"There are lots of bad guys, huh?" Pete asked, his little face twisting into a grimace.
My heart went out to him. At five years old, already he was concerned for his safety, afraid that at any moment someone with a less gentle heart could hurt him or his family.
We looked out the window and I listened to him as he brainstormed all the methods of scaring a bad guy away -- throw rocks in his eyes, shoot rubber bands in his mouth. His worry gradually transformed into confidence -- no one evil stood a chance against Pete.
He was silent for a moment. Then, "I know what color the bad guys have."
My heart stopped. Five years old, and the stereotypes had already gotten to him. Five years old, and he was already conditioned to be suspicious of those who aren't Caucasian.
"What color are they, Pete?" I asked cautiously, trying to decide how I would go about changing his mind.
He drew stripes across his chest with his finger. "Black and white."
1 comment:
like the bad guys in the really old movies poppop used to watch... always dressed in prison garb, black and white stripes...
Good for him... glad he's still innocent to the stereotypes forced on us by society... but hey, he could have said the bad guys were American...
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