An Open Letter to the Thief Who Stole My Kids’ Christmas Presents

Hi, Dick. I don’t actually know if that’s your real name but it seems fitting. Dick, I’m the owner of the front porch from which you swiped a package that was delivered today. I own the property that you trespassed on when you slithered up my driveway to rob me. The family you upset is also mine. My name is Rachel. It’s nice to meet you.

First, let me tell you that you are gonna be so mad when you open that box. Lucky for me, Amazon split my order into three deliveries and you stole the one that contained nothing more than a box of 64 Crayola color crayons and a Star Wars rebel t-shirt. Sad for you. I hope you don’t take my package to the vacant burned-down house where you and the other crooks gather to compare loot and eat Beanee Weenees out of cans held in your dirty, fingerless-glove-covered hands. Because if that’s what you do, your criminal friends are going to make so much fun of you... You can’t even burglarize properly! Trying to imagine the look on your thief-face when you realize you just risked jail time for a box of crayons has helped ease the pain of what you did. Almost. Because whatever you did with my package after you stole it, you violated a part of me today and I need you to be caught.

I wanted to be the one to catch you. My first instinct—and I’m being sincere, was to kill you. I immediately began to plan my revenge. I paced up and down the street asking my neighbors if they saw anything suspicious. I plotted, I fumed, and I cursed you. There was a moment when I even considered finding an eye of newt and toe of frog so I could cast some sort of spell on you and your kin (that was a reference to Shakespeare, perhaps you've stolen one of his books before). Dick, I wanted to break your kneecaps with a baseball bat and maybe I watch too many violent films but for a while, it sounded like a perfectly valid solution. Admittedly, I don’t think logically when I’m that furious.

Who are you? Let me guess: A meth addict who follows the UPS truck around, stealing packages so you can sell the contents for drug money? Some punk kid whose parents are failing to teach their own child how to become a decent human being? Or are you a desperate, unemployed parent struggling to put food on the table for your kids and you feel like this is your only hope in the world? I have no idea who you are, Dick... Or Jane. But you need to be caught.

After the initial rage wore off, [note to self: ask around to see if that level of fury is considered “normal”] I sat down on my bed and I prayed for you. First I asked forgiveness for hating you so much and for being that upset over "stuff" and then I prayed that God would get His hands on you. Not so that He would bring you to justice, but so that He would show you His mercy. I’ve done a lot of terrible things in my life and I've been a lousy human being at times. And God took every dirty little bit and made me new. I’m no better than you because I've seen what's in my heart. But God loves me anyway. He loves you, too. I hope you let Him catch you, Dick. He’ll be a lot nicer to you than I would. He’s not full of sin and anger and way too much Die Hard. And let's face it, you need to be caught.

If you find that you don’t like the 64-crayons or if the rebel t-shirt doesn't fit, I’ve got a couple of kids here who would really love to have them back.

Merry Christmas, Dick.

Sincerely,

Rachel

I Have An Idea! Let's Talk About Racism

Not enough people in America are talking about racism. Wait, that’s not right...

What I meant was, not enough white, privileged, middle-class moms are talking about racism, and I can think of nobody more qualified to offer an opinion on such a convoluted and volatile subject. Prepare to be schooled yo.

Racism exists and you know it. Everybody, in some form or another, discriminates and I hope you know that, too. America has a dark and dirty history with racism and unfortunately, that problem is not going anywhere. But please allow me to launch a little missile of truth at your head. If you are a parent, you hold the power to not poison your children with it. And whatever your racist tendencies, I encourage you to hide your bigotry from them. Because they watch everything you do and they hear every word you say.

One of the hardest things I have ever had to do (remember, I’m a white, privileged, middle classee) was to send my children to public school. It was a decision I agonized over. Yes, while other parents in our neighborhood worried how they were going to feed their children, I was distraught because we couldn’t afford to send two of ours to the private Christian school where Ali had attended kindergarten.

When the first day of school arrived, I feigned excitement as I got the kids ready but inside I felt like was preparing a couple of lambs for slaughter. Chad and I dropped Ali off in her classroom and said goodbye. Next we took Jackson to his morning kindergarten class, where I stayed to watch over and protect my boy because clearly he needed me (in reality, he forgot I was even there when the class gathered for the morning welcome song. But whatever.)

At the end of the day, we took the kids to Baskin Robbins for a celebratory ice cream cone. I asked Ali the question that had been on my mind all day: “How was your first day of first grade?”

With brimming tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks Ali said, “Mommy, I can't be friends with any girls in my class.” Then, in a performance worthy of an Academy Award, I calmly listened as she explained why.

When the class was lining up for morning recess, a sweet little girl named Jhanae asked Ali if she would like to play with her and Ali said yes. But another girl named Lakisha* came over and yelled at Jhanae, “You can’t be friends with her, she’s white!” So Ali had nobody to play with during recess because not only was she white, but she was the only white girl in class. If what Lakisha said was true, who could be her friend?

In her short six years of life, Ali had never heard anything like this because she was not raised by racists. But apparently, Lakisha was.

The next day, I walked into the school office and explained what had happened to my daughter. I told them that they were going to handle the situation in the exact same way they would handle it if it had been my daughter that said those things to a black child. You might be surprised to learn that they didn’t. Or, you might not.

So, for good measure, I walked into Ali’s classroom and found Lakisha, who outweighed every other first grader by at least thirty pounds. She was wearing french-tip acrylic nails, had a weave half-way down her back, and her ill-fitting t-shirt said, “I Heart My Attitude” in silver glitter. In my most impressive and frightening mommy whisper, I told her that Ali could be friends with anyone she wanted to be friends with. I told her the color of Ali's skin didn’t matter, but what kind of person she was did. I’m sure my “content-of-their-character” reference was completely lost on this little girl in the same way it would’ve been lost on the people who were indoctrinating her.

So that was my daughter’s introduction to racism. She remained the only white girl in her class that year and despite Lakisha she made some good friends and learned some great lessons. And so did I. Specifically, that racism comes in all colors and sizes. And while America is screaming loudly, I will not allow that fact to be drowned out. And neither should you.

*I changed the name of the blossoming racist to protect her identity*