I first recognized the stereotypes surrounding my son when he was just a toddler. Whenever we visited a park or a local play center, any minor dispute among the kids would instantly draw the attention of parents. Their eyes would often dart towards my son, who was frequently the only child of color in the vicinity.
This reaction was immediate, almost instinctual, and, regrettably, predictable.
Just a year earlier, my son was a charming, caramel-skinned infant with bright brown eyes and the cutest curly hair. Strangers would stop us, showering him with compliments, speaking to him in high-pitched voices and hoping to elicit his delightful gummy grin.
However, as he transitioned from baby to toddler, things changed. He quickly outgrew the baby phase, reaching the upper ninetieth percentile for height and weight. By the age of two, he had shed all baby fat, replacing it with solid muscle, leading to the appearance of a much older child.
With this growth, the way people interacted with him shifted dramatically. If he had a meltdown, we’d receive disapproving glances and hushed whispers. If he acted like any other child his age, snatching a coveted toy from a peer, we could hear the annoyance in the other parent’s voice.
I considered dressing him in a shirt that proclaimed his age, but deep down I understood that the issue was more than just his size. My motherly instincts told me that his skin color was the real reason behind the adults’ discomfort.
One particularly striking incident occurred when my son was two-and-a-half. After bumping into an acquaintance, I smiled and remarked on how much my son had grown. Without a second thought, she called him a “cute little thug.”
Six months later, my son began preschool. During a parent-teacher conference, the teacher leaned in and asked me, “I probably shouldn’t ask this, but was he born addicted to drugs?” I was utterly taken aback and at a loss for words.
Reflecting on that moment later, I realized that she wouldn’t have made such an inquiry of every parent there. Naturally, I reported this to the principal and had my son transferred to a teacher who recognized his potential rather than making assumptions based solely on his skin color.
Navigating life as a tall, black boy in America in 2019 is a journey my son and our family are learning to undertake. We are acutely aware of the preschool-to-prison pipeline and take precautions; our son isn’t allowed to play with toy guns outside our home after hearing tragic stories like that of Tamir Rice. We worry about his safety as he grows up—when he learns to drive or begins dating.
The harsh truth is that black boys are often perceived as tough, suspicious, and threatening for merely existing. Consequently, we must prepare our son for a world that may question and distrust him. Although he is only six, he already knows that when we enter a store, he cannot wear his hood up, keep his hands in his pockets, or touch anything unless we intend to buy it. He understands he must have a receipt and a bag for any purchases made with his allowance.
His guidelines differ significantly from those of his white peers because he will always be viewed with skepticism. The color of his skin, the texture of his hair, and the depth of his gaze ensure society sees him as a suspect.
Just this month, while taking two of my children to a medical appointment, my son was excited about meeting new people. He jumped onto the exam table and reached for an overhead lamp. The medical assistant glared and snapped, “Are you always like this?” Her “this” referred to his lively demeanor.
As his mother, I see his exuberance, enthusiasm, and outgoing spirit as a gift. In contrast, the assistant viewed him as a troublemaker who needed to be controlled. After all, he is a black boy.
People often make assumptions based on their first impressions of my son. Media portrayals in news, films, television, and even children’s literature condition society to view brown skin as threatening. What I wish is for those who fear a big, black boy to see my son for who he truly is.
He possesses a deep sense of empathy, a quality that is becoming increasingly rare. Last year, when a classmate was upset, my son sat beside her, comforting her with his presence, even though he didn’t know what was wrong.
He is nurturing by nature. When we adopted our fourth child, he would sit on the floor, gently feeding her a bottle while singing her name and stroking her hair.
With his older sisters, he joins in on everything, whether they’re playing with Barbies, racing bikes, or dressing up as superheroes.
I’ll never forget one Sunday after church when he stopped to introduce himself to a group of women. One woman extended her hand for a shake, and my son sweetly kissed the back of her hand. He has never met a stranger, and his warmth and affection are boundless. Just last Sunday, he delayed getting to his classroom because he was busy shaking hands with adults in the hallway.
This is my son: empathetic, enthusiastic, playful, intelligent, and handsome. He is not an exception. There are countless black boys like him, filled with remarkable personalities, who deserve to live freely without the weight of oppressive stereotypes.
In conclusion, it’s crucial for society to recognize the individuality of black boys and reject the stereotypes that seek to confine them. Every child deserves the opportunity to thrive without fear of judgment based on their appearance.
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