Age-Appropriate Anti-Racism Resources for 5-Year-Olds: Books, Scripts, and Small Daily Habits
Maya’s voice carried through the cereal aisle like she was announcing a fire drill.
“Mom? Why does that man have brown skin?”
I kept one hand on the oat milk box and turned around. A man in a gray jacket was reaching for granola, and he definitely heard her. My first instinct was to shush her, the way I might if she asked about someone’s body in a waiting room. But before I could, he looked over, smiled, and said, “Good question.”
I exhaled. “People have different amounts of melanin in their skin,” I said. “That’s what gives skin its color. His skin is brown, and yours is a lighter peachy shade.”
Maya considered this. “Like goldfish crackers?”
“Sort of,” I said, already losing her. The man laughed and went back to his shopping. Later, in the car, I thought about how close I had come to teaching her the wrong lesson: that noticing skin color is rude, that questions should be whispered, that this is something families do not talk about in daylight.
That night, I searched for anti-racism resources for a 5-year-old. The results were overwhelming. There were book lists by educators, Instagram graphics with long definitions, articles about “having the talk,” and products promising to raise kind children. Some of it was useful. Some of it made me feel like I needed a college syllabus before bedtime.
What I actually needed was smaller. I needed words I could say in the cereal aisle, books that would not confuse or scare her, and toys around the house that made the wider world feel normal.
I put four library books on hold. The first was The Colors of Us by Karen Katz, in which a mother and daughter walk through their neighborhood noticing all the different shades of brown skin around them. Maya immediately started comparing people’s skin to food—cinnamon, peanut butter, honey, pizza crust—which felt slightly absurd but also exactly how a 5-year-old thinks. I let her do it, then added, “People aren’t snacks, but it is true that skin comes in lots of beautiful shades.”
The book that made her pause was The Other Side by Jacqueline Woodson, illustrated by E.B. Lewis. It is about two girls, one Black and one white, who are separated by a fence that also represents segregation. Maya kept pointing at the fence.
“Why can’t they play?”
“A long time ago,” I said, “there were unfair rules that said Black people and white people couldn’t go to the same pools, schools, or restaurants.”
“Like a rule from a teacher?”
“From grown-ups who made laws,” I said. “And those rules were wrong. A lot of people, including kids, said that was not fair and worked to change them.”
She sat with that for maybe ten seconds. Then she asked if we could have strawberries.
That was when I started to understand the rhythm of this. At 5, children do not need one long serious conversation. They need short answers, repeated over time, tied to stories and ordinary life. They understand being left out, taking turns, and rules that feel unfair. They can learn that skin color is real and worth noticing, not something to pretend not to see.
A kindergarten teacher friend named Lila put it simply when I texted her for advice. “Keep it to three minutes,” she said. “Answer the question, use the real word if you can, and then let them go back to playing. If they have more questions, they’ll ask.”
She suggested phrases I now use regularly:
“Skin color comes from melanin, and families pass down their skin shades.”
“It’s okay to notice. You can use an inside voice because people’s bodies belong to them, but the question itself is not bad.”
“Sometimes people are treated unfairly because of their skin color. That is called racism. When that happens, we say it is not fair.”
The last sentence felt big the first time I said it. But Maya did not look frightened. She looked focused, the way she does when I explain why we look both ways before crossing the street.
I also changed what was around her. I bought a pack of multicultural construction paper and markers with shades named things like “almond,” “rose,” and “deep brown.” I did not make an announcement. I just put them in the art bin. Her drawings suddenly included more skin colors, even if many people were still purple or green.
I looked at her bookshelf, too. Most of her books featured animals, dinosaurs, or white children having adventures. I added Last Stop on Market Street, Saturday, and We’re Different, We’re Same—books where children of different races appear naturally, not only during lessons about hardship. I wanted her to see Black, Indigenous, Asian, and Latino characters going to the park, helping grandparents, riding buses, and being silly.
Not every resource worked. Antiracist Baby had bright, bold pictures, but some of the language felt abstract to Maya, so I paraphrased it: “We notice unfair things, and we use our words to say so.” A few books about the civil rights movement were too long or too frightening for bedtime. I returned them without guilt. A resource only works if a child can actually sit through it.
The real test came at the playground a few weeks later. A boy near the swings told another child, “You can’t play this because you’re brown.” I froze. Maya did not.
“That’s not fair,” she said. “She can be the dragon.”
The boy shrugged. The girl ran under the structure with them. I knelt down, my heart beating too fast, and said, “Everyone gets to play. If someone says you can’t because of skin color, that’s not okay.” None of them responded. They were already roaring.
Later, I wondered if I had said enough. Maybe I should have found the boy’s parent. Maybe I should have asked more questions. But I also saw Maya use a sentence she had practiced at home, simply and without drama. That felt like enough for that particular Tuesday.
We still have awkward moments. She sometimes repeats the same question about skin color because she is checking whether the answer stays the same. She occasionally says “brown like chocolate,” and I decide whether to let the comparison pass or gently offer another description. Some books lead to real conversation; others lead to nothing. I am slowly learning that is normal.
I do not think Maya understands racism as a large historical system. She is 5. She understands mean rules, being excluded, and whether the dragon gets a turn. That is the place to start.
Last night she drew a picture of our family with purple markers and told me everyone was an alien. Then she added, “Aliens can play at the park too, right?”
“Right,” I said.
“Even if their skin is purple?”
“Even then.”
She nodded and went back to coloring. I looked at the stack of library books on the table, some with due dates and bent corners, and thought about how none of them had fixed everything. They had just given us places to begin.
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