Rule #17 in raising traumatized children is that they will hit you when you’re already down, like the second anniversary of your mother’s death, for example. That combined with teenagers’ complete lack of frontal lobe development are the chief ways in which God punks us.

First, it’s important to not blame my kids for anything I’m about to write. As adults, we have such a long way to go to improve systems and resources for traumatized children, and I’ve written a lot about that. Virtually every system I can think of has failed my kids. Today I want to thank some people, though.

Two days ago, my adult daughter started spiraling, and that always results in me being the bad guy. It’s best to not try to make sense of it, because it doesn’t make a lot of sense. It’s part of attachment issues (the mom is always the bad guy.) When spiraling happens, bad things happen, and this time it’s the hacking of every single one of my online accounts. You may ask, “how would your kids know your passwords?” My kids are scrappy, manipulative survivors, because they’ve had to be. It’s virtually impossible to live in an online world, enter your password on your phone or your computer or at the ATM without your kids noticing. Plus, my kids have phones that I pay for, which gives them a bit easier access than if they were strangers. Regardless, it sucks.

So, now I’d like to thank Vickie in Omaha. Vickie works for Paypal. By the time my kids hacked my Paypal account, I’d already been dealing with this for two days. I’d been playing the Whack-A-Mole of monitoring emails and text messages continually to keep an eye on my accounts. Dealing with customer service people is pretty generally frustrating, because I have to explain what is going on and they’re pretty often horrified or judgmental or have no idea what to say or all of the above. For example, when I called AT&T and asked them to lock down my account immediately, because my kid was trying to order new phones, add others to my account, and file an insurance claim on her phone, all while I was driving down the interstate, the customer service representative said, in a tone I can only describe as ignorant condescension, “well, ma’am, have you tried talking to your daughter?” Thanks, dude. Why didn’t I think of that? So, super helpful.

So, back to Vickie in Omaha. When Vickie picked up the phone I quickly went “oh, Vickie sounds like she might be around my age. Maybe Vickie has kids. Maybe Vickie has lived some life.” I was cautiously hopeful.

I said, “Hello. At the risk of embarrassing myself and probable judgment from you, I need to let you know that my adult daughter has hacked my Paypal account and is sending my money to herself and others. Can you help me lock it down ASAP? I’ve already reported the charges and changed my password, but I’d really appreciate you making sure that’s all I need to do.”

She said, in a calm, understanding tone, “Oh, honey. I got you. Let me pull up your account.” I said, “man, thank you. You sound like you understand, and I can’t tell you how valuable that is.”

She said “kids who are hurting have a way of hurting us when we’re already down, too. I hope she feels better, soon.”

It was at this point that I said, “Vickie, I think I was supposed to talk to you today. Today is the second anniversary of my mom’s death.”

She said, “I just lost my mom last year, and her birthday was last week. I lost my dad a year and a half ago.” She laughed and said “I guess that’s what happens when you get old.”

I told her I’d like to hang out and buy her a martini. She said, “did you say martini? That’s my drink!” I said, “I’m telling you, Vickie we were supposed to talk today. I’m sorry about your mom and dad. It doesn’t get easier, by the way. You just learn to integrate it into your life.”

She said she’d raised a nephew who had a really tough time, but who is now doing really well and is a great dad and person. I thanked her for that. By now she had checked everything, fixed it all, and we were finished. I asked if I could email someone to say how fabulous she was, and I did just send that email. But, I think Vickie, and everyone like her, deserves more than an email.

So, thanks to all those beautiful people who have lent an empathetic ear, an “oh, honey, I got you,” or a bone crushing hug to parents who love their kids, are doing their best, and are having a really, really bad day. Always be Vickie.

Original Sin

Last night I attended a lecture by Ben Crump, the civil rights attorney who has worked with the families of many dead black boys and men. He was covering all the statistics I’d heard on the over-representation of black men and boys in our criminal justice system. And then he segued into how over-represented black families are in the foster care system, and how “they are taking our children away from us.”

