Apparently, Rakes has inherited from me the genetic gene for OCD. After going to the library and picking out 15 different books, he wants to read the same 3 every night before bedtime.
One about a bunch of dinks riding a bus, another one that details the day in the life of a mouse family that hits the beach, and the third? Jackie Robinson, a young man in Brooklyn in 1947, and his Dad who just happens to be deaf, titled "Dad, Jackie, and Me".
I can honestly say I've read this book to him AT LEAST 29 times and tonight this particular paragraph finally caught his attention.
"As Jackie stood at first base, the Giants began hooting and hollering. They called Jackie names. Horrible names."
Rakes: "Why did they call him names, Dad?"
Me: "Well, white people didn't really like black people back then, son."
Rakes: "But why, Dad?"
How in the world do you explain centuries of racism to a 4 year old? The best I could come up with was they were all a bunch of idiots and steered him to bed. But it got me to thinking, which in most cases is not a good thing.
It makes me glad that the poster over my son's bed is of a black man of Dominican heritage named Big Papi. Even better, I thought about how a dude who used to sport corn rows roams CF and how the top three players in the game are guys named Albert Pujols, David Ortiz, and Alfonso Soriano. They don't exactly conjure up images of the All-American white guy.
The bigger picture is this; no matter what your political leaning, come November there will be an African-American on the ballot for the President of the United States.
Can we collectively flip the bird to all the David Dukes everywhere?
On a side note, Ang went to pick up the boys from my Mom's house today and after about 3 minutes found Trot.
Yelling his head off.
Inside the dryer.
Somewhere in all of this, I've got a potential best seller.
Now, if I could just figure out how to pull it all together.....
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