My daughter Ava, 21 months is joyfully shouting “Toy!” at the top of her little but powerful lungs on a rainy Thursday morning in South Jersey. I am still waking up but am on a second cup of decaf coffee and wistfully remembering my own youth in this old shore house when I was the one demanding round 200 of Candy Land. The “toy” she is referring to is my hand me down 1967 Fisher Price Family Farm filled with cows, sheep, horses and an odd lot of about 10 mini people each with exactly the same face but decidedly different hair or hats. I can’t help but notice that all the mini people are clearly Caucasian and wonder to myself if my beautiful little girl who is half Latina will notice that. Part of me is thrilled that it probably wouldn’t even occur to her and the other part saddened that back in 1967 there weren’t any options. That lack of options and what always felt like a terribly unjust world led me to the forefront of many “causes” before I ever dreamed of being a mother.
Once I got to college in the big city in the late 80’s I was shocked to see the streets lined with bodies; old, young, male, female and even whole families. I could not fathom how all of these people could be “homeless”, a term I’d only just learned upon my arrival in Philadelphia. One chance meeting with a group of people who were homeless after being locked out of my college apartment and an activist was born. Within months studies took a backseat to my endeavors to understand and eradicate this injustice. I wrote letters, performed plays, marched in protests and collected blankets for my new friends. All of this was almost inconceivable to most of my family and friends back home who were raised with a blue collar work ethic and set of circumstances that prevented them from understanding how this terrible misfortune could befall so many. Needless to say it was a time of tremendous growth and difficulty. Candy Land and summers “down the shore” began to feel like a distant dream as I woke up to the realities of the world. I’d held homeless newborns in my arms on dirty street corners for homeless mothers trying to make the impossible decision to turn their babies over to social services. The look in their eyes said they knew this was no place for a child. I started to wonder if I could ever bring a life into this brutal world.
Twenty years later and I find myself on Sudanese soil holding a newborn Darfur refugee in my arms. She has only ever known life here and half of her family has been brutally murdered and displaced by a genocidal government. Half way around the world and I see a familiar look in this mother’s eyes; hopelessness. There are thousands of children in every camp I visit and thousands more still making the long dangerous trek to relative safety. I am in my late 30’s and again wondering how I could ever bring life into a world so cold. I wonder how this all began, the brutality and disregard for human life. Although we said, “Never Again” the world still sits by and watches. Perhaps we dehumanize each other with all of our labeling and judgment. Every time we say “those people over there are always fighting” we take a stand for separatism and judgment instead of empathy for our fellow man and solutions for our problems.
We conceived my daughter the day I returned from the refugee camps. I believe that her father and I were taking a stand for humanity, love and new beginnings that day. She arrived in a home birth after 32 hours and took our world by storm. She renewed my faith in humanity. With that renewal, came a call to conscious parenting and regrettably much of my “activism” was put on hold as I learned how to be truly present for my daughter. I struggled to put the Blackberry down and surrender to this new life. Somewhere in the back of my head or deep in my heart Walt Whitman’s words kept echoing” Produce great persons and the rest follows.”
So this rainy morning in South Jersey when my daughter asks for her toys for the 100th time I tell her,” Go get mama the Family Farm and we’ll play.” I tell myself that I am teaching her to participate in life and not expect everything to be done for her but truth be told I am partially being lazy. That laziness is followed by a wave of guilt for all the people and causes that I have left behind to play with The Fisher Price Family Farm. Just then, Ava toddles in proudly with her toy and says,” Here, Mama!” I open my mouth to say “Good Girl!” but something catches my tongue. I hear Whitman’s ghost whisper in my ear and am reminded that is not my job to judge, label or evaluate my daughter’s person. If she is decreed a good girl then she will surmise she also has the potential to be a bad girl. With two tiny words I have the power to embark her on a life long journey of self criticism or self reflection. A simple change of one word and I am doing my greatest work, “Good job!” She is not good or bad, she simply is and to evaluate her person as opposed to her behavior is a great disservice.
With all the activism I participated in the greatest lesson I learned is that all the injustices of the world begin at home in tiny almost inconceivable ways by families doing the best they can with what they know. Of course our children grow up and go to school and out into the community and are influenced there as well. I know it is frightening for all of us as parents or as children of parents we revered or feared that we might have been getting some things wrong for all these years. We all might however stand a better chance of a better world if every playmate, teacher or employer had a mother or father who decided to try another way. We do better when we know better and communication and empathy are as valid skills as math and science to the survival of our species; perhaps more so. After all in this modern world we really are a global village and therefore one big family. Maybe that’s what the 1967 Fisher Price Family Farm was really meant to teach me.
- by Stacey Martino, partner in Whole World Baby
