It all began with a simple bubble gun. My son, ecstatic that it was finally allowance day, had convinced his dad to take him to the store. When they returned, he excitedly showed me the purple bubble gun. While we typically discourage toy guns—aside from the foam-bullet ones permitted for basement play—I knew this inexpensive item would likely lose its charm quickly, so I let it slide.
One sunny afternoon, as my son shot bubbles for his little sister, the mail carrier arrived to deliver a package. After thanking him, my son playfully aimed his bubble gun at the truck. My heart dropped. I quickly knelt down to his level and firmly explained that he must never aim any type of gun—real or toy—at anyone or anything. I emphasized that this action could be dangerous and, tragically, could result in a Black boy being harmed or killed by police, as had happened to Tamir Rice.
My son listened intently, his demeanor shifting to serious as I spoke. With my heart racing, I wondered if I had handled the situation correctly. After all, I’m a white woman who has always been taught that police are here to protect me from danger. My whiteness ensures that I am seen as trustworthy, respected, and safe. However, my four children, all of whom are Black, do not share this privilege. How could I have overlooked this reality when I had recently called the police to our home?
On a day when my younger kids were playing outside, we heard two loud shotgun blasts. Having grown up in a rural area, I was familiar with that sound, but it was unusual in our suburban neighborhood. My husband, who had been working from home, rushed outside to check if we were okay. Concerned, we decided to call the police.
Within minutes, a young, white officer arrived, asking me to recount what had happened. He was in and out quickly, leaving to patrol the area in search of anything unusual. As he pulled away, my son asked in a trembling voice, “Mom, is the officer here to kill me?”
At just eight years old, my son is already acutely aware of the dangers posed by certain officers to people who look like him. Despite our efforts to shield him from the news, the narrative is pervasive, infiltrating social media, radio, and “the talk” that Black parents have with their children about navigating police encounters.
I knelt beside him, holding his hand, and assured him that the officer was there because I had called him after hearing the gunshots. My son, however, remained unconvinced, repeating his question. I tried to reassure him, but was I really convincing?
Are things truly okay? They typically are for someone like me. While I view the police as community helpers, I have to teach my children a different narrative, preparing them for the harsh reality of being Black in America. This includes lessons on how to interact with officers, where to place their hands, and how to conduct themselves in public spaces. For my children, it means not wearing hoods, keeping hands visible, and being careful not to run or yell in stores.
It’s about supervising their play outside, unlike many white parents, who might not feel the same need. Free-range parenting can pose risks for Black children, as they may face unjust scrutiny from those who view their joy as suspicious. Building relationships with other parents is crucial before allowing my children to visit friends’ homes.
Even with precautions in place, my children’s brown skin can be viewed as a threat by those influenced by systemic racism. Often, this bias operates unconsciously, manifesting in actions like clutching purses when a Black person enters an elevator. Many preach equality without engaging in the necessary anti-racist work that fosters genuine change.
Racism is unyielding, and even in our own driveway, my children are not shielded from its impact. I’ve made mistakes and spent countless nights questioning my choices. I rely heavily on the insights of Black adults to guide my parenting, continually striving to raise confident Black children who can navigate a world that often feels dangerous.
I refuse to tell my children fairy tales; that won’t keep them safe. Polite societal norms do not protect Black lives. I’ve explained that while some officers genuinely care for the communities they serve, many others do not—and that all are part of a system that frequently criminalizes Black individuals. We may never know which type of officer we encounter, so we must always err on the side of caution.
For many white children, police are friendly community members who participate in local events. For my kids, the police represent another potential source of systemic racism. As their mother, it’s my responsibility to equip them with the skills necessary for survival.
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Summary: The article recounts a mother’s experience raising her Black children amidst the realities of systemic racism and police encounters. It highlights the challenges of instilling safety and awareness in her children while grappling with her own privilege as a white woman. The narrative emphasizes the need for vigilance, education, and honest conversations about race and safety in America.