When my son’s teachers asked parents to present important family traditions, I knew that ours should be about plantain.
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My oldest son is the only Black boy in his class. In fact, he’s the only Black boy in kindergarten at his entire elementary school. In actuality, he’s only a quarter Black—with Caucasian-American and Nigerian lineage on my side; Vietnamese and French on his father’s. When I look at his school photo and see that his is one of only a handful of non-white faces in his class of twenty-three students, I’m concerned. As the only Black-ish parent at home, I feel responsible for teaching him about the blackness in his heritage.
‘Baca is from Nigeria,’ I remind him about his grandfather whenever our conversations at dinnertime veer towards descriptions of the ethnic and racial backgrounds of the other students in his class. We’re having these conversations more frequently these days and if it comes up during bedtime, I look at the wall in his bedroom where a world map is mounted and show him the exact spot where his grandfather’s homeland nestles between the republics of Cameroon and Benin.
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