"Aidan, bubba, can you help me with something? I need your help making a card for someone. His name was George, just like you.” 

For some unknown reason, my son has nicknamed himself George for the last six months and when we introduce him to new people, back when we were meeting new people in person, he'd yell, "I’m not Aidan, I'm George!"

“Otay,” he said. Okay. 

He climbed up the barstool to the counter, reached for the markers and plain sheets of white paper, and began scrawling out random letters, R-R-P-P-I-T,  as I talked. 

"Aidan, I want to tell you about a man named George. He is black, like our friend's Jackson and Selina. He has skin that is darker than Dada's. The police hurt him because of his dark skin and he died." I said, probably too nonchalantly, trying to strike a serious tone without terrifying him. 

"But how did they kill him?" he asked, turning his face to mine, looking up from his alphabet handiwork. 

I cupped his cheeks in my hands, stared into his face and tried to imagine what a stranger would see. With one look at his almond, dark brown eyes, lashes thick like eyeliner, would they automatically peg him as Asian or Filipino? Or just ambiguously “ethnic?” Or would they see his creamy skin and think white only? Would they see both stories at once? Would they know his rich, brown eyes are darker even than his Filipino father's, but his medium brown hair more closely matches that of my very white brother? I see a boy who is handsome beyond measure. God's perfect mix of chromosomes and features. I see a boy who is not white or Filipino, or mixed, I just see Aidan. 

Is that how George Floyd's mama felt? Like me, was she unable to see what the world sees, holding only to a mother's love. Or is that a luxury only reserved for mothers of white, or half white children? 

Was she forced early on to see her son the way the world would see him in order to protect him? What decisions did she make differently because of his skin color? 

Did she grieve the way the world saw him, categorized him, feared him because of God’s perfect mix of chromosomes and features? 

I dropped my hands from Aidan’s innocent face and remembered the task I had set out to do. 

"Well," I took a breath. "They held their knee down on his neck and he couldn't breathe. Basically, they smooshed him." I said, knowing the word “smooshed” was all wrong and yet felt it was a verb he would understand. He knows what happens when you smoosh play doh or macaroni and cheese between your fingers. 

I looked toward the office where my husband was working from home, wondering how the conversation would sound to a fly on the wall. How am I having this conversation with a 3 and a half year old?

"But why did they smoosh him?" he implored again. 

"I'm not exactly sure. I think the policeman was very mad or hurt or scared and wanted to hurt him. I don’t know why it happened, but we are very sad about this and we don't think it's okay. Would you like to help me make a card for his family? To tell them that we remember George and that we are sad too?"

"Otay," he said. 

"Can I teach you how to spell George?"

"Otay," he said. 

I don't know what I expected. If I thought he would cry or lash out, “That's not fair.”

But I carefully wrote out G-E-O-R-G-E across the top of a piece of paper as Aidan watched intently. 

"G-E-O-R-G-E, that spells George." I said. 

"Why does he have two G's?" Aidan asked.  

"He has two G sounds so he needs two Gs," I replied. "Can you write George on the here and we'll put it with the card?" I pointed below my ALL CAPS writing. I still hadn’t formulated my own message to the family. 

"Otay," he said again and picked up a highlighter and started making the letters, clutching the pen in his fist like many toddlers do. He wrote out the letters, one by one. They slanted up and then down, then up again, but he spelled out every letter. 

“What are you drawing now?” I asked as he picked up a new marker. 

“Flowers,” he said. 

“I think that is a great idea.” 

***

I’m still not sure I did it right. I’m not sure there’s a “right” way to have this conversation. If Aidan is, in fact, too young. If I should have let myself cry. But I know Aidan will grow up hearing about George Floyd; I wanted him to hear it first from me. I want him to know I will not shy away from these conversations, even if I fumble them. He is not too young for empathy. He is not too young to learn that racism exists and that it is not okay. He is not too young to draw some flowers to brighten a stranger’s day.