This is going to be my first Father’s Day blessed with my newborn baby girl. Every time I see her sweet smile, it warms my heart — and takes me far away from this crazy world.
Right now, my 5 month old cries only because of small things. When she’s upset, I can usually solve the problem. An engineer by trade, I have a checklist. Is her diaper wet? Check. Is she hungry? Check. Did I burp her? Check. She wants Daddy to pick her up! I got this.
But, in these trying times for our country, as I hold her, sitting in a rocking chair, I wonder: What will make her cry as she gets older?
In five years, when she’s in kindergarten, will she cry because some boy teases her? In 10 years, when she enters fifth grade, will she tear up as she tries to explain to her friends her mixed race: How she’s half Korean and half — shall we say — “Daughter of the American Revolution”? In 20 years, will she weep because either she got into Harvard or Stanford as a legacy it or got rejected because she’s part-White and part-Asian?
I know. We can’t bubble wrap our kids. Still, as her dad, I don’t want anything to happen to my daughter during her life that is, in any way, unfair. That said, her problems will likely pale in comparison to the challenges faced by a Black kid her age.
A couple weeks ago, I caught up on the phone with a good friend who is a Black woman. She had talked with her nephew about how a young Black man needs to be careful around law enforcement when he’s out in town. And because I run a civic institution that aims to make government more efficient and effective, I was trying to picture her nephew’s neighborhood and whether the street in front of his home was in good condition. Should I make a call?
My daughter is a lucky winner of the birth lottery. She will have the power, through my wife and me and our network, to solve a lot of her problems. But let’s be honest: even if whatever future problem she faces doesn’t get solved, she’ll still be fine. After all, she’ll have her pick of shoulders to cry on. Between you and me, I hope she picks mine.
I ask myself: What’s the difference between my friend and her nephew vs. my daughter and me? Why are there differences — between my friend’s family and mine — in how the police officers protect and serve, how teachers teach, and how public servants dole out services?
I recently heard on television a Black woman being interviewed by a journalist in Los Angeles. She turned to the camera and said to the police, “You work for us!” Just then, I had a moment of clarity. This woman was absolutely correct. The police, along with everyone else in the civic sector, do work for her. And they work for my friend and her nephew. Just like they work for my daughter and me.
But these civic institutions — police departments, school districts, city halls, etc. — are set up to serve some people but not all people. If, in the future, I have to make a phone call or send a letter on behalf of my daughter — whether it be to the police department, a school , or elected representatives — I assume I’ll get a return call or note. But what about my friend and her nephew? I don’t know.
There is some invisible force that prevents the rules from being changed. Civic institutions are getting pushed to the breaking point. And no matter how many police departments will now ban the carotid restraint, I can’t shake the feeling that it’ll be business as usual.
Those of us who have the privilege to think critically about these things need to take our responsibilities seriously. We need to be laser focused on what’s causing this institutional inertia. We need to keep asserting “Black Lives Matter,” but also get beyond the platitudes and think about who has power to make change — and how they keep the power. Maybe then we’ll figure out why change doesn’t happen, even when it seems everyone agrees it should. This is a big challenge, but we’re up for it.
Meanwhile, this Father’s Day, I’m just grateful for the little things. Like the fact that I can still solve my baby girl’s tiny problems.
