Apprehension takes on a whole new meaning when you're raising a Black son in America.
I had planned to post another blog today. A pre-written one about the raw range of emotions one experiences the moment they find out they are expecting.
But it's after midnight...and I can't sleep. I'm sitting up, watching my beautiful Black son's chest rise and fall, and George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, and a countless list of other names that matter are swirling around my mind. The other post will have to wait. I must unburden this first.
"How the hell am I going to protect a Black child?"
Moment of honesty- one of the first emotions I felt when I saw that pink little cross appear on that pregnancy test was pure, unadulterated fear. I didn't immediately think about how my untethered, free-spirited life might change, or about endless nights, or incessant crying.
My initial, primal thought was- How the hell am I going to protect a Black child?" It's a rhetorical question, because- and if you're a someone raising a Black child, you already know this- you can't.
My mother (a nurse) and father (an Army veteran) are wonderful, educated, law-abiding citizens who instilled dual perspective, respect, manners, and a sense of compassion and duty to my community in my upbringing. I grew up in a loving home, with all of my needs and the vast majority of my wants met. They went above and beyond to love, encourage, and protect me.
But they couldn't protect me from being called a nigger by a neighborhood kid when I was seven. Or from the cop who pulled me and my best friend over immediately after I turned out of my neighborhood for a ride in my new car on my 16th birthday and threateningly told us he'd "be watching us, so we'd better behave" with his hand on his hip. Or from the customers who told me "all you niggers look the same, anyway" when I worked a summer as a waitress at Ruby Tuesday, and when I told my manager, she declined to say or do anything, then fired me when I confronted them myself. Or from another cop who stopped me late at night as I was on my way home- and I quote- "because I was driving in such a nice car on this street".
And knowing that I, in turn, will not be able to protect my son from discrimination, prejudice, and possibly worse is apprehension on a whole 'nother level.
When is the first time he'll be called that nasty, irredeemable word? How will I console him the first time he realizes someone doesn't like him simply because of the color of his skin? What do I say during "The Talk" about when he encounters police so that he is fully aware of the danger but doesn't lead a life of fear? What if I give ALL the warnings, and have ALL the talks...and he is taken from me anyway?
My son was named with intention. Justice is more than a name. It is an affirmation spoken over him every time I, or my partner, or his big sister, or his grandparents, or his village utter it. My desire- one that I'm sure mothers everywhere have for their children- is for him to be treated fairly, equally, and with respect.
I don't think that's much to ask.
And as he grows, and goes out into a society that continues to say his life matters (looking at you, #AllLivesMatter crowd), but shows otherwise- over, and over, AND OVER again, I will hope against hope that that affirmation manifests into protection for him. I will advocate for him. I will vote for people who recognize and work tirelessly to dismantle the systemic racism that is inherent in this country. I will enlist support from allies of all hues and backgrounds who aren't afraid to ADMIT THERE IS A PROBLEM, speak out, show up, get involved, educate themselves, and check their biases. I will sit at the feet of Black mothers who have gone before me and glean wisdom on how to prepare myself for the road ahead.
But I know that one day- despite his name or my desire- he'll have to stare racism right in the face. I will prepare him the best I can. I just hope he comes out the other side in one piece... and alive.
My son, Justice- who matters.
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