When it comes to my son, he is biracial—his heritage includes both Black and white ancestry. He inherits his father’s fair skin, which makes him appear more white than Black. Although some insist he looks mixed, anyone who sees him with just his dad would agree he doesn’t appear Black at all.
Initially, I felt a tinge of disappointment that he didn’t have more visible traits associated with Black identity. Yet, as he grows, there are many moments where I find myself relieved by his appearance. Why? Because being a Black man in America today can be perilous.
Recently, a story emerged about a teenage boy who was shot at for merely knocking on a neighbor’s door to ask for directions. Thankfully, he wasn’t harmed, but the very fact that a young boy could be targeted for such a benign act fills me with apprehension. This is the reality we face—where a Black boy asking for help can be wrongly assumed to have ill intentions.
I’ve always recognized my son’s unique position in society, but that particular story reinforced it for me. A similar realization struck when two Black men were arrested for simply waiting for a friend in a Starbucks without making a purchase. It dawned on me that my son’s lighter skin and curls could potentially protect him in life-threatening situations. If he encounters police, I believe he would likely emerge from the experience frightened, but alive.
From his infancy, I’ve been acutely aware of how strangers perceive him. He was less than a year old when Eric Garner was killed by police just minutes from our home. While visiting Missouri shortly after Michael Brown’s death, I felt the weight of judgmental stares. Surrounded by his father’s family, he blended in, while I stood out as a Black woman with a white child. Although no one verbalized their thoughts, I sensed the unspoken questions: “How did this Black woman end up with this little white boy?”
Even during our time in New York City, we faced similar scrutiny. While out with my family, people would glance at us with confusion, as if they suspected I had taken this child. Despite him climbing into my lap and calling me “Mommy,” the doubt remained.
Once, a stranger remarked that I was “fortunate” to have a son who looked white. The comment left me speechless, but I began to ponder its deeper implications.
The reality is, I don’t fear that my son will be shot by police while playing with a toy gun. If he gets pulled over, he’s unlikely to face deadly repercussions while reaching for his ID. If he’s waiting at Starbucks without making a purchase, he probably won’t attract any negative attention. Yes, I will always worry about him as any parent would, but I won’t be in a constant state of anxiety until he returns home safely. I dread the thought of receiving a call informing me that my son has been killed or arrested simply due to his skin color.
Every moment, I think of the Black men in my life who are dear to me. My father enjoys sitting outside for fresh air while waiting for my mother to return from work. I often worry that he might be harassed by the police just for being there. I also fear for my brother and nephew living in a small Midwestern town, concerned that they might be shot during a routine traffic stop without witnesses. I worry about my Black male friends becoming hashtags due to someone’s unfounded biases.
However, I don’t harbor those same fears for my son. If he were to knock on a door for directions, he would likely be welcomed with open arms or offered a ride. His skin color will not render him a threat in the eyes of others, and he will likely remain unaware of the harsh realities that Black men face in this country. While he may encounter challenges due to his mixed heritage, he won’t live in the constant state of fear that his grandfather, uncles, cousins, and friends endure daily.
I won’t need to have “the talk” that many Black parents must have with their children. Instead, I am focused on teaching him to be an ally to his future Black friends, encouraging him to protect and advocate for them. He holds a privilege that comes with being perceived a certain way, even though he is just as Black as they are.
I’m educating him about a world that will see him from one perspective, while he straddles two sides. If this is what people consider “lucky,” then I wish to reject that notion entirely.
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Summary
The author reflects on the complexities of raising a biracial son in America, grappling with societal perceptions and the implications of race. She acknowledges the privileges her son may have due to his lighter skin while recognizing the ongoing dangers faced by Black men. The piece emphasizes the importance of allyship and understanding one’s privilege in a racially charged society.