How I found anti-racism resources that actually work for my 5-year-old
The first time my daughter noticed skin color out loud, we were sitting on the bathroom floor, and she was trying to match a crayon to her own arm. She held up a peach-colored crayon, then a brown one, then looked at my hand. “Your skin is kind of pink, Mama,” she said. “Mine is brown. But we both have knuckles.” She was delighted by that fact. I was not ready.
I mumbled something like, “Yes, we have different melanin, isn’t that neat?” She shrugged and went back to drawing. But I felt the weight of the moment. I knew I wanted to raise her with an honest understanding of race and fairness, but the resources I found online were either too heavy, too abstract, or aimed at kids twice her age. Every list of “anti-racist books for children” seemed to assume a reader who could grasp redlining and implicit bias. My daughter just wanted to know why the neighbor’s skin was “like chocolate” and whether she could have a friend with “hair that bounces.”
The search for something age-appropriate turned into a long, humbling experiment. I checked out a stack of picture books from the library one weekend. The first one we opened together was The Colors of Us by Karen Katz. It follows a little girl whose mom takes her through their neighborhood, showing her all the different brown skin tones—cinnamon, peanut butter, chocolate, honey. My daughter loved the food comparisons and immediately wanted to name her own skin tone. She decided she was “toast with a little butter.” That book worked because it didn’t try to explain racism. It just gave her permission to see color and celebrate it.
But I quickly learned that celebration alone isn’t enough. One afternoon we read Sulwe by Lupita Nyong’o, which is about a girl with very dark skin who feels she’s not beautiful. My daughter understood that Sulwe felt sad because people said mean things about her looks. She asked, “Why would anyone say that? Her skin is pretty like night time.” That was a small opening. Instead of launching into a historical lecture, I said, “Some people think lighter skin is better, but that’s wrong. Lots of people used to believe that, and some still do. But it’s not true.” She nodded and asked for a snack. That was enough for her. I had to keep my explanations under a minute, it turned out. Any longer and I lost her.
The real turning point was less about books and more about how I handled everyday moments. At the playground one day, a little boy pointed at her hair and asked, “Why is it so puffy?” My daughter looked confused, not offended. Before I could swoop in, the boy’s mom said, “That’s just the way her hair grows. Isn’t it cool?” And they went off to slide. I realized then that calming my own discomfort mattered as much as having the right resources. Kids ask about physical differences the way they ask about the moon or why trucks are so loud. They want a simple, true answer. My daughter didn’t need me to turn it into a teachable moment every time. She needed me to say, “People look different. That’s okay. We can ask questions kindly, but we don’t touch without permission.”
That realization led me to the most practical approach I found. Instead of scouring for the perfect anti-racism curriculum, I started doing three things that are low-friction and fit into our normal routine.
The first is stocking our bookshelf and play space with diverse faces and stories, not as a one-time purchase but as an ongoing default. We have books like All Are Welcome and Hair Love, but also board books with kids from different backgrounds where race isn’t the plot. My daughter draws families with different skin colors and doesn’t think twice about it. She has dolls with curly hair, straight hair, and no hair. When she asks why a character looks different from her, I just answer directly. “She has dark skin, like our friend Ms. Rosa.” Or “His eyes are shaped like his grandma’s.” Simple observation, no drama.
The second is naming unfairness when it shows up, even in small ways. In her favorite picture book about a caterpillar, we talked about how the young bugs got bigger pieces of leaves while the old ones got smaller. She said, “That’s not fair.” I agreed. Then I said, “Sometimes people have rules that are unfair too, because of skin color or where they’re born. We can say it’s not fair and try to fix it.” She didn’t fully get it, but the seed was there. This works better than any forced conversation because it’s embedded in stories she already cares about. When she fights with her cousin about a toy, I can say, “You’re upset because it feels unfair. People have felt that way about bigger things for a long time.” She gets the feeling, even if the history is too big.
The third thing is letting her see me listen and learn. I told her once, “I’m reading a book about how to be a better person, and it talks about race. Sometimes I learn new things.” She asked, “Do you have to read it twice?” I said yes. She laughed. That may be the most honest anti-racist lesson I can give her at this age—that her mama is still figuring things out and doesn’t have all the answers.
There were resources that didn’t work. A video I found on YouTube about “diversity and inclusion” was too animated and confusing. A workbook about “activism” made her ask if we were going to march in a parade (which, to be fair, she was excited about, but mostly for the snacks). I learned to skip anything that uses the word “systemic” around a five-year-old. And I stopped forcing conversations about race when she was tired or hungry. If she doesn’t bring it up, sometimes we just let the book or the doll or the playground do the talking.
Now, at nearly six, she has started noticing more. She’ll say, “That man has darker skin than me. He looks like my favorite crayon.” Sometimes that’s all. Other times she’ll ask, “Why is that lady wearing a scarf on her head?” I answer, “Some people wear that for their religion. It’s like a special symbol.” She’ll say “oh” and move on. I’m not always sure I’ve used the right words. I worry that I’m either saying too much or not enough.
But I’ve given up on the idea that there’s a perfect resource that will do this work for me. Books help. Toys help. Honest answers help. What helps most is being present for the messy, unpredictable questions and not running from my own discomfort. The other day, she looked at her reflection and said, “I’m glad I’m brown.” I asked why. She said, “Because then I look like a cookie.” That’s not a lesson I planned. It just happened, the way most of this does. I’m learning to trust that unfolding, one crayon at a time.
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