Dear Justin,

I am sorry it took the shooting of Trayvon Martin for me to understand what you said all those years ago.  I am sorry I didn’t see your wisdom of experience.  I was too naive to understand.  I was too stuck in my own world of white privilege to really hear you.  And for that I am sorry.  You asked a question that seemed absurd to me in 2006, before I brought my Ethiopian son home.  We were in class and I remember the moment vividly.  I was telling the class about our impending adoption of a child from Ethiopia.  We had just received our referral and knew we were going to have a son.

The class was asking questions and then you asked me “who is going to teach him how to be black.”  At that moment, that questions seemed ridiculous.  I turned it into a  teachable moment, to discuss what it really meant to be black (ridiculously, white–I understand that now).  I challenged you in your question.  I talked about how my son’s world would be one of middle class suburbia and private schools.  Just thinking back on this moment, I am filled with shame.  I thought I was your ally.  I thought I understood what your live was like to some extent.  But I looked at your life through my own lens of privilege.

I was naive to think that my privilege would somehow make my son’s skin color less noticeable.  That some how the fact that we are upper-middle class affords him the ability to be both black and privileged.

I was so wrong.  I wish I had really heard your question.  I wish I had listened instead of trying to teach from my perch of privilege.  How foolish I was.  How naive I was.  How wrong I was.  How sorry I am that I trivialized your experience and what it means to be black.  That it even meant something at all to be black. I could have learned so much.

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I spent  years working in urban schools with a majority black student population, before I left teaching in 2006 to stay home.  I was “enlightened.”  I will admit I uttered the words “I don’t see color, I see students.”  I can also now admit that that statement is an utter lie.  Of course, I saw skin color; the color just didn’t matter to me.  And it should matter.  But I can’t live with my head in the sand and pretend it doesn’t matter.  Because now, as the mother of two black children, it matters immensely.

It mattered when he was three and we were walking to the park in our 95% white neighborhood and he asked “mom will the other kids think I am different because my skin is brown?”  It mattered when he was watching a play at a community theater with a group of friends –who were all white–and he was the only one told to be quiet for talking.  It will matter when he asks a white girl out and her parents forbid it.  It will matter when he forgets his house key and climbs through the front window.  It will matter.

The death of Trayvon Martin is a tragedy.  He should still be alive.  His parents should still have him to scold, guide and love.  The death of Trayvon Martin is a wake-up call.  The murder of Trayvon Martin has shaken me to the core.  Trayvon is my son.  My son is too young to know what happened to Trayvon.  He is only 5.  But he can see injustice in being singled out to be quiet when it other friends are doing the same thing he is.

I’ll never understand what it is like to be black.  But I have to mine all the information I can, so that my son can know what it means to be black in our bigoted and prejudicial society.  How to be black in a world that will look at him in his teen and young-adult years and see danger and suspicion.

Jesse Washington wrote:

As I explained it, the Code goes like this:

Always pay close attention to your surroundings, son, especially if you are in an affluent neighborhood where black folks are few. Understand that even though you are not a criminal, some people might assume you are, especially if you are wearing certain clothes.

Never argue with police, but protect your dignity and take pride in humility. When confronted by someone with a badge or a gun, do not flee, fight, or put your hands anywhere other than up.

Please don’t assume, son, that all white people view you as a threat. America is better than that. Suspicion and bitterness can imprison you. But as a black male, you must go above and beyond to show strangers what type of person you really are.

It is my responsibility as a white parent of two black children, to teach them what their skin color means and how it might effect their lives.  I have to push aside my privilege and really look at what happens in our world. I have to admit that my privilege does not transfer to my children.

I am so sorry that it took another mother losing a child for me to fully understand that question Justin asked nearly 6 years ago.  I have an answer now–Who is going to teach my son to be black?  Well, I have to.  I. Have. To.  I have saved nearly every piece of writing on Trayvon Martin, by those of color who articulate, however painful it might be, what it means to be a black man in America.  It might be my most important role. It might help my son navigate the world.