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It all began with a simple toy bubble gun. My son, excited about finally receiving his monthly allowance, had been pleading with his father to take him to the store. They returned home with several items, including a bright purple bubble gun. Typically, we have a rule against toy guns, allowing only foam-bullet guns for basement play. I wasn’t particularly thrilled, but I figured it was a cheap toy that would soon lose its appeal.
On the day the mail carrier arrived to deliver a package, my son was happily shooting bubbles into the air for his younger sister. As I thanked the mail carrier and he drove away, my son playfully pointed his toy gun at the truck. My heart raced. I knelt down to his level and firmly explained that he must never aim a gun at anyone or anything. I reminded him that this behavior is dangerous and could lead to a Black boy in America facing dire consequences. Tragically, the reality of incidents like Tamir Rice loomed large in my mind.
My son listened intently, his expression serious. Once he understood, I sat back in a lawn chair, anxiously questioning whether I had handled the situation correctly. As a white woman, I have been conditioned to view the police as protectors. My privilege affords me trust and respect from law enforcement, something my four Black children do not experience.
How could I forget this fact, especially when just weeks later, I found myself calling the police to our home?
While outside with my youngest two children, we heard two sharp shotgun blasts. Growing up in a rural area, I recognized the sound, but it felt out of place in our suburban neighborhood. My husband, who was working from home, rushed outside after hearing the noise. We agreed it was best to notify the police.
Within minutes, a young white officer arrived, asking for details about the incident. He was in and out quickly, driving off to investigate further. As he left our driveway, my son asked me, “Mom, is the officer here to kill me?”
At just eight years old, my son is acutely aware of the dangers faced by people who look like him. Despite us not watching the news at home, the realities of systemic racism seep into their lives through social media and conversations about “the talk” that parents of Black children must have.
I knelt beside him, took his hand, and reassured him that the officer was there because I called after hearing the gunshots. But my son remained unconvinced, repeating his question. I tried to calm him, but I couldn’t shake the reality of our situation.
Are things really okay? While they often are for me as a white person, my children face a different narrative. I must prepare them for the realities of being Black in America—teaching them how to interact with police, how to keep their hands visible, and the importance of avoiding behaviors that might draw suspicion. Their experiences differ vastly from their white peers, who can grow up without the same precautions.
It’s about supervising their outdoor play, being cautious with playdates, and knowing other parents deeply before allowing visits to friends’ homes. Even with all these precautions, their brown skin can be perceived as a threat by those influenced by systemic racism.
I have made mistakes along the way and spent countless sleepless nights questioning my decisions. I lean heavily on the wisdom of Black adults for guidance in raising my children. I am continuously learning to be more anti-racist and to nurture my children into confident Black adults who can navigate a world that often sees them as threats.
I refuse to shield my children from the harsh realities of life; fairy tales won’t protect them from harm. While some police officers genuinely care for the communities they serve, many others are part of a system that disproportionately targets Black individuals. We must remain cautious, as we cannot predict which category an officer falls into.
For many white children, police officers represent community safety and goodwill. For my children, they symbolize a potential threat of systemic racism. It is my responsibility as their mother to equip them with the skills they need to survive.
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In summary, the challenges faced by my children as Black individuals in America are starkly different from my own experiences. It is imperative that I teach them how to navigate a world that often views them through a lens of suspicion and fear, while also ensuring they are equipped with the tools to thrive.