Every morning, my adopted teen daughter, who came to us from Haiti, starts her day with two rituals: scrolling through the latest world news on her phone and asking if I can take her out for a driving lesson. It’s a routine that has become a part of our daily lives.
Just yesterday, she stepped out of her room in silence. After a rare moment of cuddling, which is a treat during these teenage years, she took a deep breath and asked, “Mom, did you see the news about Alton Sterling?” I nodded, sensing the weight of the moment. She hesitated, and when her younger brother entered the room, I noticed her retreat into silence. She didn’t want him to know.
This dilemma looms over me every time a black individual is tragically killed by police, unjustly accused, or targeted by hate. I grapple with whether to share these harsh realities with my children, especially when political figures spread dangerous rhetoric about immigrants and minorities. Yet, I know we must confront these issues together, as a family, to forge a path toward understanding and advocacy. My black children must be reminded of the caution they need to exercise during police encounters, while we, their white family, strive to be part of the solution.
This somber reality is one I wish other white parents could fully grasp when discussing the concept of white privilege. It creates an invisible barrier that hovers over my daughter’s interactions with her white peers, dampening the potential friendships could bring.
Later that day, she relaxed on the couch, her dog nestled beside her, searching for a new phone case. She expressed interest in one featuring a black power fist or a beautiful black woman adorned with a crown. Driving lessons were not on her mind.
When she woke up today, she came out of her room without checking the news. “Maybe hold off on that for now,” I suggested. “Take a moment to talk to me first.” I paused, weighing the impact of what I was about to say. I want to protect her, yet she’s on the brink of obtaining her driver’s license—a milestone that should be filled with excitement, not anxiety.
She is only months away from driving, and the reality of being pulled over by police weighs heavily on her thoughts. Will she face the same fate as Alton or Philando? Will her image be plastered across the media? Are her social media accounts devoid of anything that could be misinterpreted? Does she have the grades and accomplishments to deflect any potential criticism? These are the thoughts my black teen navigates while she practices driving.
I want to prepare her for the harsh truths she may face. “Philando Castile,” I will tell her, “was a straight-A student. He informed the officer he was reaching for his ID, yet he was shot four times. His girlfriend’s young daughter was in the backseat.”
As I brace myself to have this conversation after her dance class—when she is most at ease—I find myself ordering the phone case with the black princess on it. I add the one with the black power fist too. It may seem trivial, but it’s an action I can take in this moment. Soon, I’ll have to break her heart with the reality of her world.
In the end, I suspect she may not ask to go driving today either.
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Summary:
This article explores the emotional complexities of discussing race and safety with a black teen in the context of driving and police interactions. It highlights the importance of open communication in a family navigating issues of privilege and societal challenges.
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