Molly McGrath Tierney

Labor Day weekend and it is unbearably hot in Baltimore. Being the last weekend the pool would be open, we drag ourselves out early so as to ensure we get lounge chairs in the shade. I watch as the object of my complete devotion – my 9-year-old daughter – dives repeatedly into the deep end. She soars in the air, arcs, moves with grace and confidence through the water, touches the bottom and pushes off to the surface. I am overwhelmed with some feeling I can’t name, ‘love’ being far too weak a word to capture it.

As early as 4 years old, we knew she was a water baby. She experimented with it incessantly as a preschooler. On trips to the ocean she stood at the shoreline singing and dancing and engaging the sea as if it were a sentient being with whom she shared a special language.

Then came the pool. The pool to which we belong dates back to 1959 and is among the first integrated pools in Baltimore. I am very proud to be members of an organization with this kind of legacy. I think the joy of a swimming in a pool alongside all manner of people will provide my daughter a life lesson that will serve her well.

Like most community pools, ours has a phenomenon to ensure safety: the dreaded “deep water” test. This is a quiz of sorts that children have to pass in order to gain the privilege of enjoying the entire pool – the deep water and the diving board. Typically, this test involves swimming a lap without touching the side and then treading water for 60 seconds. Those who pass get a bright rubber anklet that cues the lifeguards as to the child’s level of water access.

My child failed this test the first time she took it. And the second. And the third. She stepped up fully eight times, over weeks, before she succeeded. I left her to it, watching her persevere and believing it was best for her long-term sense of self to do this on her own. I also felt sure it was the best thing for pool safety in general. When she passed it was worthy of our celebration that evening. We are family who believes that things that come easy are nice, but hard-fought wins are the stuff of life.

That was years ago. This day I am enjoying a lazy morning in the shade watching my daughter frolic in the water.

Then a mother comes with her blond-haired white son, who looks to be about six years old, to attempt his first deep water test. The first thing I notice is that the mom gest into the water with her son without any objection from the lifeguard. This strikes me as odd because the deep-water tests presumes that the child is wanting to be in the pool without a parent by their side. The whole point is that the kid has to be able to keep himself safe in water over his head on his own. Next, the mother swims with the child on his lap, encouraging him and continually saying “no, don’t hold on to me”. He is barely maintaining his little head above water in his final 20 yards. Once he finishes his lap, he sits on the side of the pool for a while, resting and gathering his strength for the task of treading water. This also strikes me as unusual, since the point of treading is that they do it after the lap when they are tired. Finally, he begins to tread. Reaching for his mother, she persists in telling him to let go. He manages to last the requisite time.

As he dons his new anklet, I realized that lifeguard would neverhave given my child a pass if she had shown that level of ability.

The rules of engagement – in this instance the threshold for access to deep water – sound like they are universal. But in reality, my dark skinned, dreadlocked child is held to a different standard than white children. When she misses the mark, the world presumes the problem is her – that she is misbehaving, or not paying attention or simply not good enough. She had to work eight times as hard to get the level of access so easily awarded to that little white boy. When the mark was hard for him, the world assumed something was wrong with themark. And then they moved it.

The kids all race off for popsicles either way. And I get a glimpse behind the veil as to how, every day, we create a world where our children grow up to believe that some people are just better than others.

Molly Tierney is an adoptive parent who lives in Baltimore, MD.