Picture this: it’s a warm, sunny day at the park. Kids are running around, laughing, just being kids. Then you notice a little boy, maybe 3 or 4 years old, pick up a toy that isn’t his. Just a typical, innocent mix-up that happens a hundred times on playgrounds every day.
Reminds me of something that happened at the dentist’s office not long ago. I was there with my own kids, and two little ones nearby were getting a bit rowdy. Their mums looked exhausted. So I gently stepped in and said, “Hey buddies, let’s not climb on that, okay?” Just a kind redirect. One of the mums gave me a tired but grateful smile. No tension, no fuss. Just one adult helping another.
That’s why what happened in Minnesota hit me so hard. You’ve probably seen the video by now, the one where a woman absolutely lost it on a little boy for picking up her child’s toy. The way she reacted? You’d think the kid robbed a bank, not touched a toy.
Now let’s be real, we all have our off days. I’ve had moments where I snapped more than I’d like to admit. But this wasn’t just a bad mood. It was something else entirely.
The video went viral, and what followed was jaw-dropping. Instead of everyone agreeing that using a racial slur on a toddler was beyond unacceptable, the internet split. One side condemned her behaviour. The other? They called her a hero for “protecting her child.” And then came the part that made me speechless: supporters raised over $700,000 for her through GiveSendGo. That’s right, people rewarded her racist outburst with nearly a million dollars.
It didn’t end there. One of her supporters appeared on a podcast and flat-out said, “Call me racist, I don’t care.” No shame, no hesitation. It wasn’t said in some quiet corner, it was broadcast proudly, like it was something to be proud of.
As someone who writes about migration and cultural identity, I couldn’t help but see this for what it was, not just an overreaction at the park, but a mirror held up to deeper issues. For many immigrant families, it was a chilling reminder of how quickly a normal, everyday space can turn hostile.
I think about the parents raising kids across cultures, across languages, across skin tones. How do you explain to your child that picking up the wrong toy might get them yelled at, not gently corrected, but screamed at and called a word loaded with centuries of hate?
That’s the extra weight so many families carry. The early conversations about racism. The constant reminders to “be careful,” “stay close,” “don’t draw too much attention.”
And I keep wondering, what if the woman had just said, “Hey buddy, that’s not yours, but maybe you can play with it later,” or even just, “Can you give that back, please?” A little grace, a little humanity. That’s all it would’ve taken.
Situations like these show who we are when no one’s watching, or when we think only people who agree with us are watching.
The truth is, what happened at that playground didn’t start there. It’s rooted in history, in systems, in attitudes that have been passed down for generations. But if there’s any hope for change, it has to start in the everyday; in parks, schools, checkout lines, on the train, sidewalks and all the places we experience daily. That’s where culture is built. That’s where inclusion or exclusion is felt most deeply.
For anyone who believes in building a better, more welcoming world, this wasn’t just a sad story, it was a wake-up call. It reminded us that inclusion isn’t just about laws or slogans. It’s about how we treat each other.
And I keep thinking about that boy. What did he walk away with that day? Did he learn that he was wrong for touching a toy? Or did he learn something heavier, that his skin colour could get him publicly humiliated?
Or maybe, hopefully, he also saw the people who spoke up. Who said, “This isn’t okay.” Who reminded the world that dignity shouldn’t depend on race.
A playground should be just that, a place to play, to be a child. Not a place where a child is made to feel less than.
We have to do better. And we can.
