Looking for Anti-Racism Resources for a 5-Year-Old? Here’s What Actually Worked for Us
The question came at the playground, loud enough for the two moms beside me to look up from their phones.
“Mama,” my five-year-old said, squinting at the girl stacking rocks next to him, “why is her skin chocolate milk?”
I froze. The girl, Naomi, kept her eyes on the rocks in her hands. I pulled Milo onto my lap and said the first thing I could grab: “We don’t talk about people’s bodies, remember?”
He looked confused. “But why?”
“Because it’s not polite,” I said.
Naomi went back to her dad a minute later. Milo ate his goldfish crackers and seemed to forget the whole thing. I did not.
That night, I sat on the couch with my laptop and typed: anti-racism resources for a 5-year-old. The results were overwhelming. There were long lists of books, scripts for talking about police violence, infographics about systemic racism, and board books with words my kid would not understand. Some resources felt too small, like they only asked him to “be nice.” Others felt too heavy, like they expected a kindergartener to process fear and history before bedtime.
I texted a friend who teaches kindergarten. She wrote back: Five-year-olds notice everything. They sort crayons, animals, trucks, and people. They can handle simple facts. What they can’t handle is us acting like a normal question is dangerous.
That was the part I had gotten wrong at the playground. Milo had noticed a difference. I had answered with embarrassment. Shushing him did not make the topic disappear; it just taught him that skin color was something we did not talk about, even when the person was standing right there.
The next morning, I tried again while he ate toast.
“Remember when you asked about Naomi’s skin?” I said. “Skin color comes from something called melanin. Some people have more, some have less, and that helps make skin different shades. Families also come from different places. All of that is part of how people look.”
He considered this. “So Naomi has more melanin.”
“Yes,” I said. “And treating someone unfairly because of their skin color is called racism. That is never okay. Noticing skin color is okay, though. It’s just one thing about a person, like having curly hair or wearing glasses.”
“Can I have more melanin?” he asked.
“Your body makes the amount it makes,” I said. “You can’t order it like syrup.”
He laughed and went back to his toast.
I did not try to give him one big speech. Five-year-olds do not learn that way. They learn from thirty-second conversations, repeated over months. So I started changing small things around him instead.
I picked up a few picture books from the library and left them in the basket by the couch. The Colors of Us led to an afternoon of mixing paint in old yogurt lids. We named the colors on our arms: pinkish beige, golden brown, deep brown, tan with freckles. When he said Naomi looked like chocolate, I said, “She does have brown skin, but people aren’t food. We can just say brown, light brown, or dark brown.”
The Day You Begin gave him words for feeling left out or different. Let the Children March showed children walking together because unfair rules kept Black and white people apart. I simplified the page about jail and stopped when he started wiggling. The Name Jar started a conversation about how people’s names should be said the way they ask for them to be said.
I also checked out books where the characters were not learning about racism at all. In Jabari Jumps, a Black boy works up the courage to jump off a diving board. In Last Stop on Market Street, a boy and his grandmother ride the bus and notice the people around them. I wanted him to see many kinds of children as full people, not only as characters in a lesson.
At home, I bought a pack of skin-tone crayons and construction paper in several shades. I added a few wooden dolls with different hair and skin colors to the block bin. These changes mattered because kids notice what the world gives them. If every crayon labeled “skin color” is pinkish peach, that sends a message even when no adult says a word.
I also practiced what to say when comments happened in public. If he pointed and asked a question, I tried to answer calmly instead of hushing him.
“That’s right,” I might say. “Her skin is brown. People come in lots of shades.”
If he said something that could hurt someone, I got down on his level and said, “That comment might hurt because people aren’t snacks or colors to laugh at. Let’s use a person’s name or ask them about what they’re playing.”
Then I tried to move on. Long lectures make kids shut down, and five-year-olds usually need a repair, not a trial.
Some resources did not work. One popular book had great pictures but used words like “equity” and “justice” in ways that floated past him. Another led to hard questions about police and safety right before bed, so I returned it and waited. I learned to preview books the way I preview snacks: if it was too messy, too heavy, or likely to leave him with more questions than I could answer at seven o’clock, we tried something else.
A few weeks later, Naomi came over for a playdate. They sat on the porch with sidewalk chalk, and Milo held a brown crayon next to his hand and then hers.
“This one’s you,” he said. “This one’s me.”
Naomi nodded. “I need purple for your house.”
“Okay,” he said. “And I need green for the door.”
That was it. No lesson, no declaration. They argued over the chimney and asked for popsicles.
Later, after she left, Milo asked, “Why did people make those unfair signs in the book?”
I sat down on the step next to him. “Some people believed wrong things about skin color, and they made rules that were unfair. Lots of people, including kids, spoke up until the rules changed.”
“Did they win?” he asked.
“Some rules changed,” I said. “But people still have to keep paying attention and help when something is unfair.”
He picked up a chalk dinosaur and changed the subject.
I still get it wrong sometimes. Last week he asked a stranger about her hair in the grocery store, and I felt my face get hot. I answered more quickly than I needed to and probably sounded awkward. But I did not shush him. Later, at home, we talked about how hair can be personal and how you can say, “I like your hair,” if you are kind about it.
The book basket still sits by the couch. Some days he asks for the same story three nights in a row. Some days he only wants dinosaur books. I keep the crayons stocked, answer the question in front of me, and try not to turn every moment into a lesson.
I do not know what he will remember from this age. Maybe the paint colors. Maybe the book about marching children. Maybe only that Naomi is fast at bikes and makes excellent block roads. That is enough for now. The conversations will get longer as he gets older, and the questions will get harder. For a five-year-old, though, the best resources have not been the loudest ones. They have been the small, repeatable ones: accurate words, varied books, honest answers, and room to keep noticing.
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