That sentence fell on me like a ton of bricks, because I am part of the system that is the “they” in that sentence. I’ve written many times that if I had a magic wand, my kids would have stayed with their birth family and grown up healthy and happy. I love my children more than my own life, but when you love someone you want the best for that person, and the best for my kids would have been a healthy and happy raising by their family of origin. The “best” certainly doesn’t include years of trauma and abandonment and heartbreak beginning at birth.

My church often talks about its “original sin,” which is that our co-founder wrote the editorial that sparked the 1921 Tulsa Race Massacre. As Mr. Crump was speaking I thought “this is my original sin.” I acquired children via a remarkably inequitable system that is part of an overall structure, based in slavery, designed to weaken black families, incarcerate black men, and reduce/eliminate black wealth.

If you’re unsure of my point, here is some reading:

I honestly don’t know what I will do about my original sin. I hope sharing this is a start. Thank you for reading.


When I completed my paperwork to become a foster parent, I signed up for two girls, between the ages of 4 and 10. I was single with a fairly demanding career, so I didn’t want babies and I didn’t want teenagers. I was pretty ignorant, but I was at least savvy enough to know that. I also didn’t feel comfortable fostering boys, because I wasn’t sure that I could be the role model a boy needed. I was knowledgeable enough at the time to know that everyone needs someone who looks like them to look up to, and who will show them a path to success. In the last eleven years, that point has become all the more clear via research and experience.

My two daughters arrived in February, and my middle kiddo left the next day, because of violent rages that I now know were due to trauma. I didn’t know how to handle her behavior (nor did her former foster family, which is how the girls landed at my house, which a whole other post), so she was moved to a therapeutic foster home and remained in therapeutic foster care until I could become certified in therapeutic foster care and get her back. (Again, whole other blog post. There are so many stories…)

So, oldest kiddo and I are rocking along for about three months, and I get a call from DHS saying the girls have a brother. He’s 3. His foster home is being shut down because of confirmed abuse. And, did I want him? There’s something very unnerving about the way that kiddos are just widgets when these conversations happen, but that’s exactly how they’re handled. On good days they’re handled more like puppies than widgets, but still not like living humans. So, I said yes, of course I wanted him, because I didn’t want to separate siblings, so I hustled and connived in order to get him and keep him (whole other blog post…)

That’s how I became the mom of a boy. I love my boy. I would not do anything differently. I love him more than my own life.

I’ve done a fair job of being a role model. I demonstrated fairly appropriate form while teaching him to urinate into a toilet (“I think you need to arch your back more, buddy.”) I set aside a whole lot of fear and allowed him to play football. And, most importantly I hope I’ve demonstrated self-respect and respect for others. However, when a boy gets to a certain age, he really needs male role models, and I am many things, but a man is not one.

Since my son was three, I’ve been searching for a mentor, preferably a black man. I’ve called every non-profit I know during that time. I’m scrappy and resourceful, so that’s a lot of inquiries and cajoling over the last eleven years, with zero success.

I can’t say how often I get advice from other people about how my son needs male role models. On my worst days it’s all I can do to not say “Wow, how the hell did I not think of that? Thanks for your remarkable insight.” On my better days, I say politely that I’m aware, and that resources just don’t exist.

So, here is my ask. If you are a man who has any time to give, please consider becoming a mentor, formally or informally, for a boy without a dad. There are many single women like myself who have adopted kids, and who are doing their best but who, like me, no matter how hard they try, are not actually men.

Here are options for formal mentoring:

Options for informal mentoring of boys can look like

  • Hang outs. Whatever you’re doing, especially with other men/boys, invite the kid along. Keep it casual.
  • Leadership. Are you good at what you do? Take the kid with you while you’re doing it. Show him what success looks like, whether its a career, sports, volunteering, or whatever.
  • Odd Jobs. Do you need some help around the house? Boys love to be able to buy their own stuff with their own money, and learning while they earn is so much better than many alternatives.

If you have suggestions or know of other organizations, please comment below. Thanks for reading.

