A guest post by Alison Grizzle.
As I reflect on the last few days after the George Floyd murder, I don’t know where to start.
So, here I am. I am a White woman of privilege living in Birmingham, Alabama. And, these days, I find it a struggle to speak on issues of race because I just can’t find my voice or my place in the conversation. To be honest, I am scared.
See, I am a White woman married to a White man, and we are raising our beautiful bi-racial son, Lucas. We brought him home from the hospital when he was 2 days old, and he is our pride and joy. He is our everything. He is almost six years old.
He is financially privileged: he lives in a nice house, goes to a great pre-school, has traveled to 10 states, has eaten at great restaurants, has a college account and a savings account, and the list goes on… But, as he gets older, strangers will see him as a Black male, and I don’t know what that means for him. I can prepare him for the world in so many ways, but I do not always feel equipped to prepare him for what it means to be a Black male in society.
When we walk as a family, I feel safe. When he walks down our street where he knows all of the neighbors, I feel completely comfortable. And, I think I will always feel okay when he is on our cul-de-sac. The little girls down the street have been hiding beads for him in their yard, and he loves those girls, and he loves to go find treasures. See, in the midst of the death, the riots, the tear gas, we are still in a global pandemic that is disproportionately impacting the Black community. But, I need not digress. Because This is about raising a Black boy in America.
See, I struggle to know how I will feel in a few years when he wants to walk further. I have wondered – Should I take him to the police station and introduce him? Should I let everyone know that he belongs in the neighborhood? Do I need to make sure that everyone on the given route knows that he belongs to me?
As a family, we love to hike in the woods, and we love to travel. But, as he gets older, I am not sure that I would ever allow him to hike alone. A few weeks ago, we camped in Bankhead National Forest. In the morning, a group of White teenagers passed us with their packs. At that moment, I realized that I am not sure I would allow Luke to camp alone in the woods with his friends of color. And, I realized that if he were White, I would have no concern beyond copperheads and rattlesnakes. But, I have much more fear of a scared White female than a rattlesnake. If he went camping, would I feel the need to call a ranger or the local precinct and let them know? Would I hike in with my own pack and camp nearby like a crazy, jealous girlfriend?
The truth is, I couldn’t even figure out how to fill out the school paperwork. At least it has evolved to let me choose more than one race. But, it asked for his “primary race” and his secondary race. I chose his primary race to be African American because I believe that as a bi-racial boy, he will be associated with “non-White.” But, as a boy whose biological mother was White and father was Black, I didn’t know which race was considered to be primary.
And, it is hard for me to even talk about school. I have seen the data; I know what happens to boys of color in the public-school system. I know that very well-meaning teachers don’t understand their own biases. I know that Lucas can have the same behavior as the blonde hair, blue-eyed boy sitting next to him, and it will be interpreted differently. See, I worry. Over the years, he has picked up a few curse words, and I realize that if he curses, people will assume it is because he is Black, not because his mommy has a potty mouth. But trust me, it all came from me and my carelessness. I worry because I have seen many well-meaning educators post “I don’t see color” in response to recent events. But, this doesn’t work. If you don’t see color, you will not see my son; you will not empathize with his struggles. How can you fix a problem that you don’t see? I pray that his teacher “sees” him. I pray his teacher embraces him. I pray that she sees color. I pray that she knows that his color does not define his choices, his intelligence, his abilities.
The other morning when I went into his room to kiss him goodbye, he randomly fell out of the bed, his naked brown body laid on the floor. As he laid on the floor, I imagined someone stepping on his neck. I imagined if he couldn’t breathe. I scooped him up and held him in my arms like he was a 6-month old baby. I held him tight. I made sure he was okay. I tucked him in again and reminded him that we would be headed to the mountains for vacation in a few hours. But, what the Hell? Why should I have to imagine someone killing my son?
And here is where everything breaks down for me and gets more complicated:
I have a hard time writing this blog because I know that mothers of color experience all of this on a much deeper level. I still get to walk around and don’t have to worry about people making judgments based on my skin color. So, here is where this leaves me: I can’t talk to White mothers because they don’t understand and think that I am exaggerating. I can’t talk to Black mothers because their experiences are so much harder than mine.
