I've written about this before (recall my kids' observations about the Freddie Gray unrest in Baltimore), but it bears repeating that one of the wonderful side effects of adopting an African-American baby is watching my other two children internalize the black experience in America as something that affects an immediate family member and therefore as something that is of direct relevance to their own lives. (It is, I admit, a bit of intentional subversion on Amy and my part that our entire extended family, who run the gamut of frequency of interaction with black folks, now have an African-American cousin/nephew/grandson in the fold.)
Asher has a lot of life to live yet, and Jada and Aaron also have a long road of maturation to go, but the early indicators are promising. I look forward to the 15-year-old version of Aaron chastising a friend's wayward racist remark, or the 20-year-old version of Jada attending a protest on campus not as a casual interloper but as someone who is truly invested, or the 25-year-old version of either of them not being that person who doesn't understand why their black friend has to take extra precautions when going out at night.
We all have a lot to learn and a lot of blind sports, prejudices, and flaws to overcome. That'll always be the case. But I wanted to take a moment to be thankful for what I'm seeing so far in Asher's big bro and big sis, because I am extremely proud of what I am seeing.