On Racism and Beautiful Black Babies
Back in my pre-mom days, I used to go on girls’ trips pretty often. One Summer, I went on a trip to Vegas. I can hardly remember any details from the trip (why we were there, who all was in the group), but I do have one vivid memory. I was walking down the strip with one of my oldest friends and a couple of other girls. If my memory serves me right, I was the only black girl in the group. It was the middle of the day and we had been out shopping. We were on the sidewalk, headed back to our hotel, and a small group of black men were headed towards us. I don’t remember much about them, only that they were walking down the strip just like us. Maybe they were also shopping or headed to a pool party. Maybe they were looking for a group of women to party with. I’m not sure. But my friend made it clear that she didn’t want to find out. As soon as she spotted them, she whispered “black guys! black guys!” grabbed one of the other girls by the hand and rushed our group across the street to our hotel before they could get too close.
It took me a while to unpack how I felt in that moment, but mostly I was shocked. Shocked that she said it. This girl I grew up with. This girl who once yelled at a boy at tennis camp for teasing me about my big lips and making me cry. Shocked that she said it in front of me. Did she forget, after so many years of friendship, that I was black too? I was shocked that these men, who were probably paying us zero attention, made her nervous when she had been around the black men in my family and in our friend circle a thousand times.
I was offended. Offended that men with skin the same color as mine seemed scary, but the many groups of white men we encountered that weekend didn’t elicit the same response.
I was sad. I was embarrassed. I was hurt.
But I said nothing. Partly because I’m extremely non-confrontational. Partly because I didn’t want her to be embarrassed. But mostly because, at the time, I didn’t know what to say. This was the first time anyone so close to me had ever said or done anything like that. I love this friend dearly. She is family to me. And I hold no grudge against her. But that memory is the only thing I can remember from that trip. And those two words, whispered without thinking, have colored our relationship ever since.
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Ella, my baby girl, is walking now. She’s 15 months old - not a baby anymore, but also not quite a toddler. She spends all of her waking hours chasing her big sisters and yelling for more food. So naturally, I have baby fever. As difficult as it is to have three little kids to mother, my heart aches for another baby to hold.
We aren’t ready to start trying again yet, but we’ve been talking about it a lot lately. We have been praying for a son. I love being a girl mom (and Sam loves being a #GirlDad), but we also long for a baby boy. Recently though, when every morning we wake up to more heartbreaking news and more jarring examples of racism in our country, I had to confess to Sam that I’m nervous. What if we are blessed with a boy next time? I had to admit that I’m afraid to bring a beautiful black boy into the world we’re living in now.
What if he makes the mistake of walking through a construction site while he’s out on a jog? What if he writes a bad check? What if someone calls the police on him while he’s bird watching? What if someone shoots him while he’s sitting on the couch in his own apartment? What if he takes a guys trip to Vegas for his 21st birthday and a white woman on the street is afraid of him?
I know all of these things could happen to my beautiful black daughters too. But my own life experience tells me that they won’t ever seem as threatening or violent as their brother would.
Sam assured me that our son would be protected by the Son. And I know it’s true. But I can’t shake the pit in my stomach. I can’t pretend that I’m not tempted to change my prayer and ask for another girl.
I can’t stop aching for the mothers of black boys.
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Lord, please protect our children.
Please change the hearts of those who don’t see them the way you see them.