Today we brought mini-popsicles and donut holes to our son’s preschool (because he was quite clear that he wanted both popsicles and donuts) for a bittersweet celebration of his moving on.  The school is year round, but because we’re heading out for vacation–and because he got into a Pre-K class in his sister’s public school–this was goodbye, to a loving bunch of kids, and some of the best early-ed teachers I’ve ever known.

I remember visiting the school years ago, and–as I had for my daughter before, at other institutions–furtively counting the children of color to make sure my child wouldn’t be the only, or one of the only, Black kids in the class.

As it happened, in his class there were a disproportionate number of kids who came from mixed-race backgrounds, just like my boy.  But despite reading all the right books with him over the years (The Colors of Us, Shades of Black, etc.),and quite unlike our daughter at that age, our son didn’t seem to notice such distinctions. Though he knows his birthparents, it didn’t seem to register when Black dads and white moms (or Black parents and white grand-moms) would show up for his peers.

It was only at a retreat of Jewish multiracial families this spring, that he clearly took notice. Only when he finally met a child his age who actually shared his precise skin tone (because being bi-racial doesn’t dictate your actual skin tone), and his precise hair consistency (ditto), did he really perk up and pay attention.  Gee, I imagined him thinking, someone who actually looks like me.

I have considered that perhaps it is and will remain easier for my dark-skinned daughter to embrace the aspect of her identity that relates to race. She’s a Black girl; there’s no escaping it. I’m beginning to understand more fully the challenges that multiracial people face, and I’m ready to learn much, much more.

As we drove to school this morning, we passed the pool where our son will be taking swimming lessons this fall. He balked at the prospect, and I explained that Jewish tradition teaches that it’s our job to make sure he learns to swim. We can’t let him get into situations where his life might be at risk, and not teach him what he needs to know to survive. So says the Talmud.

In this day and age, when raising boys of color, it struck me that “learning to swim” is a potent concept, as metaphoric as the injunction to “build a parapet on your roof” to prevent foreseeable accidents.

When it comes to our son’s mixed heritage, “teaching him to swim” will ultimately include all the lessons that Black boys of a certain age need to learn to navigate and survive a racist world. But teaching our son how to “swim” will also mean ensuring that he emerges from his childhood with a strong sense of self, of all that makes him who he is.

One Friday not so long ago, I sat on the couch watching a video of Obama’s remarks to the press that day. My boy snuggled up to me, and I said, “Do you remember that President Obama has a Black birth-dad, and a white birth-mom, just like you?”

Today, at school, in the midst of the goodbye party, I was able to confirm with our son’s teacher that they had, in fact, been learning about color mixing with paints. And then I explained why I’d asked. Reminded of the background that he shares with our President, my kid said to me, “Yeah. I’m a little bit black, and a little bit white,” and then, with tremendous authority, he announced, “I’m grey!”

(More swimming lessons are coming, but at least we’re getting wet.)