Ten Year Testimony

My friend, Chelsea, is the real deal. I’m sharing her ten year testimony because my family, like hers, is rife with alcoholism. I hope that her testimony helps others to know they are not alone. None of us are alone.

Life: Part 2

name is Chelsea Levo Feary. I am a
recovering alcoholic. On September 21,
2019, I am celebrating ten years of sobriety and this is my testimony.

story has a beginning and that is where I will start. I was born on September 29, 1975, to Michele
(Mickie) and Chuck Levo in Miami, OK. I
was their first and only child. Before
me or as I refer to it as “BC” – Before Chelsea – the two Southern California
beach kids met during their college years while working at Disneyland. My mother was born into a traditional
Catholic family of two parents and four kids, while my dad was born into a
broken home of a working father, an older brother, and sister, and a mother who
left them and returned from time to time.
Both of my parents had their family baggage.

may say people aren’t born…

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September 22, 2010 I stood outside the Oklahoma County Juvenile Center and took photos with my three kids, who had just officially become my three kids. The girls are in dresses, and my son is in his best t-shirt, and my mom, who is now beyond the pale, is the one taking the photo. Afterwards, my mom took us to IHOP for a celebratory breakfast, and my son ate more pancakes than my mother could fathom. It was a good day.

What I didn’t know, though, was that it would be over so fast. That we would have so little time as a family. Though I knew my family was different, because I’d fostered my kids for two years before I was fortunate enough to adopt them, and was well aware of our struggles and hurdles, I still had fairly average middle-class hopes for my children. I hoped for education after high school, for lots of travel, for finding whatever made them happy and comfortable in their own skin, and I imagined myself as part of their world. I’m not sure that I could have gotten through the last eleven years without those hopes, so in some ways my delusions were beneficial.

I bought our house, a sprawling 1971 fixer upper faux Tudor, with expectations of family gatherings, pool parties, and lots of kids and grandkids visiting as my then husband and I aged, hopefully gracefully. I’m not traditional in many ways, but when it comes to family, I wanted to duplicate what my grandparents had had. They were my moral compass, and family was everything to them.

What happens, though, when you adopt kids at 5, 8, and 11, is that everything is condensed. I went from being a single, child free woman driving a Miata to a mother of three and grandmother in less than eleven years. You don’t get the infant years to get to know your kids, and you get only a few of the grade school years before the tweens hit. By the time they hit early teens, your influence is scarce, and your way forward is by a hope and a prayer.

And, when your kids come into your life with loads of defiance, when the natural defiance of the teen years hits, they leave, and they’re gone. And, it happens way too early, and with the self-absorption and daring of those whose frontal lobe has not fully developed and who have endured tremendous trauma. And, then your family is just gone. And, I was not prepared for that.

I was also not prepared for how my children leaving me, in a blaze of glory that did not include a healthy family discussion (or any discussion of any kind) was how my own trauma would be triggered. For the last few months, I’ve had the same issues I had coming out of grad school and starting my first professional position, 25 years ago. I thought I had figured so much out. I have benefited from many gifted therapists over the last 25 years, read quite a lot of Pema Chodron, and have taken home many a leadership award. But, I’m reminded that I’m still “managing” my trauma, rather than resolving it, something which my current therapist is fond of reminding me. That’s frustrating 25 years in.

My 14-year-old remains at home with me, in our absurdly large house that needs much more attention than I am willing or able to give it. My 17-year-old and 20-year-old are on their own, and don’t communicate with me. I am very aware that regarding my kids’ defiance, I am simply playing the role of “mom.” My kids would be running, regardless of my behavior (good or bad). It’s fight or flight in action. I’ve learned not to take their actions personally, at least intellectually. But all the usual tools are failing me, and I just feel a tremendous sense of endless loss, that that new mom in the photo had no idea was coming.