I have a hard time discussing race and its implications with my son. I tan very easily in the summer and have a darker pigment. Right now, in his eyes, he and I appear to have the same color skin. He talks about how we are both “brown”. But, I don’t know what to say. I fear that if I say “yes” then I don’t honor what will soon be his experience. I fear that if I say “yes” I don’t honor the history of his ancestors. I fear that if I say “yes”, I don’t honor the experiences of all of the women of color who happen to be defined by society as “light-skinned.” But on the other hand, I fear that if I say “no” and try to explain that his skin is different than mine, he will feel like I am not wanting him to belong. I fear that if I say “no”, it will give him an idea that I think my skin is better than his.
One day he told me he wanted to drink milk so he could be White like mommy and daddy. I immediately told him that he was a beautiful Brown boy, and I loved him much. I then cried for hours. I called many of my friends of color to advise me. I then ordered over $200 of books with Brown and Black characters. I wanted him to see himself in his books since he wasn’t seeing himself in his parents.
I worry that his friends of color will think he is “too White”. I worry that his White friends will think he is “too Black”. I worry that his heart will break. I worry that society will try to break his spirit.
I worry that he will be confused when the first White person calls him a racial slur. He is surrounded by White people who dote on him. He experiences so much love from his family. He loves his grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. My friends surround him with love. He spent four hours the other day at a pool with a friend of mine. At the end, he said “this was the best day of my life”
Oh, His Spirit. He has a BIG spirit. He has a BIG personality. And, I worry. Right now he has a sassy mouth. If he were White, I would be annoyed and try to “nip it in the bud”…. But, right now I am being extra tough on him. See, I have pictures of him being 16 years old and being sassy with a cop. A 16-year old White boy being sassy with a cop in Alabama will create problems for the parents. But, a 16-year old boy of color being sassy with a cop in Alabama. Is that a life and death matter?
And 16 years old…. Oh Dear…. I fear that I will have to be discerning when we buy him a car. If the car is too nice, will people think that it is stolen? Will he get pulled over because the car is too nice for a Black boy? Will a White person automatically call the cops? Do I have to deny him of a nice car to keep him safe?
And when do I have “the talk”….See growing up in a White community, “the talk” was about the birds and the bees. When raising a Black boy in America, “the talk” is about safety. It’s about being pulled over. It’s about hands on the wheel at 10 and 2. It’s about “yes sir”, “no sir”; it’s about “officer, may I please reach for my driver’s license?” It’s about “sir, I live up the street”. And now do I have to have a talk about “jogging when Black”? Do I have to have the talk about “bird watching when Black”? Do I have to have the talk about “playing with a toy gun in the front yard”? Do I have to have the talk about “walking down the street with a hoodie”? How much do I have to think about?
This is SO #%%^W$%^ EXHAUSTING. I AM TIRED.
I shouldn’t have to ask these questions. I shouldn’t have to ask my friends of color these questions. I shouldn’t have to protect my son from society? I shouldn’t have to be tougher on him to make sure that he doesn’t get mislabeled. I have spent thousands making sure he is ready for Kindergarten, and I am blessed to have that privilege. And, I am honored to invest in my son. BUT, I know that he must be better prepared than the White child next to him. He must be reading better, counting better, acting better. He must do everything better to be considered equal.
When will America let me start focusing on normal parenting questions? When do I get to only have the concerns that my White friends have? When do I not have to worry about him getting killed by people in authority? When do I not have to worry about him getting lynched in the street by White people? When do I not have to worry about him getting arrested or “tased” in the street for silently protesting inequities.
I AM TIRED.
And, if I am tired with ALL of my privilege…. If I am tired with ALL of my blessings…. If I am tired overlooking the mountains from my vacation….
God Bless.
How tired are women of color who have been fighting this fight forever? How tired are women of color who have had “the talk” for generations? How tired are women of color who lead our cities and are still seen as Black? How tired are women of color in Congress whose voices aren’t heard? How tired are women of color working multiple jobs to feed their children while still worrying that their kids aren’t safe.
God Help Us.
It’s just TOO much.
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