Reflecting on Race: A White Mother’s Journey with Her Black Son

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In a recent conversation, my son, who is Black, posed an intriguing question as we drove to school. “Do you think you’d care as much about racism or discuss race as frequently if I was white?” The question caught me off guard, and I took a moment to gather my thoughts. “Honestly, no,” I replied. “I wish I could say otherwise, but my perspective as your mother profoundly shapes how I see the world. If you were white, I wouldn’t be the same person I am today.”

This dialogue has lingered in my mind over the past week. For the last seven and a half years, I have devoted considerable energy to understanding how to nurture a happy, safe, and proud Black son. I never stopped to consider how my identity would shift if he were white.

Every time I witness court rulings, read the news, or hear about tragic events, I can’t help but picture my son’s face. I encounter distressing comments, inappropriate stares, and blatant prejudice. When I enter a room, I instinctively look for people of color and feel uneasy when everyone around me is white. My considerations for schools, vacations, and even homes are often colored by the need for diversity.

If my son were white, I doubt any of this would cross my mind. And yet, I find a strange sense of gratitude in this experience. It has opened my eyes to my own privilege. As a white woman, I navigate life through a distinctly altered lens, one that has made me more empathetic, open to dialogue, and driven to instigate change—both in myself and in the world around me.

However, this journey is not without its frustrations. My intolerance for bigotry and impatience with the current state of our society has grown. I feel a deep-seated dissatisfaction with the slow pace of progress and a persistent anxiety that shadows me. I recognize that I wouldn’t feel this urgency as deeply if my son were white.

So, who would I be without this experience? I’ve attempted to visualize this alternate reality, but I’ve come to understand that it truly doesn’t matter. I am precisely who I need to be—a mother to a Black son who actively engages in discussions about race and racism.

In conclusion, my journey as a white mother raising a Black son compels me to confront uncomfortable truths about privilege and race. This ongoing dialogue shapes not just our lives but also my understanding of the world and my role within it.

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