By Jessica Pierson Russo We talked, my 10-year-old son and I, sitting on the floor of our kitchen. Tears pooled at our chins as he told me that a group of his peers had been telling each other racist jokes. “And mama, I didn’t do anything to stop it.” Our talk was deep and meaningful. I told him it was indeed wrong of him not to have said anything. But I didn’t condemn him for it. “The important thing is, what will you do next time?” It was important to me that he didn't attach his inaction to his sense of being, or to that of the others. That kind of behavior is not native to a child. My message: "That is not who you are." We talked about our country’s history of racism—something I’d been teaching him since age three. We talked about how differently each of us experience racism every day. We talked until I could see he felt himself again, this time armed with an experience he would learn from. There’s a lot more to that story. I’m telling it now to drive home the
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