Our beloved hiking path meanders through wetlands and ancient earthworks. Each time I see the towering mounds of soil winding through the marsh, I feel a wave of unease. “These hills were created by enslaved people,” I explain to my 6-year-old, Luke. “They were forced to work the land, and many suffered and died from hunger and diseases like malaria and yellow fever, which come from mosquito bites.” Luke absentmindedly scratches his legs. “A white man told them what to do,” he replies.
We could also visit the state capitol—constructed by the hands of enslaved workers, of course. Statues surround the building, including one dedicated to the Father of Gynecology, a title he earned by performing surgeries on his slaves without their consent. Other statues honor segregationists and slaveholders. I choose not to take my kids to the statehouse often; they only visited for the first time during flag protests. “Take it down,” we demanded, and we succeeded. “History, not hate,” shouted the opposition, brandishing Confederate flags.
“That’s the flag of slavery,” I tell Luke. “It represents those who fought to keep slavery alive.” He nods, visibly uncomfortable at the mention of slavery. He tends to cover his ears and plead for me to stop. He has ancestors who fought for the Confederacy, a fact he is unaware of for now.
As a white mother, I tread lightly. I strive to ensure my children cultivate friendships with diverse peers and read literature that exposes them to a variety of cultures. Language is another area I monitor closely.
Recently, we discussed the kids in my 4-year-old’s YMCA class. One child is black, and Luke remarked that he calls him “furry head.” I nearly choked on my sweet tea. “You can’t say that,” I explained. “It implies his hair is animal-like, and he is not an animal.”
“He didn’t mind,” Luke shrugged. But I envisioned that child sharing my son’s words with his mom, who would feel a pang of hurt. To counter this, we ventured to the library, borrowing books by authors like bell hooks and Dinah Johnson. We even engaged in a study about black hair unity. Here, in this state, my sons must learn to appreciate and respect black hair, not to blend into the crowd.
Racial issues aren’t the only area where I must be cautious. We’re Catholic, a minority in this region, where many don’t recognize us as Christians. As homeschoolers, we remain vigilant; well-meaning families might think they need to save my children from eternal damnation. I’ve encountered curriculum suggesting that Asian individuals are inbred and that the earth is only a few thousand years old, dismissing fossils as lies from the devil. We have to be careful about discussions, especially regarding our collection of prehistoric shark teeth and whom the kids befriend.
Even our secular homeschool group once spent an entire lesson referring to black individuals as “Negros.” Thankfully, we missed that class, preventing a scene I would have had to make. Confronting racism often requires uncomfortable dialogues, and doing so in South Carolina is no exception—you have to be prepared for anything.
The region is also known for its political conservatism. Just the other day, I was cut off by a car sporting a Donald Trump sticker, and I made the mistake of bringing it up. Luke asked who Donald Trump was. I had to explain his controversial politics, why some locals support him, and why I disagree. Now, at least, my son claims to favor Bernie Sanders, believing that everyone should have access to free healthcare. I didn’t mention how many people support Trump; it was too disheartening.
Subtle signs of local conservatism abound. Country clubs with waiting lists dominate the landscape, and we lack the right last names to join. Young girls sport Lilly Pulitzer outfits, while parks are dotted with nannies—often of a different race than the children they care for. Our sheriff has splurged on military tanks (as if he expects an uprising). When discussing Hispanics, locals often launch into rants about illegal immigration, and our favorite shops frequently close due to immigration raids.
Once people learn about our interests in fossils, our liberal politics, and our activism, they often distance themselves or seek out other moms to talk to. When I voiced my concerns about the “Negro” incident, I received puzzled reactions. “Maybe she wanted to preserve history during class,” one mother suggested. My sons, often dressed in casual attire without monograms or polos, don’t always fit the unspoken dress code, and I can sense the judgment from other moms. I have stopped wearing band T-shirts altogether.
This environment is rife with racism, poverty, conservative views, and evangelical beliefs. I must shield my young kids from many ideas I prefer they not encounter. However, we live in a beautiful area, half an hour from the mountains and the beach, complete with a fantastic children’s museum and a vibrant culture. We cherish our liberal friends, mostly met through attachment parenting and the university. Despite the chaos and the omnipresent Confederate flags, we love this place enough to stay, to advocate for change, and to teach our children the importance of empathy and understanding.
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