For Our Sons

It’s unlikely but possible that you could get killed today. Or any day. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth. Black maleness is a potentially fatal condition. I tell you that not to scare you but because knowing that could save your life. There are people who will look at you and see a villain or a criminal or something fearsome. It’s possible they may act on their prejudice and insecurity. Being black could turn an ordinary situation into a life-or-death moment even if you’re doing nothing wrong. 
-Written by Toure.

Ashagre has been my snuggler from day one. The very first night we slept together as a family of three - me, him, and his daddy - in Ethiopia he buried his face in my chest and fell quickly asleep while stroking my arm wrapped protectively around his little body. Lately our best snuggling takes place in the early morning, right after I wake him up for school and before I turn the light on. As soon as he hears my voice, his arms shoot out from underneath his warm comforter into the dark of the morning and start sweeping the air. I find his flailing arms and scoop up his warm, still sleepy and loose, much bigger than a year ago, body and hug him tight. He melts into me with the biggest hug a six year old boy can muster for his momma. If I let go and set him back down on his bed too early, his arms shoot out again demanding for me to pick him back up and hug him some more. I love this fleeting moment the two of us share each morning before the chaos of the day day begins. I feel like its my chance to fill him up for the day before sending him out into the big world to learn, love, and grow.

This week I haven't been able to hug him tight enough. This week, the terrifying reality that no hug or anything else I can give him is enough to protect him and keep him safe from this crazy world we live in is too close to the surface of my thoughts.

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We're running late for no particular reason other than we just didn't get out of the door on time. The kids burst out of the Prius (careful with your car doors please!) in the loud, frenzied ball of early-morning energy that marks our days. Elsa shrieks and sprints to the entrance of the coffee shop. Ashagre is doing that booty-shaking half swagger half skipping while hanging on your arm and singing/shouting gibberish thing that he does. I stop and muster my calmest voice. "Ashagre, take a few breaths with me. You're not ready to go into the coffee shop. No, real breaths. Deep from your belly. Slow." He makes a half-hearted attempt at this skill he used to outright refuse to do but has lately improved on after seeing his sister receive so much praise for using it so well. His breaths never really qualify as deep or calming, but he hears me and pulls it together, at least a little bit.

We go in and get in line - the same line we stand in every morning. The same line that passes right next to a counter with an abandoned scale of some sort sitting on top of it. It's been there for months. Today, Ashagre just can't stand the temptation and/or can't muster the self control. That scale has buttons - buttons he just has to push. My boy LOVES buttons. Beep! His hand darts back to his side. I give him my momma's serious look and send him to sit in a chair in a quiet corner of the coffee shop while Elsa and I wait to order. An over-reaction for a minor infraction, you say? Maybe. But recent headlines flood my frontal cortex.

How do I tell him, without robbing him of the beautiful confidence that has been slowly blossoming over the past year, that minor offenses such as the one he just committed (or less) could get him killed someday? How do I let him know that even if he is better behaved and better dressed and better spoken than his white peers someone might see him as a threat? How do I explain to him that as a black boy in America he always has to be aware of his surroundings? How to I tell him he should enjoy wearing his favorite hooded wetshirt now because in a few years he'll need to consider changing his look to something less threatening? How do I encourage him to no longer fear police men (a deep rooted fear he brought with him from Ethiopia) while explaining to him the potentially lethal consequences of running from those same men when he is just a little bit older? How do I, his white momma, teach him to survive in this country where his particular mix of sex and skin color are still a potentially deadly combination?

Trayvon Martin is dead because he was a black boy living in America. The person that pulled the trigger has not been arrested. Trayvon is not just someone's else's son from across the country that you see on the nightly news. Trayvon Martin is my son. Trayvon Martin is your son too.

If I can find one positive thing that has come out of this horrible crime it's that the internet has been flooded with a wealth of well written lessons for inexperienced mommas of black boys. For mommas in general. For all of us. Please take the time to read some of the links I've shared below. This isn't just Trayvon's family's loss; their issue. It's not just mine, and other mommas of black boys, either. Mull them around a bit. Keep the conversation going. Silence is the best perpetuator of this craziness. For Trayvon. For Ashagre. For our sons. For all of us.

Wise words from people with much more experience than I have. If you can't read all of them please at least read the first (I'm making this one mandatory):

How to Talk to Young Black Boys About Trayvon Martin

My Twelve-Year-Old Son Knows He Could Be Trayvon

No Apologies: On the Killing of Trayvon Martin and Being "Good"

Talking About Race With Our White Kids After Trayvon's Murder

Describing vs. Ascribing: Digging Deeper When Talking About Race

Trayvon Martin, White Denial and the Unacceptable Burden of America (Stick with it. There's some important information in there. It might make your skin feel prickly. Sit with it and consider why. And, yes, I am completely aware that his last paragraph trivializes this post.)