My son Zane is black. His life matters.
I am a white gay man and so is my husband, Brian.
We will always question our cultural competence in raising a black son. Kwanzaa and Sidney Poitier films and rap music and "I Have a Dream" ringtones are not enough.
I grew up different from my parents, but because I grew up white, I will never understand growing up black.
But Zane was a difficult crack baby. There weren't any other foster parents, black/white, straight/gay, thin/thick who wanted him. The social worker said that he would probably end up in a group home. Brian and I take the long odds: babies with colostomies, and crippled dogs and unadoptable boys.