<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Four years ago, when Quillin started kindergarten at the much-loved and -respected elementary school in our neighborhood, I was very happy about the ethnic mix in her classroom. Her teacher and a half dozen of the students were African American, another eight or so children were Spanish-speaking Latinos, and the rest were a mix of Caucasian,  Asian and European. Quillin's two favorite friends, right from the start, were Iulianna Tarista and Vanessa Cano, whose families were from Muldova and Mexico. Quillin's days were filled with interactions with Shamarios and Reynaldos and Blancas and Maliks, and as her parent, I was thrilled. Learning about "sameness" and "difference" is perhaps the most valuable lesson any child could learn in elementary school—particularly when those lessons involve people and not just geometric shapes.

I missed out on many of these experiences growing up in my 99 percent white small town. Luckily, I was raised without any understanding of prejudice, but I didn't have many chances to witness it, or to even be tempted to fall into that trap. I've always wanted a different experience for my girls.

Another reason I'm particularly anxious for my girls to have these experiences with different ethnicities and cultures is perhaps somewhat silly and superficial: they're very very blond and blue-eyed, and I worry about all the stereotypes and superiority complexes that often go along with that in our culture. In this college town, I cringe when I see whole sororities of girls walking around campus with matching shirts and matching blond hair. Could blond hair be a requirement to get in? The thought makes me shudder. I can't exactly dye my daughters' hair dark—and I want them to feel loved as exactly who they are, anyway—but I <span style="font-style: italic;">can</span> encourage accepting, open-minded attitudes (and I can, enthusiastically, buy the American Girl dolls of their choice, since they chose Josephina, the Mexican doll, and Kaya, the American Indian). 

When Quillin started first grade, we found out the school had decided to put the Spanish-speaking children in their own classrooms. Apparently, studies have shown these children have more success learning English <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> maintaining their bilingual status in this type of program, but all I could think was that the school was modeling segregation for our children. Sure enough, Quillin and the children she played with and loved in kindergarten became distanced, and eventually like strangers. The Spanish-speaking kids stuck together on the playground and in the lunchroom, speaking only Spanish unless an adult spoke to them in English. This arrangement even rippled out to the families, who no longer had reasons to interact. At choir concerts and school meetings, parents mostly stuck close to their own.

Three years passed like this. Then suddenly, at the start of this school year, there was a shake up. Quillin's third grade class from last year and the Spanish-speaking third graders were integrated and divided into two separate classes for fourth grade. Nearly every day for the first two weeks of school, I asked Quillin how the kids were getting along, and who played with who at recess. We talked about which of the kids from her kindergarten class were with her again now, then we pulled out some photos from that time, and talked about them.

On Tuesday evening I walked down to the school for a parent meeting with Quillin's teacher and the principal. When I walked into the room, the parents were all sitting in the kids chairs at the kids tables. Those whose kids had been in class together the last few years sat together...which naturally meant there were groupings of white adults and groupings of Latinos. No one wore name tags, and there were no introductions—organized by the teacher or informally between the parents. Instead, the teacher began talking about the new math curriculum and the new computer lab. She told us about changes in the field trip permission form policy and the volunteer screening policy (apparently we now have to be fingerprinted before we can even help the librarian shelve books). Parents asked thinly veiled questions about how the teacher was going to make sure the quick and smart kids weren't held back (which seemed pretty clearly to point out that the Spanish-speaking children might have a difficult time keeping up, so which kids would set the pace?).

Not one parent—or the teacher or the principal—spoke directly about this significant change in the classroom community. No one talked about why the change was made, or what was being done to facilitate it. I could only imagine two explanations: either people don't think that integrating these two groups of kids is that big of a deal, or the whole thing is being carefully stepped around, like an elephant in the room. Either take on the issue was exactly the opposite of what I want modeled for my children.

"I'm really excited that the Spanish-speaking kids are integrated back into the regular classroom," I said. "But what is being done to intentionally help them foster community with each other?" There was no intentional plan, I was told. It would just happen in time. Time my ass, I thought! Time can just as easily work to solidify negative patterns and habits. Just look what happens to so many marriages over time, when there's no sense of a vision and a deliberate way to get there. I felt helpless, so I threw food at the problem, as I so often do. "Maybe the families could all have a potluck together," I suggested. "I would be willing to help organize that."

Then, surprisingly, Sophie's mom ventured out on a limb of humility and humor. She asked the teacher if we could get definitions of math terms being used in the new curriculum, so we could actually help our kids with their math homework. "Maybe it's just me," she said, "but I don't always know what these problems even mean." "Like last night's assignment?" I asked. "That was crazy! I couldn't figure out what we were supposed to do!" Everyone began speaking up, laughing, agreeing. Vanessa's mom, Flor, nudged her husband Victor, smiling and raising her eyebrows at him.</span></span>

Here we were, a bunch of Spanish- and English-speaking adults, all struggling to figure out some silly fourth grade math problems. I suddenly could picture each of these parents the night before. I imagined them each in their own homes with their children. Maybe they were sitting at the kitchen table, where the good smells of dinner still lingered while another parent did the dishes or made lunches. Dusk was deepening outside as they sat in the glow of the light with their child, trying to get their minds around the homework assignment. At that moment, I finally saw our sameness  overshadowing our difference, and I realized these are exactly the kind of moments I hope our children are having each day.

<span style="font-weight: bold;">(Somos iguales y diferentes = We are the same and different.)</span>