In most cases, finding out that you’re pregnant can be the most exhilarating experience. Immediately you’re filled with thoughts of what your child will look like, possible baby names, and an assortment of other questions and ideas. Once the pregnancy is announced to the world, and by the world, I mean social media, people have the tendency to give their solicited and unsolicited opinions of what motherhood will look and feel like, little tips and tricks to try during and after pregnancy, and their favorite baby necessities. But, does anyone prepare you for what it will be like to raise a black child?
If you’re new here and don’t yet know my pregnancy story make sure you click here to check it out. To recap, I found out I was pregnant in March 2017. My pregnancy was complicated in more ways than one; my husband and I were not yet married so I had guilt about that, he was also in basic training for the Airforce and then more training for pretty much the entirety of my pregnancy, and I had health complications. My situation didn’t leave much time for me to think about the fact that I was bringing a little black boy into the world and what exactly that experience would be like. I’d seen and heard about what happened to Tamir Rice, Trayvon Martin, Mike Brown, and countless other black boys and men but hadn’t yet begun to make the connection and realize that those little black boys could be my son.
If you haven’t been living under a rock then you know and have probably seen the video of the heartbreaking and violent murder of George Floyd. If you haven’t seen or heard about it, I won’t link the video because it’s too much and I am tired of seeing black people die right before my eyes. In short, George Floyd may or may not have had a counterfeit twenty-dollar bill, the store clerk called the police and three officers proceeded to place the entirety of their weight on this man with another officer standing nearby as George Floyd begged and pleaded with them expressing that he could not breathe. The officers involved did not move, they did not check him to make sure he was okay, they did not adjust their weight, nothing. The officer at the top of George Floyd’s body pressed his knee into Floyd’s neck, as George continued to say he can’t breathe and civilians at the scene of the murder pleaded for the officers to get off of him. George Floyd cried out for his deceased mother and then died.
Then came the murder of Breonna Taylor as she slept in her bed… her murders are still free, no charges have been filed. Later it’s been discovered that after officers unloaded their tax provided weapons into sleeping Breonna, they left her there for 8 minutes, didn’t call an ambulance, didn’t give aide, didn’t notify her mother, and arrested her boyfriend and tried to charge him as if he’d done something wrong.
Then came the murder of Elijah McClain as he was walking home, minding his business. An onlooker took it upon themselves to report a suspicious man in a ski mask. When approached by officers, Elijah who had a social disorder tried to tell officers he was going home, asked to be left alone, and they killed him too.
There are countless stories, and instances of black women, men, and children being slaughtered by those who are supposed to protect them. I usually feel the pain of these stories, but this time was different.
This time I felt every story in my core. Because now it’s not a hypothetical “what if that was my child" because now, I have a child. So it could very well be my child. I’ve never really had to face that fact until now, because my situation, perspective, and responsibilities have changed.
I am the mother of a little black boy. He’s just a toddler, and right now when people see him they think he’s cute, cuddly, and funny. They want to talk to him and play with him, but he’s growing. He’s growing every single day and getting taller, bigger, he’s talking more, and expressing more, and asking questions about the things around him. He’s lively, cute, and innocent now… but will people feel the same when he’s 6 feet and stalky? Even though when I look at him he’s still cute, lively, and innocent…
Mothering while black is watching people interact and love your child when they’re little, but having to come to grips with the fact that those very people who love to see your kid in the grocery are the same people could possibly call the police on your child because they don’t think your kid belongs in the neighborhood they are walking in. Now, it’s a given that not everyone who is not black is racist. It’s a given that not all cops are bad cops. But some are. And some have every intention of weaponizing my child’s blackness.
Did you know that as early as nine years old, officers begin to look at black children as adults?
That’s insane, isn’t it? The nine-year-old who is still watching Paw Patrol is now all of a sudden a threat. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t tired of having to say that “Black Lives Matter”, because honestly who wants to continually argue about their right to simply exist, to matter? But, because I am the mother of a beautiful, brilliant, adventurous black boy I have to speak up for him; for his future. Because everything I do going forward will lay the foundation for the life he lives and the world he lives in when he’s older. I love Josiah. So I have to fight for him. I have to fight for his right to exist.
God created him, he predestined him before he was even formed in my womb, and I pray big prayers; so I know my child is protected. But, I would be lying if I said that I don’t still think about how the world will handle him.
I’m sure that mothering no matter the race, ethnicity, or religion can pose its own set of challenges. But, my world is black. So I can only speak on what I live, and experience. As someone who as experienced racism personally, and seen it in action, and who continues to see it in almost every news cycle; I have to admit it’s tiring.
I’m tired of the buts, and ifs when discussions about racism and prejudice are happening. There is no but, there is no if.
If All Lives Matter, then Black Matter. Which means the All Lives Can Never Matter, Until Black Lives Do.
My child matters. And that is a hill, that I am literally willing to die on.
As always, thanks for reading. I’ll talk to you in the next blog.
