It all began with a toy bubble gun. My son, overjoyed that it was finally allowance day, had been eagerly asking his dad to take him shopping. They returned home with a few items, including a vibrant purple bubble gun. Typically, we enforce a strict no-toy-guns policy outside of foam dart guns permitted for basement play. I wasn’t particularly excited about this new addition, but I figured it was an inexpensive toy that would soon lose its appeal.
On the day the mail carrier arrived to deliver a package, my son was outside shooting bubbles into the air for his little sister. As I thanked the mail carrier and he drove away, my son playfully pointed his bubble gun at the truck. In that moment, I felt a wave of panic. I knelt down to his level, looked him in the eye, and firmly told him he must never aim any kind of gun, real or fake, at anyone or anything. I explained that this could be dangerous and could lead to a Black boy in America being harmed or even killed. The reality is that police and the public often cannot distinguish between a real gun and a toy, and I reminded him of tragic cases like Tamir Rice.
My son listened intently, his expression serious. With my heart racing, I sat back in a lawn chair, questioning if I had handled the situation correctly. After all, I am a white woman, and I’ve been conditioned to see police as protectors. My race and social standing afford me privileges that my four Black children do not share. How could I have momentarily forgotten this truth, especially after I recently had to call the police to my home?
While I was outside with my two youngest children, we suddenly heard two distinct shotgun blasts. Having grown up in a rural area, I recognized the sound, though it was unusual to hear such noise in our suburban neighborhood. My husband, who was working from home, rushed outside to check on us. After a brief discussion, we decided it was necessary to alert the police.
Within a couple of minutes, a young white officer arrived and asked me to recount what we had heard. He was in and out quickly, off to patrol the area for anything suspicious. As he was leaving our driveway, my son asked, “Mom, is the officer here to kill me?”
At just eight years old, my son is already aware of the troubling narratives surrounding police and people who resemble him. Even though we don’t watch the news at home, these stories seep through social media and conversations, and we’ve had to prepare our children for the realities of encounters with law enforcement.
I knelt down next to my son, took his hand, and assured him that the officer was only there because I had called regarding the gunshots. He repeated his question with doubt, and I reassured him that everything was fine. But was it really?
For many white suburban children, police are seen as community helpers who run DARE programs and participate in parades. For my children, however, police represent a system that may perpetuate racism against them. As their mother, I feel it’s my responsibility to equip them with the knowledge and skills to navigate these encounters safely.
This involves teaching them how to communicate with officers, the importance of keeping their hands visible, and how to behave in public spaces. They know they should avoid wearing hoods or putting their hands in their pockets, and they must always refrain from running or raising their voices. In stores, they are reminded to keep their hands to themselves and to insist on getting a receipt and a bag for their purchases, even if it’s just a single item.
Supervision during outdoor play and playdates is crucial, especially since parents of white children may not share the same concerns. The notion of free-range parenting is a luxury I cannot afford; for my children, freedom outdoors can lead to danger from individuals quick to call the police at the sight of Black joy. It’s essential to build trust with other parents before allowing my children to visit their friends.
Despite taking these precautions, I recognize that societal biases can turn brown skin into a perceived threat. These biases manifest in subtle ways, such as the instinct to clutch a purse when a Black man enters an elevator. While many advocate for colorblindness and diversity, real change necessitates genuine anti-racist work.
Racism is pervasive, and even in the safety of our own home, my children are not shielded from its impact. I have made mistakes and often lie awake at night wondering if I’ve made the right choices. I turn to the guidance of Black adults to help raise my children, continually striving to be more anti-racist while nurturing my kids to become confident Black adults.
I refuse to present my children with a false narrative that could put them in harm’s way. I emphasize that while some officers do their jobs with integrity and care, there are many who do not. All police officers are part of a system that disproportionately criminalizes Black individuals, and we cannot predict which officers we will encounter. Thus, we must always prioritize caution.
In summary, navigating the realities of being Black in America requires a different set of skills and awareness. As their mother, I aim to prepare my children for the world they inhabit, while also challenging the narratives that perpetuate systemic racism.