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On October 27 we celebrated a year since Micah Devon entered our lives. It's gone so fast and it has been such a blessing. When we took Micah home we knew there was going to be more to adjust to than waking up in the middle of the night and less freedom on Friday nights. We had agreed to a transracial adoption, and with the reality of race being a towering social construct here in the United States, we knew our lives would never be the same. We entered the journey trepidatiously and with our eyes wide open, having done lots of reading and having had frank discussions with African-American friends. We knew many would think it not quite right, but we were not deterred.

A year into this experience we have learned a lot. We have received all types of reactions to our family make-up from supporting to disapproval, and pretty much everything in between. And we know we, and Micah, have a long way to go on this journey, and likely the road isn't easy. But there has been something that has been gained that I believe portends hope.

In a number of small ways the experience of raising an African-American son has helped my racism. I admit it. I am racist. I think if everyone is honest this is a reality for everyone. We are all racist. Our society encourages us to place a lot of our individual identity on our skin color, and we are taught from an early age to differentiate ourselves from others with different skin colors. So, in spite of anti-racism training, living in a diverse neighborhood, and having been a minority for four years in Japan, I knew from before our adoption experience that I was racist.

My experience thus far with Micah has by no means eliminated my ability to see race. But it has given a new humanity to that viewing, in particular when relating to African-Americans. The example that hit the most home to convince me of this change took place last week watching Grey's Anatomy. The episode was about a boy facing the end of his life after two years of fighting a serious illness. His name was Wallace and his picture is at right. After a year of hugging, kissing, cuddling, and observing Micah, all I could think about was Micah in the same predicament, and tears wouldn't stop springing to my eyes. Couldn't see race, all I could see was my son, who've I've invested all my hopes and dreams in. In this way I related to an African-American in a way that would have not been possible had Micah not entered our lives, and had I not known him so intimately.

These personal steps forwards probably mean little overall in the debate about transracial adoption, and beyond that to our societal construct of race. And I am sure both myself, and Micah, will face many more difficult situations due to the irreversible course we set down just over a year ago (and I'll admit I have more responsibility for that course than he does). But I can't help to believe that these glimpses, where we truly see we are all one humanity (even for just the splittest of seconds), means hope for race relations, even if it is only one person/moment at a time.