I look into these dark brown eyes and wonder “when does this sweet face turn into a dangerous face?”  At what point does  my sweet baby boy turn into someone who is feared?  At what point will those who comment on his manners or his personality start to view him with suspicion?  At what point does he stop being human and start being black?

These are hard questions.  There isn’t a manual on how to raise a child, much less a black male child (if there is, please leave a link in the comments).  We knew when we adopted our children that this would be something we would have to figure out.  To learn how to raise our son (and daughter–but that’s a different post) so he values who he is, but also knows what others may think he is.  He’s only 7 now, but these are conversations we have.  He has been acutely aware since an early age that he is different.  He asked me at 3 if the other kids are the part would think he was different because his skin was brown.  This is something he strives to process and understand.

He wishes he was white.  He does that at the age he is now because he wants to be just like his dad.  We work through that by pointing out all of the similarities the two have.  It makes Noah more comfortable with the differences if he realizes the similarities.  My 7-year-old can process that.  Why can’t others?

I am tired of hearing that things are better than they use to be as far as race is concerned.  Yes they are better.  I am not discounting that progress has been made.  But I call bullshit that the progress is enough. We can’t be complacent and treat it as if it isn’t a problem.  As if it isn’t something that erodes progress.  As if race doesn’t matter.  Because race matters.

We watched 42 last night and I cried.  I cried that Jackie Robinson had to endure what he did to prove the value of a black man.  I cried that Branch Rickey learned a lesson about not standing up and tried to do right.  I cried that Jackie Robinson would have waited until his teammates were done showering, so that he wouldn’t make them feel uncomfortable.  I cried because someday Noah will make someone nervous enough in a parking lot they will grip their mace and be ready to spray him.  I cried because someday Noah will make someone nervous in an elevator that they might not get off on their floor for fear of being followed.  I cried because someday Noah will go to pick up a girl for a date and her parents won’t let her go.  I cried because when Noah experiences these things, I won’t know what to say.  I won’t be able to understand how he feels.  I will be able to love him and listen.  I will know that just because I didn’t experience these things, they do exist.  I will allow him to give voice to how he feels.  I will love him.  I will listen.

That we live in a world where black men must be taught to be submissive to others for fear of their own life, makes me profoundly angry and sad.  That my son will stop being human and start being black is unfair.

My son will one day walk home on a dark rainy night.  I pray that someone offers him a ride instead of assuming he is up to no good.