One day I want to be a mother. I want two girls and a boy, just like my mom. It’s scary to think about being in charge of a little life – showing a child how to have manners and treat people; having to take care of this child when s/he’s sick and discipline this child when s/he acts up. But I watched my parents do that my entire life, so I know I can figure it out like they did.
That’s not what I’m so scared of when I think about raising my future children.
I’m afraid of the pain I’ll feel when I have to look them in the eye and tell them they’ll be treated differently because of their beautiful brown skin.
I don’t know how to do that because I don’t remember when I learned that my skin – the only skin I’d ever known – would make people dislike me or not trust me or not want to be my friend.
I don’t remember when I knew that my skin’s darkness wasn’t the same kind of difference as red hair instead of brown or blue eyes instead of hazel.
I’m not sure how young is too young to tell my black boys that the police they’ve been taught to trust have been known to gun down black boys just like them.
I’m not sure how young is too young to tell my black girls that some people they encounter will expect them to drop out of school, have children out of wedlock, and amount to nothing but a burden on the government.
But with my uncertainty and fear is a bit of hope – that my children won’t have to learn these lessons the hard way as many times as me and my siblings did; that they will have even more non-black peers who have been taught that the racial prejudice in society should not be repeated in their friendships.
I have seen less racial prejudice than my parents did. While I know that I will have to teach my children about this prejudice, I am hopeful that they will have even fewer uncomfortable, disheartening encounters with racism than I have.
Black mothers today are rightfully fearful that their children will become the next Oscar Grant or Renisha McBride. I am fearful of becoming that worried mother. While I’m not so naïve as to think that we won’t see any more racial prejudice in 10 or 15 years, I am hopeful that my children won’t have so many Trayvons or Michaels in their generation.
That’s not what I’m so scared of when I think about raising my future children.
I’m afraid of the pain I’ll feel when I have to look them in the eye and tell them they’ll be treated differently because of their beautiful brown skin.
I don’t know how to do that because I don’t remember when I learned that my skin – the only skin I’d ever known – would make people dislike me or not trust me or not want to be my friend.
I don’t remember when I knew that my skin’s darkness wasn’t the same kind of difference as red hair instead of brown or blue eyes instead of hazel.
I’m not sure how young is too young to tell my black boys that the police they’ve been taught to trust have been known to gun down black boys just like them.
I’m not sure how young is too young to tell my black girls that some people they encounter will expect them to drop out of school, have children out of wedlock, and amount to nothing but a burden on the government.
But with my uncertainty and fear is a bit of hope – that my children won’t have to learn these lessons the hard way as many times as me and my siblings did; that they will have even more non-black peers who have been taught that the racial prejudice in society should not be repeated in their friendships.
I have seen less racial prejudice than my parents did. While I know that I will have to teach my children about this prejudice, I am hopeful that they will have even fewer uncomfortable, disheartening encounters with racism than I have.
Black mothers today are rightfully fearful that their children will become the next Oscar Grant or Renisha McBride. I am fearful of becoming that worried mother. While I’m not so naïve as to think that we won’t see any more racial prejudice in 10 or 15 years, I am hopeful that my children won’t have so many Trayvons or Michaels in their generation.