I’ve often held off on doing things until the time was right – waiting for retirement or until I had the perfect partner or until I was better off financially. One thing I didn’t wait to do until the time was right, though, was craft my family. I was in my late 30s, never married, and had no idea how to parent children, and I’m sure many of my friends and family were dubious and concerned. However, I will always be grateful that I built my family when I did when nothing about it was perfect or reasonable or appropriate. I’m a good mom, and we’re an awesome family, even when we’re apart.

Extractions, exploitation, destruction: How state-sanctioned disenfranchisement stunted Black wealth acquisition (Part 1 of 3)

When I write about how important systems have been created from the ground up in ways that restrict opportunity for people of color, this is what I mean. Thanks to my friend, Mana Tahaie, for this excellent explanation and history of my home, Tulsa, Oklahoma. This is the first of three installments.

New Tulsa Star

by Contributing Writer Mana Tahaie

Earlier this year, Tulsa Development Authority (TDA) once again came under scrutiny by Tulsans concerned about the displacement of Black North Tulsa residents. In March, City Councilor Vanessa Hall Harper warned residents of District 1 that a proposed amendment of the Greenwood/Unity Heritage Neighborhoods sector plan subjected approximately 2,000 addresses to eminent domain. After significant and sustained opposition, the City put the plans on hold.

At the nexus of many interconnected current issues — Black Wall Street, urban renewal, gentrification, University Center at Tulsa (UCAT) land and others —lies a complex story of Black wealth acquisition and destruction in Oklahoma.

All-Black towns

Oklahoma remains the home of the greatest number of all-Black towns in the U.S., with over 30 incorporated communities established in the late 1800s and early 1900s. (It’s important to note that White colonial settlers first stole these lands from the Native…

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Friends, this blog has been basically dormant for a couple of years, for lots of reasons. Our family has changed – my kids have gotten older, and as they have their privacy is more important. That’s the line that I thoughtfully and intentionally crossed when I started this blog many years ago – I gave up my and my children’s privacy in return for awareness-building that led to badly-needed resources for them and will hopefully contribute toward badly-needed system change. This blog is directly responsible for getting our state’s healthcare authority to actually pay for very necessary inpatient psychiatric care for one of my kiddos, for example, so I’m glad it exists.  It’s also directly responsible for resentment on the part of at least one of my kids, which I knew was a possibility and I completely understand. I’d like to work toward a day when being obnoxiously public about what your kids need, and using your privilege to get that, is not a necessary thing for parents of foster kids, parents of adopted kids, parents of kids of color, or parents of kids with disabilities. Big party at my house when that happens. We will have a great band – promise. 

Along those lines, it’s time to pivot this blog. There are lots of families who need support and lots of very broken systems out there, and I’d love to use the momentum I’ve built to drive those things, and I’d love to hear from you how you’d like to help me do that. 

  • Are you interested in supporting foster/adoptive families? What questions do you have? How is your civic group, PTA, place of worship, happy hour group, or book club helping? What advice do you have for me in helping people do that? Post both in the comments here or email me.
  • Are you interested in effective, abundant mental healthcare for all? I am. If you’re in Oklahoma (like me), the most effective thing you can do is ask elected officials to support Medicaid expansion, which will result in, among other things, more mental health care “beds” or slots for people who need care. Oklahomans Decide Healthcare is a new group that is working toward Medicaid expansion in Oklahoma, and you can read about their efforts and how to become involved on their website. What’s happening in your state? I’d love to help you amplify good stuff, so comment below or email me.
  • Are you interested in ensuring people of color have the same opportunities as we white folk? Or do you think that’s already a thing? Convinced racism doesn’t actually still exist? I would love to respectfully and empathetically help white folk build the same perspective that raising children of color has built for me. For clarity – I don’t know what it’s like to be a person of color, nor will I ever. I do know what it’s like to be a progressive white woman who used to think I understood, and now I know I really, really don’t. How can I build that for you, white friends? What do you want to know, or confront, or call BS on? Comment below or email me, with your input.
  • If you’re in Tulsa, please ensure you’re following what City Council is doing around race, including the equality indicators (full disclosure – I led part of the Resiliency Plan for Tulsa) and the search for mass graves related to the 1921 Race Massacre. Like and follow the Demanding a JustTulsa Facebook page for more information as well. What is happening in your state? How can I help amplify positive movement where you live? Comment below or email me.
  • Are you interested in criminal justice reform? Or are you not sure what that means? Or do you think we should lock ’em up and throw away the key? I’ve unfortunately learned how little justice there is in the justice system, via my personal and professional life, and I’m convinced we will look back on this time in our nation’s history as our second round of slavery. In Oklahoma, we keep getting really close to real reform, but we’re not quite there yet. Follow Oklahomans for Criminal Justice Reform, ACLU Oklahoma, and Open Justice Oklahoma for great information. For those of you who are employers, please work with ReMerge and Women in Recovery to hire their wonderful graduates. I’ve hired several! For those of you on the politically conservative side of the house, check out what the Koch Foundation has to say about criminal justice reform – they’re big fans.  Also, check out Right on Crime, Conservatives for Criminal Justice Reform, and The American Conservative Union Foundation.
  • If you’d like to meet with me, ask me to write a piece for your blog or publication, or ask me to speak with your group, email me, please. I am adamant about using my own experience for good in the world. 

