I remember the first time I realized I was treated differently because of my skin color.

Before I share this story, let me contextualize my experience. I am a Black male, adopted into a single-parent white family. My mother later adopted two other Black children who became my brother and sister. The family next door to us was a white couple with one biological child and two adopted Black children. So, conversations about race were commonplace in my household for as long as I can remember. Explaining my family to my classmates was always a fascinating conversation. My mother was a white woman with a perm who would walk into our classroom with Converse tennis shoes, complete with little ringing bells on them. The ensemble was completed by a denim dress with embroidered flowers while several African necklaces adorned her neck. Her entrance into my classroom became an ever-familiar conversation. I remember the scene vividly. I was in third grade. At recess, my friend was going around chatting with different classmates but was intentionally avoiding me. I would go up to him and ask, “What were you telling everyone?” He said, “I can’t tell you.” He would then run off. It was a weird moment, and I remember feeling like something was up. Later that day in PE, I asked my friend again, “Can you please tell me what you were talking about with everyone? I promise I won’t get mad.” He sighed and said, “Okay, but you told me you wouldn’t get mad. I am having a birthday party in a few weeks, and I can’t invite you to it, because you are a n*****. My dad says you can’t be in our house, so I wasn’t supposed to tell you about the party.” Yes, I held in my tears because I had assured him I wouldn’t get mad. Truthfully, I wasn’t mad: I was destroyed. I went about my day and walked home, mulling over the moment. That night I told my mom about it. She called our neighbors, and they came over. They sat all six of us kids down and explained that word — the N-word — and racism, and that unfortunately, there are people in the world who will make us feel less than.

Me, forever, the inquisitive person asked, “Will it ever get better?” My mom, with tear-filled eyes, said, “There is someone like you in the world right now that you probably don’t know and won’t ever meet that is doing work so that you never have to feel that way again. When you are big, it will be your turn to do that, so some child your age can have a better experience than you.” I was spoiled, in many respects. Living in a multicultural family and getting to share in the beauty of that with our neighbors is something that I forever cherish. Living through blatant racism was a jarring and pivotal moment in my life, as it taught me that the love and acceptance that we shared in our neighborhood did not exist everywhere. Fast forward to a week this past June. I had a person call me to discuss the events that are unfolding in front of us. Within our exchange, I replied, “I have been called a n***** twice this week.” Their response, “Well, maybe stop sharing your feelings.” At that moment, that same feeling of devastation and trauma I experienced in third grade crept back to the surface. I was transported back to myself in third grade sitting there with my high-top sneakers and Ninja Turtles t-shirt, hearing about the ugliness in the world. My answer came from the love, support, and awareness that was embedded in me at that moment. I responded: “Somewhere in the world, there is a child that looks like me who doesn’t have the platform or privilege I do to speak up and out regarding this. I don’t want that child to be my age and have to live through the same type of pain that I and many others have. So, I cannot and will not be quiet.”