Written by Bonnie Glover

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It is bitterly cold outside with the wind roused and whipping at the legs of our boys. The sun has decided to peek in short moments through the heavy clouds and we, the parents, are huddled close together on the sidelines. We pace back and forth and offer encouragement to each other,

"You must have given Eric some Wheaties this morning."

"Wow, did you see that goal?"

There are smiles between the gusts of wind that cut our breath off and eventually high fives all around when our guys carry the day. We've had a so-so season and it's good that we have this win. A win sustains the spirit, keeps everyone motivated. This is travel soccer and it's easy to get fed up and discouraged. It's all about new places and towns every weekend, maps and getting lost.

The boys get in a huddle and before I know it, my youngest son has run onto the now empty field, run to his brother, to join him and be a part of their precious victory. The coach is finished speaking with our guys, telling them why they won and lauding each and every child for their efforts and fair play. They put their hands in together and suddenly there is a small commotion, the buzz of some jingle they've learned and then, loudly, "WESTFIELD BLUE."

Their hands lift and in the center, standing, not yet three feet tall, is my youngest boy. They have all had their hands on his head. He is their mascot they say. He brings them good luck. When they part, racing to parents, older and younger siblings, I am torn. Should I speak or not?

We, my sons, husband and I are African-American. We have only recently moved from the south after many years and the north is remote and strange to me still even though I did grow up in Brooklyn, New York. But Brooklyn is not a suburb and it is not Westfield - ghetto walkways are not the same as the quaint shops that line Broad Street. Certainly, the Duffield that used to grace downtown Brooklyn is no match for the Rialto, the small, neighborhood theater in the heart of town, where kids hold birthday parties and wait patiently for their turn at the few arcade games in the lobby. I am in a different world.

So here I am. The mother of two young boys who happen to be Black and I have a dilemma, I have baggage that I don't know how to deal with and controversy inside that eats at me when I stop to think of it. The problem is that I think of it often enough to give me heartburn and perhaps it's for me to say something. I imagine it might go like this:

"Uhm, Coach, you know, when you guys get in a huddle like that and put your hands on my baby's head and treat him like a mascot - well, that's insensitive -it's racist. It makes me think of slavery days. It makes me think of that song - "That Old Black Magic." I know you didn't know that - I'm assuming you must not have known that or you wouldn't let the kids do it."

A blank look will cross his face. He is a tall man with a shock of gray hair and kind eyes. He has never raised his voice at the kids - which is a feat that I feel qualifies him for some grand prize. Then he will be quick to apologize.

"I didn't know. I would never..."

At which point I will see the hurt and I will feel bad that he feels bad but that is what happens when we can't shed the baggage. And that is also what happens when we can't read intent.

I will not say anything to the coach - at least not now. Mainly because I have had some opportunity to interact with he and his family. They have picked my son up when I needed help getting him to a game. They have spoken to us and fellowshipped with us enough for me to know their intent. And I judge their intent to be harmless.

When I was a young girl I was an avid reader - just as both my sons are now. It was an incredible venue for me - I read and dreamed that there was more to life than the gray streets I walked everyday and the alcoholic that directed traffic on the corner of Sutter and Ashford in Brooklyn's East New York. Mostly I dreamed of having a safe place to live and sleeping without hearing the constant patter of mice in the walls.

I was in the fourth grade when I discovered "Huckleberry Finn." It was not an instant love. The first chapter or two I struggled. There was the question of Jim, the runaway slave and the fashion in which he was referred and the description. And there were the illustrations, showing a bug-eyed black man in tattered clothes. I remember closing the book, and then opening it again. I'd put it down and pick it back up.

I'm glad I struggled and finally glad that I continued to read. Later in life, I was to discover the author Mark Twain, and that his intent was not to hurt or to harm. It was to portray what life was really like on the Mississippi, to educate. I learned about his work, his accomplishments and I was able to put the book that I struggled with into perspective - to understand what can't always be voiced - what sometimes has to be seen and felt. I discovered the heart of a man through his writings and through what others had to say of him.

There were other writers whose work affected me deeply also. Some, like Edgar Rice Burroughs and Rudyard Kipling have not measured up - no explanation is necessary. They were the product of their times and could not move beyond the prevailing thought that one race was better than all of the others. Skills and talent notwithstanding, to my mind these men, these great writers were flawed. And later my heart was broken when I learned that Thomas Jefferson owned slaves and that Abraham Lincoln believed that Blacks were intellectually inferior to Whites. But despite their inner beliefs, these men still did good things. They still meted out some fairness and spoke noble words about equality.

Over the years I've had to gauge people - to study their ways, judge their intent in relation to my family and myself. Sometimes I've misjudged, sometimes I've been right. And the issues have been varied, not all have related to race. I've had to make employment decisions; I've had to make investment decisions. I've had to decide whether or not to trust my children to different day care providers. There have been a plethora of times when I've had to sit and think about individuals and what their intent was and how it manifested in their action or in-action.

So today I examine the actions of a soccer coach and I say that I know him well enough to know that there is no harm or disrespect intended. That if I spoke and told him about the small niggling, lingering baggage I have about touching my son's head - at this juncture it might do more harm than good. I make this decision, to remain quiet, based upon my instinct and again, based upon what I have seen of this man and our history together as parents. That doesn't mean I'll be silent forever. It just means that now is not the time; that I will pick the time and place to educate him about my perspective and that my words will be chosen carefully.

Everyday, we as human beings and as Americans are called upon to make decisions - judgments. We have to apply the information that we know to a given individual or scenario and then presto - change, shake it all up in a bag and there you go. An answer.

So, if it is a cold day in Westfield - and I am at a soccer match, and my son runs across the field and the team puts him in the middle - makes him their mascot and puts all of their hands on his head for good luck - and he becomes "That Old Black Magic" to them, I'll tolerate it. It's my baggage, not their intent. It's how I take it after review of the pertinent facts.

Afterward: I wrote this piece a number of years ago. Although both of my sons still play soccer, we are no longer in New Jersey. But still I find myself facing some of the same dilemmas - raising children in an ever-changing cultural environment. It's amazing how much our world has changed since I was a child. But I still find myself torn. Race does matter, very much, but, then again, so does intent. It is a balancing act that sometimes works well and sometimes does not. Perhaps this is all the essence of life and it is our job to figure out how to deal with situations as we progress. The journey has not been easy but I' glad to be on it!