Big love, friends! Let’s do this.

Myth-Busting Adoption Insights

November is national adoption month. Here are my tremendous (j/k) myth-busting insights about adoption. Adoptive parent friends, feel free to add your insights in the comments!

My kids are not “lucky” to be adopted. I am fortunate, to be their mother, but no one in our scenario is lucky. They’ve been through hell and back a few times, have suffered tremendous loss in losing their biological parents and family, and will struggle their entire lives. Having a parent who loves and cares for you is a basic human right, not “luck.”

I am my kids’ “real” parent. I am not holographic. They have two moms – their biological mom and their adoptive mom. We’re both moms. One doesn’t trump the other. Life is not a card game.

My kids’ black hair is gorgeous and natural and has been for years. It’s also the thing that has been the most weirdly confrontational over the last 11 years. I’ve had women stop their cars just so they can confront me in my own front yard about how shameful my kids’ hair is, and do that right in front of my children. We’ve had women wave us over to their cars so they can roll down their windows and shame us. Etc. Etc. Kudos to men who may have thought those thoughts, but who have never said them out loud to me or my kids. Eventually, I had cards printed that we could hand out to people and walk away, because I didn’t like what it was doing to my children.

Because I fostered my kids first, I used vouchers for their clothes, and WIC cards, and anything else that the government would give me, and I got LOTS of ugly stares from big-haired Baptist ladies. I still get a monthly subsidy that pays a portion of our mortgage. I’ve never received anything close to the amount of money it takes to actually raise a child, especially a child with lots and lots of needs, though. Thank God for Soonercare, Oklahoma’s Medicaid program, which provides great healthcare benefits to my kids. If it were not for Soonercare, we’d be living in a hovel, literally. If you know big-haired Baptist ladies, educate them about Jesus and orphans, please.

Adopting is not for everyone. Chat with someone who will be honest with you before you jump in. Frankly, I was an idiot when I began fostering. It is by the grace of God and sheer stubbornness that I am still a parent. It is not rainbows and unicorns. If it’s not for you, you can still help out by

  1. Electing people who actually fund basic services like quality childcare and mental health care, so that there are fewer orphans in our world;
  2. Help out an adoptive parent by watching their kids, mowing their lawn, or just sending them a nice note letting them know they’re awesome.
  3. If you’re capable, spend some cash on an adoptive family. Buy dinner, give them a gift card, whatever.

Being a single adoptive parent is in many ways much easier than being a married adoptive parent. If you have an awesome marriage, seriously yay you. You go do that thing. If your marriage has some cracks in it, those cracks will just get more pronounced after adoption.

Every single horror film and TV crime drama portrays the worst serial-killing pedophiles as people who were fostered and adopted. Every single one. It’s a cliche at this point. When the kids were little I just made up reasons why we didn’t watch certain shows, and now we just make fun of the fact that it’s a cliche.

