Recently, a post appeared in my social media feed that made my heart race and filled me with dread. With every word, my anxiety grew, becoming an overwhelming sadness. As a mother of a large black son, I realize I can’t ignore these harsh realities. The truth is, despite his kindness, respectfulness, education, and loving nature, he is not safe.
My son is currently seven years old—though he insists he’s almost seven and a half because for children, half-birthdays are a big deal. He shares a birthday with Martin Luther King Jr., and we brought him home from the hospital, pledging to love and care for him forever. Six months later, we finalized his adoption, making him the third black child in our family. His little sister would join us four years later. Together, we form a large, multiracial, adoptive family. While my husband and I are white, all four of our children are black.
The journey of adopting our son opened our eyes further. Although we had already raised two black daughters, we noticed a shift in how strangers interacted with them as they grew older. When they were babies and toddlers, they were often called “adorable” and “cute.” But as they entered preschool, we began to observe how white people reacted differently. Some assumed they were fans of hip-hop, while others labeled them “sassy” or used exaggerated intonations when addressing them. Numerous white women also attempted to touch their hair, a classic microaggression.
However, when our son arrived, we quickly noticed how swiftly strangers transitioned from calling him “handsome” to viewing him as suspicious. As a toddler, if any minor scuffle occurred among children at places like parks or museums, I often saw white parents react defensively, ushering their children away from him, even if he had no part in it. I observed whispers and darting eyes towards my son, who had always been larger than average for his age—a source of fear for many in white America.
His age and stage of development didn’t matter; what mattered was the perception of him as a “big black boy.” Despite being in diapers and mastering simple sentences, he was still deeply affectionate. He would drop everything to comfort a nearby baby and showed remarkable empathy, often playing on the floor with a friend who had special needs, ensuring he wasn’t left behind.
The pivotal moment that opened my eyes to the harsh reality of raising a black boy in a fearful society occurred when I was with my son. While waiting for an appointment, we ran into an acquaintance who hadn’t seen him in a while. She exclaimed about how much he had grown, and I responded, “Yes, he is a big boy!” Her reply stunned me: “What a cute little thug.” This comment came just months after the tragic death of Michael Brown, a black teenager killed by a white police officer in Ferguson, Missouri, not far from where we lived. The divide was stark: either black lives mattered or they didn’t.
A few days later, as I prepared dinner while my children watched a show, the news broke about Michael Brown, and his picture filled the screen. My oldest child asked, “Who is that, Mommy?” Sensing the weight of the situation, I struggled to articulate the truth about how the world views them. How could I explain that society would often see them as less than? How do I prepare them for a life where the color of their skin could overshadow their worth?
My husband and I take our responsibility as parents in a transracial adoption seriously. We’ve made our share of mistakes but remain committed to learning. We surround our children with role models and mentors who can provide guidance. We rely on our community to help us navigate the complexities of raising children of color in a world still grappling with racism.
This includes having crucial conversations about safety when interacting with police, shopping, or simply being in public. We teach them rules like keeping hoods down, avoiding running, not putting hands in pockets, and always obtaining receipts for purchases. Our children also cannot play outside with toy guns—even in our backyard. It’s painful to explain these rules, but they are essential for their safety.
When my son was four, I attended a parent-teacher conference and felt the familiar pangs of anxiety. As I sat across from his teacher, she leaned in and asked, “I probably shouldn’t ask, but was your son born drug addicted?” Her question, rooted in stereotypes about black children, left me speechless. This was the person entrusted with caring for my son several days a week. I couldn’t help but wonder what biases she held every time she interacted with him.
Being honest, it’s hard for me to trust white people. While some may be genuinely kind, I can never fully know their intentions. Just because someone is polite to my son doesn’t mean they have a deep understanding of racial issues. Many believe that simply being “colorblind” is enough, but they don’t realize that this perspective can be just as harmful.
Before the quarantine, I took my son to a nearby park. While he was playing with three other boys, a father who had been preoccupied with his phone suddenly rushed over to call his son down from the rock climbing tower. The other boys were playing happily; there was no sign of conflict. It was clear that his reaction stemmed from a place of racial fear.
When Ahmaud Arbery was murdered while jogging, and Christian Cooper faced a life-threatening situation in Central Park simply for asking a woman to leash her dog, I was devastated but not surprised. Ordinary activities for black males are often seen as threatening, reinforcing harmful stereotypes that unjustly paint them as criminals. I’ve witnessed this firsthand with my own son. The harrowing tales of Arbery and Cooper could easily befall any black boy in America.
Society has conditioned many to hold a distorted view of black males, perpetuated through media portrayals and societal narratives. It’s alarming because it robs black boys of the joy and freedom they deserve during their childhoods. As author Ibram X. Kendi notes, they are “stamped from the beginning”—a sobering reality.
Despite my white privilege, I cannot shield my son from the world’s dangers. He will grow larger and more independent, venturing out without me. As his chosen mother, I cherish my role in preparing him for adulthood, yet I recognize that I cannot do this alone. We are grateful to those who have chosen to support our family and help us teach him the necessary rules to navigate life safely. We will continue to have these conversations, ensuring he knows he is beloved and has the right to pursue his dreams.
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In summary, the challenges of raising a black son in America are daunting. The societal biases and fears that surround him are palpable, and as his parents, we must equip him for a world that often misjudges him. We are committed to nurturing his spirit, teaching him how to navigate these harsh realities, and ensuring he knows he is loved and valued.