Recently, I came across a post that struck me to my core, evoking a wave of anxiety and sorrow. As a mother of a tall, black boy, I have no choice but to face uncomfortable truths. The harsh reality is that my son, regardless of his kindness, respectfulness, education, or the love he shows, is not truly safe in this society.
At seven years old—well, almost seven and a half according to him—my son was born on Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday. We welcomed him home from the hospital with a promise to love and nurture him unconditionally. Six months later, we finalized his adoption, making him the third black child in our family. Our family grew again with the adoption of his younger sister four years later. My husband and I are white, while our four children are black, making us a large multiracial, adoptive family.
Adopting my son opened my eyes even wider. Although we had experience raising two black daughters, we started noticing the differences in how strangers interacted with our children as they grew. When our daughters were toddlers, they received lots of compliments, but upon reaching preschool age, we observed a shift. Some would stereotype them, suggesting they liked hip hop or labeling them “sassy.” Others would attempt to touch their hair, a common microaggression.
However, with our son, the shift happened much quicker. From being called “handsome,” he was quickly labeled as “thug.” Even as a toddler, if there was any commotion among children at places like the park, white parents would often pull their kids away from him or watch him with suspicion, regardless of the context. I noticed the whispers and wary glances directed at my son, who, at that age, was simply a joyful, affectionate child.
A particular incident solidified my understanding of what it means to raise a black boy in a fearful society. While out with my son one day, a woman I knew exclaimed how much he had grown. I responded positively, only for her to whimsically call him a “cute little thug.” This comment echoed in my mind, especially just months after the tragic killing of a black teenager, Michael Brown, by a white police officer in nearby Ferguson, Missouri.
A few days later, I turned on the TV to show my kids a cartoon, only to be met with news coverage of the same tragic event. My heart sank when my oldest asked, “Who is that, Mommy?” I struggled to explain that he was a boy who was supposed to be preparing for college. How could I convey to my children that the world often sees them as less than, simply due to the color of their skin?
My husband and I take our responsibility as transracial adoptive parents seriously. We’ve made mistakes but remain committed to learning. Our children have role models in their lives, including mentors and friends who reflect their racial identity. We lean on our community to help guide us as we navigate conversations about the racism our children will inevitably encounter.
We discuss essential safety rules with our kids, particularly our son, regarding encounters with law enforcement, shopping in stores, and being in public spaces. These include simple yet crucial guidelines: no hoods up, no running, and always keeping hands visible. Even in our own yard, my children are not permitted to play with toy guns. It is heartbreaking to explain these rules, but I understand the necessity behind them.
During a recent parent-teacher conference for my son, I was taken aback when his teacher asked if he had been born addicted to drugs. The ignorance in her question reflected harmful stereotypes about black children and their families. What assumptions had she made about my son during their time together?
I often find it hard to completely trust white people because their beliefs can be unpredictable. Just because someone is pleasant to my son doesn’t mean they understand his experience or the struggles he faces. Many people mistake mere tolerance for non-racism, but I see through that illusion.
Before the pandemic, while at a nearby park, I watched my son and other boys play. The only white child in the group was suddenly called down by his father, who had previously been engrossed in his phone. There was no sign of danger among the boys; in fact, they were simply enjoying their time together. Yet, the father’s reaction indicated a fear rooted in racial biases.
When I heard about the tragic death of Ahmaud Arbery, it broke my heart, yet I was not surprised. The treatment of black males, even when they are simply going about their daily lives, often leads to wrongful assumptions of criminality. This narrative permeates society, leaving little room for black boys like my son to grow up freely.
Media portrayals, biased policies, and societal conditioning have perpetuated a harmful view of black men. This reality is devastating because it robs boys of their childhood and joy. The privilege I possess cannot shield my son from these harsh truths. As he matures, he will embark on journeys without me, and while I’m proud to be his mother, I recognize that my experiences differ from his. We are grateful for the people who support our family and help us prepare him to navigate a world that may not always embrace him. Thus, we have the important conversations about safety, and we will continue to do so, because my son deserves the opportunity to grow and discover his path.
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In summary, the societal risks faced by black boys require awareness and action from all parents. Creating safe spaces and preparing our children for the realities of racism is essential in fostering their growth and happiness.
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