OPINION: I was raised by a white father and a Black mother, but I didn’t understand that my father was white and different than me until I was 8 years old.
Editor’s note: The following article is an op-ed, and the views expressed are the author’s own. Read more opinions on theGrio.
It’s Father’s Day — a day devoted to honoring the men who planted the seed for us to be born.
My father, Michael P. Judge, died five years ago the week before my birthday. I still miss him very much.
I have always been very proud of my father and everything he accomplished during his lifetime. He served as the Los Angeles County public defender from 1994 until his retirement in 2010. He was a public servant for his entire legal career, working first in the City Attorney’s Office and then switching to indigent defense with the public defender.
He was a champion of indigent defense his entire career and was known and well-respected throughout the entire legal community nationwide.
It always gives me pause when I happen to speak to another attorney for a news story, share with them who my father was and have them tell me how much they loved and respected him.
When I was in elementary school, I was proud to have a nurse for a mother and a lawyer for a father. I was proudest on those days when parents were allowed to come into the classroom to talk to us kids about what they did for a living.
My friend Eboni’s mother is one of the original Black flight attendants, and at the time, she worked for what was then known as Continental Airlines. When she did her career presentation, she gave us all little airplane wings that we could pin to our clothing. She also told us that chewing gum or drinking cola would help our ears pop during takeoffs and landings on a plane.
I thought that was dope.
But nothing compared to the day in third grade when my daddy came to school to talk to everyone about being a lawyer.
When we were kids, most of us wanted to be a doctor or a lawyer when we grew up. We didn’t even really understand what any of it meant as far as career goals; we just knew that those roles symbolized a level of “success” that other jobs didn’t, and success was the ultimate goal.
So my daddy came to school one day to talk to everyone about being a lawyer. He talked about going to court. He talked about going to law school. He told us how much you have to read and write as a lawyer. He told us that trials can sometimes take months and that sometimes he was working to help save someone’s life.
I was so proud! I sat in the front row of the classroom and looked around at my classmates with a big grin on my face. You couldn’t tell me a damn thing, baby.
I was riding so high on that pride bubble, I didn’t expect it to get popped on the playground at recess, but it did.
I was at the handball courts sitting on the bench waiting to take on the reigning handball champion, a girl named Cionne (pronounced like Dionne, but with an S sound).
An older girl from the fifth- and sixth-grade class (we were in a magnet program that had three classrooms — a first- and second-grade class, a third- and fourth-grade class and a fifth and sixth-grade class) came up to me and tapped me on the shoulder.
She was tall with long hair she wore in braids. There were three other big girls with her, and they formed a semi-circle around me.
I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I immediately felt apprehensive about it.
She looked at me inquisitively and asked, “Was that your daddy in the classroom?”
I felt an immediate rush of relief. I smiled really big and said, “Yes.”
“It is?” She was incredulous.
“Yes,” I replied, feeling confused.
“Girl, why is your daddy WHITE?”
She said “white” with some emphasis and venom. I was again confused. What the hell was she talking about?
“My daddy is not white,” I said matter-of-factly.
“Yes, he is! He white and he got blue eyes,” she said and then started laughing. Before I could say anything else, she and her friends turned around and walked away, their laughter ringing in my ear like the schoolboy.
That was at morning recess. I sat with it all day feeling completely discombobulated.
How could my daddy be white? Everyone in my house was Black. Me, my mommy, my brother and my sister were all Black. How is that possible if my daddy is not Black, too?
Most of his friends were Black. He listened to Marvin Gaye and other Black artists nonstop. We had never played any white music of any kind on the big stereo in our house. Everything was Black.
When programs about Black history came on, he made us watch them and explained the historical significance of what we were seeing.
Hell, he even got his hair done by a Black lady, and I had seen him picking out his curly white man afro with an actual afro pick every day of my life in the bathroom as he got ready each morning, so what kind of nonsense was this?
I needed answers.
When my mother picked us up from the daycare that day, I asked her.
“Mommy, is daddy white?”
She was driving us home. She never took her eyes off the road. She never looked at me, but she did what equals a spit-take when I asked it.
“What?”
“I said is daddy white?”
“Yes,” she answered. Then she looked at me in the backseat.
My arms were folded across my chest. I didn’t believe her. Her ass was lying, too. Forget it. I’ll just ask my daddy when he gets home.
As soon as I heard our garage door opening, I ran into the kitchen to wait for him.
I didn’t even let him make it all the way in from the back porch before I asked him.
I stood there with my hands on my hips, and as he came around the corner into the kitchen, I hit him with “Daddy, are you white?”
He got an amused and puzzled look on his face. “What?”
All the adults in my house had surely gone mad because it was an easy question to answer. I could hear my mother, who was in the family room folding laundry, chuckling softly. That made me even more irritated.
I asked my question again.
“DADDY. ARE YOU WHITE?!”
“Yes, baby, I’m white,” he answered.
Now I was mad.
“How are you white and we are all Black?”
“Because I love your mommy, and your mommy loves me, and we have you kids, and you all came out of her belly, so you are Black, but you are still my children, and that’s what counts.”
As an adult, I can see how that answer was supposed to make me feel better, but as an 8-year-old little girl who was going to have to go back to school the next day and admit that yes, her daddy was, in fact, THE WHITE MAN, it stung more than anything.
He could tell that answer wasn’t satisfactory to me, and he didn’t push the issue. He bent down, gave me a kiss, pet me on top of the head and went into his home office.
I went into my room and went to bed.
By the time I got to school the next day, everyone had already forgotten about my daddy being white. We were on to the next thing, whatever that was.
As an adult, I understand on a deeper level why my father made sure we understood we were Black despite the fact that he was white.
He understood that no matter his status and accomplishments, his children would always be viewed differently in this world, and he prepared us for that.
I also realize my father is and was my first model for what a real ally looks like. He fought for Black and brown people his entire career, and he did so while remaining humble and never seeking praise for it. For him, it was the right thing to do, and I really appreciate that.
I love my daddy, and I miss him every day. He would be so disgusted by the things that are happening in this country right now.
And he would be encouraging me to continue writing and speaking up for my people.
Don’t worry, Daddy. I will.
Monique Judge is a storyteller, content creator and writer living in Los Angeles. She is a word nerd who is a fan of the Oxford comma, spends way too much time on Twitter, and has more graphic t-shirts than you. Follow her on Twitter @thejournalista or check her out at moniquejudge.com.
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