Looking for Anti-Racism Resources for a 5-Year-Old? What Worked and What Didn’t
At the library last Tuesday, my daughter Lila, who is five, pointed to a girl on a book cover and asked in her outside voice, “Why is her skin that color?”
A woman nearby turned. I felt that familiar parent panic, the one that makes you want to shush and grab the nearest stack of dinosaur books. Instead, I knelt down and said, “Because people have different skin colors. Isn’t it interesting how many shades there are?”
She considered this. “But why?”
So I told her, in the simplest terms I could manage, about melanin and how families come from different places. She nodded, then asked if we could check out the book and also get fruit snacks. That was it. For her, the conversation was no bigger than why one block tower was taller than another.
For me, it opened something. That night, I searched for “anti-racism resources for 5-year-olds” and felt immediately overwhelmed. There were huge book lists, classroom guides, news articles, and scripts written in language I would never actually say to a kindergartener. Some resources made race sound like a topic only experts were allowed to discuss. Others seemed to assume a five-year-old should understand ideas I was still trying to work through myself.
I wanted something smaller. I wanted books and phrases that fit into bedtime, snack time, and trips to the playground.
Our librarian helped. She pulled a stack and said, “Preview everything. Some pages you read; some pages you skip.” That was probably the most useful advice I got.
We started with The Skin You Live In, which talks about skin in playful, concrete ways. Lila liked comparing her arm to the characters’ arms. I kept the skin-tone crayons and construction paper we already owned in her art bin, and sometimes I said, “Find the shade that looks most like you today.” It made difference ordinary instead of secret.
All Are Welcome was sweet, but after two readings Lila just said, “They all go to school together. Can I have crackers?” It showed diversity, but it did not really address unfairness. The Day You Begin worked better because it centers children who feel outside things. After the page about the girl who feels different, I asked, “How do you think she feels?” Lila said, “Alone.” Then she added, “I would play with her.”
That led to our first real definition. I said, “Sometimes people are left out or treated unfairly because of their skin color or where their family comes from. That’s called racism. When we notice it and try to make things fair, that’s anti-racism.” She repeated, “That’s mean.” I said, “Yes. And kids can help too.”
I learned quickly that five-year-olds understand fairness much better than they understand systems. They know what it means to be excluded from blocks, told they cannot be a certain character, or have someone say their hair looks “weird.” They do not need long explanations about inequality. They need words for what they see and small actions they can practice.
The harder lesson came at the park. Lila was playing princesses with two girls when one of them pointed to Zara, a girl with brown skin and braided hair, and said, “You can’t be Elsa. You’re brown.”
Nobody moved. I wanted to march over and give a speech, but I tried to keep my voice ordinary. I knelt down and said, “In this game, Elsa can be anyone. Zara, would you like to be Elsa?”
The first girl said, “But Elsa has blonde hair.”
“Hair can be any color in pretend play,” I said. “Let’s ask who wants which part.”
Zara chose Elsa. Lila chose Anna. The other girl decided she was the “castle cat,” and the game continued. Later, in the car, I said to Lila, “That comment at the park was unfair. If that happens again, you can say, ‘She can play,’ or come get a grown-up. You don’t have to fix the whole thing.”
She was quiet for a minute. “I felt shy,” she said.
“Me too,” I told her. “Getting help is still helping.”
That moment changed how I chose resources. I stopped looking for one perfect book and started looking for things that gave her practice. Let the Children March was longer, so I summarized parts instead of reading every word. I explained that there used to be laws saying Black children could not go to the same schools, drink from the same water fountains, or sit in certain places. She looked horrified.
“Because they were brown?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “And that was wrong. Kids and grown-ups marched together to change those laws.”
She asked, “Do mean laws still happen?”
I said, “Some unfair things still happen, and people are still working to make them better.”
She grabbed her stuffed rabbit and marched around the living room. I let her. The book did not make her sad for long; it gave her a way to act.
We also tried Antiracist Baby, which is short and bold. Some of the wording felt too advanced, but I did not force every page. I used the parts that fit, like the idea that anti-racism means noticing unfairness and saying so. A five-year-old does not need a polished political vocabulary. They need to know that questions are allowed, differences are real, and kindness includes inviting someone in.
Now I keep these books in the regular bedtime pile, not on a special shelf. Sometimes Lila chooses one; sometimes she chooses a book about trucks. I also look for ordinary ways to keep the conversation present: diverse dolls and sticker books, posters showing different families, shows where characters speak more than one language. These changes do not feel like lessons. They just make her world look more like the world.
When she asks a loud question in public, I try not to shush her. I answer briefly and calmly: “That’s a good question. People have different skin colors because of melanin and family history.” If she asks whether something is unfair, I name it: “Yes, that sounds unfair.” Then I ask, “What could we do?”
The scripts are simple. “Want to play?” “That’s not fair.” “Let’s get a teacher.” “You can sit with us.” She does not have to argue or understand everything. At five, standing up for someone often means sharing a crayon, choosing a partner, or finding an adult.
I still feel uncertain sometimes. Last week she described a new classmate as “talking funny.” I corrected her gently: “He’s learning English, so listening might feel hard for him right now. Maybe you can say his name and show him where the crayons go.” The next day she reported that he had played with dinosaurs. I do not know if she understood the larger point, but she understood that he belonged in the room.
Some nights the books lead to deep questions. Other nights she interrupts to ask why dogs sniff everything. I have stopped expecting each conversation to end neatly. The books and videos are useful, but the real resource seems to be the repeated, ordinary willingness to answer, correct, and try again.
Last night she picked The Day You Begin again. When we finished, she said, “If someone is alone, I can say hello.” Then she asked for a snack. That feels like enough for now. Tomorrow, we will probably practice it again.
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