By: Clara Lewis
In a poignant reflection on motherhood, I recently celebrated my son’s 22nd birthday. While he may not be a child anymore, he will always remain my little boy in my heart.
The Blessing
From the moment I discovered I was expecting, I envisioned my son. I pictured his features, knowing he would inherit my hair and eye colors along with his father’s athletic build. His skin tone would be a beautiful blend of both of us. I anticipated his humor and athletic prowess, both of which he has certainly delivered. However, the greatest gift I received from God came with an unsettling burden—being a Black man in today’s society.
The Curse
Racism runs deep in the fabric of this country, a reality that has persisted throughout history—from the horrors of slavery to the present-day violence against Black men by law enforcement. This narrative is not about condemning police officers; I have family members who serve in law enforcement and cherish friendships with many in the force. My fear encompasses not just the threat from law enforcement but also the dangers that exist within our own communities.
My son is a big man—6 feet tall and weighing around 230 pounds. He plays linebacker for the University of Arkansas-Pine Bluff Golden Lions, sports dreadlocks, and has numerous tattoos. Despite his harmless nature, the color of his skin leads some to perceive him as a threat. The tragic stories of Philando Castile, Walter Scott, and Charles Kinsey haunt me, illustrating the unjust fear that surrounds Black men.
The Ride Home
As a college student, my son often drives home for the weekend, and while I cherish these moments, they are also filled with anxiety. His drive means he is at risk of being stopped for minor infractions, potentially becoming just another hashtag on social media. He could unwittingly enter a store and face violence from those who believe he doesn’t belong there. I ask him to share his location with me, and I track his journey, knowing exactly how long it should take him to cover certain stretches of highway. If he doesn’t move after a specific time, panic sets in.
My nephews have taken the time to give him advice on how to handle encounters with law enforcement. They, too, carry the weight of fear, aware that despite being good people, they could still be treated as if they are dangerous.
All the Other Times
I recognize that my son faces challenges not only from outside forces but also within the Black community itself. The tragic reality of Black-on-Black crime is often overlooked, and it pains me to think of the lives lost over trivial disputes, sometimes as small as $5.
Holding on to His Promise
I cannot be with my son every moment; he is now an adult carving out his own path. I trust that God will protect him and keep him safe. My prayers extend not only to my son but also to my brothers, cousins, and friends. July 26, 1995, marked the day my life was immeasurably enriched. I can only hope my son enjoys many more birthdays ahead.
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In summary, being a mother to a Black son is filled with both pride and fear. While I celebrate my son’s accomplishments, the societal threats he faces are ever-present, leading to a complex emotional landscape that I navigate daily.