-striped canvas things. But they were SNEAKERS. And they were only TWELVE bucks. And they were in a 20% OFF rack.

I grabbed them.

We paid, and off we went to the car with our unfashionable, on-sale booty. Making sure nobody saw us, so they could not point at our purchases and stare and say “DEAR DOG WHAT HAS SHE DONE TO THAT POOR CHILD.”

We came home, and closed the door. Stinkerbelle plopped down on the floor, and was sitting amid several shoes strewn about the foyer, taking off her current shoes to put on a pair of too-small sandals.

And was hit with a wave of shock and horror. “She needs new winter boots.”

I wonder if moving to Barbados might be in our future.