“I’ll bet you $10 the psycho killer was a foster kid.”

“I’m not taking that bet.”

One of the reasons I love the sadly-ended, super cheesy show Bones, was because the heroine was a former foster kid who became a world-renowned expert in her field and had a great life. We still watch that darn show. One spring we found a cat carcass in our shed, and the kids asked if we could study it like they do on Bones.

Holidays and trauma anniversaries suck! Often they are one in the same for adoptive kiddos. Holidays are the equivalent of a Disney vacation. Everyone is spending a lot of time and money desperately trying to make everything magical, and magic doesn’t really happen that way. We are seriously chill about the holidays, because that’s what works best for us, not because it’s what I imagined my grown-up life would be.

Finally, my kids are awesome. They are literally and by far the best thing that ever happened to me. They have a broader perspective than most 40-year-olds, and they will not put up with your shit. I’ve had many a teacher conversation that went like this, “yeah, sadly she doesn’t respect you, and so nothing you do is going to be effective. You can have a chat with her and discuss solutions together, making it clear that you respect her, and that might work, but just telling her to do something when she doesn’t respect you is going to make your life hell. You can transfer her to a different class if that’s more doable. No hard feelings.” They challenge me every day, and parenting them is literally the hardest and most fabulous thing I will ever do.

Big love, people! 


Thanks to Facebook, I was reminded this morning that one year ago I was court-ordered to stop talking about my oldest daughter completely, much less her situation and needs, or risk numerous consequences including jail time and losing my parental rights (i.e. I would no longer be a parent to my children). So, today seems like a good day to get started on some advocacy efforts.


Christmas Card 2015At that time, I was also instructed by the Assistant District Attorney (ADA) to shut down this blog completely. (Not just the kid parts – the whole thing.) I was also instructed by the ADA to remove posts and photos from Facebook, including, and especially, our family portrait which appears here.

After that my kiddo was in upwards of 10 failed placements in less than 10 months with more than 60 days of juvenile detention thrown in and seven weeks on her own in Oklahoma City, because she ran away, and they couldn’t locate her. Because they couldn’t keep her placed anywhere, they couldn’t provide the court-ordered services that she required, like GED classes, therapy, transitional living, services, etc., and I was generally only allowed to see her in court. I also had a court-ordered parenting plan that included paying the Oklahoma Department of Human Services (OKDHS) child support of $640/month, attending parenting classes, opening up my therapist’s notes to OKDHS and the court, and allowing OKDHS to search my home at any time without notice. That was after OKDHS’s investigation literally found no fault on my part.

When my oldest daughter turned 18 last February, the legal case against me went away formally, but I’ve been advised by more than one attorney not to “advocate” about these issues until my other two kids turn 18, lest OKDHS remove them from my home out of vengeance. If you think this sounds crazy, welcome to my world and the world of many adoptive parents who step up, do the right thing, and end up being crucified by OKDHS, the DA’s office, and the Tulsa County Court, in an environment where we are literally allowed to say/write nothing about what is happening to our families.

I think my best bet against having my kids taken into OKDHS custody over the next six years is to be loud, because then if they’re taken away from me, you’ll all know why and be more likely to advocate on our behalf.

  • If you know parents who have been through similar experiences, please ask them to email me at shelley.cadamy@gmail.com.
  • If you know people who adopted from a government entity, and their kids have undisclosed mental health issues/behaviors that are unmanageable, ask them to email me at shelley.cadamy@gmail.com.
  • If you know people who were forced to “abandon” their adoptive children so that their kids could get help that is only available to kids in foster care, please ask them to email me at shelley.cadamy@gmail.com.
  • If you’re an attorney who would like to share, confidentially, your experiences and/or ideas for system reform, email me at shelley.cadamy@gmail.com.
  • If you’re an advocate and have a plan for reform, including legislation, please email me at shelley.cadamy@gmail.com.

I appreciate my friends who were part of the “if Shelley goes to jail today” plan, wherein friends would 1. pick up my two younger kids and take them to an undisclosed location, and 2. call the media and organize a march on the Tulsa County jail.

This is just the beginning – there is much more to the story above. If you have questions, please post them in the comments below. Big love, people.

White Women

I’m part of a great group of women who are mothers to black boys. Some of those women are, like me, white. During a candid discussion (the best kind) about ways in which we would keep our kids safe, one of the black moms wrote that she warns her black sons about being careful around white women. One of the white moms was offended, and quite a discussion ensued.
So, here’s the deal – I will have the very same discussion with my son. Is that incredibly awkward and heartbreaking? Yes, it is. For not the first time, I will warn my black son about the harm that may come to him via people who look just like me. For those of you who are as offended or as hurt as the white woman in my group, I understand your shock and offense, and I hope you’ll keep reading.
Historically, interactions (real or perceived) between young black men and white women have ended tragically for the young black men and their families and friends. The Atlantic wrote a piece this month, How The Blood of Emmett Till Still Stains America Today, for example, about the recently released The Blood of Emmett Till
“…it wasn’t too long ago in American history that millions of Americans were trampled under the heel of a repressive, anti-democratic kleptocracy and faced economic reprisals, violence, or death for any dissent. And nowhere was the iron grip of that system—known as Jim Crow to some of us—stronger than in Mississippi. That grip manifested itself most notoriously in the murder of Emmett Till, a 14-year-old black boy, in 1955. That year, Till was tortured and lynched by white men after allegedly making lewd comments toward a white woman. His mutilated corpse became one of the first mass-media images of the violence of Jim Crow, and the trial of his killers became a pageant illuminating the tyranny of white supremacy. And through protests across the country, Till’s broken body became a powerful symbol of the civil-rights movement.”
In my own back yard I can read about how a 19-year-old black man, Dick Rowland, and a young white woman, Sarah Page, riding in an elevator together provided the tipping point for the 1921 Tulsa Race Riot. The Riot, which was actually a massacre, resulted in the destruction of 35 city blocks, including  Black Wall Street, injuries to over 800 people, and nearly 300 deaths.
If you’re reading this and thinking, “but that was a long time ago. Those things don’t happen anymore,” unfortunately they do. Another example from my own community is that of white police officer, Shannon Kepler, who killed his daughter’s bi-racial nineteen-year-old boyfriend, Jeremy Lake. Mr. Kepler searched for Jeremy’s family’s address, drove to the address with his loaded firearm, shot Jeremy to death, shot at two other people including his own daughter, fled the scene, and later turned himself in. His two trials have resulted in mistrials. A juror from his last trial posted on facebook that two of his fellow jurors were so biased against black people that they wouldn’t even discuss the case with their fellow jurors, much less consider that Kepler could be guilty. Thankfully, the Tulsa County District Attorney is preparing a third trial. I’m hopeful the prosecution can find 12 people without racial bias, but I’m also realistic.
I am so thankful that the black moms in my group shared openly and honestly about their fears regarding people who look just like me. Honestly, before I adopted three black children, I had no clue what the world of black people was like, something I wrote about here. Black people have had “talks” with their black kids about how to behave around white people for hundreds of years, if not longer. I look at my beautiful, black son, and I am terrified, because at 11-years-old, he keeps being mistaken for 14-years-old. I’m terrified that he will be confronted with these issues much sooner than his child’s brain can prepare him for. I’m also resentful that I have to break his heart repeatedly by explaining that people who like me, me his protector and nurturer, are potentially a threat against which he has to protect himself. If beautiful, black children are ever going to be safe, white people have to
  1. Confront our biases (I am not calling you racist. I’m biased, too. Breathe). Here’s a great way to understand your own bias.
  2. Listen to what black people have to say about their own experiences (they’re really not making this stuff up – promise).
  3. Leave our defensiveness at the door (Again, I’m not calling you racist. See above.)
  4. Be uncomfortable for a good, long while.

That’s a good start.

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