Last Friday, my dear son, Jordan, was exposed to the harsh reality that some people will judge him solely based on the color of his skin. It was a painful moment that shattered his innocence.
For most of his life, Jordan believed that racism was merely a relic of the past, an absurd concept from a bygone era that had been erased by legislation in 1964. Just last year, while completing an assignment on Martin Luther King Jr., he looked at me with a smile and said, “I’m relieved it’s not like that anymore, Mom.” I nodded, feeling both pride and an unspoken sense of dread.
My partner, Alex, and I had unintentionally decided to keep him sheltered from the unsettling truths of our world. It was an unspoken agreement; we simply focused on instilling our values, teaching him to appreciate diversity and to engage with differing opinions. We encouraged him to question and seek understanding, all while trying to maintain his innocence for as long as possible.
But that bubble was burst.
Last Friday, while engrossed in a video game, Jordan overheard a discussion about George Floyd. Moments later, he entered my room, sitting beside me on the bed, and asked about what had happened. I was taken aback. My instinct was to nod, repeatedly, the reality of the situation washing over me like a wave. My body seemed to acknowledge the truth before my mind could catch up.
I struggled with the urge to simplify the incident, to explain it away as just another case of a “bad guy” doing something wrong, a narrative that he could easily comprehend. But that part of me also urged caution. I wanted to wait until he was older, more equipped to handle the daunting truths that would inevitably alter his perception of the world.
But looking at my eight-year-old—who seemed much older in that moment—I knew I couldn’t delay the conversation any longer.
We spent the next few minutes discussing George Floyd’s tragic fate. There were plenty of hugs, apologies, and tears. When my son asked if he would be killed by a policeman someday, I placed my hand over his heart and promised him that wouldn’t happen. I wasn’t sure he believed me.
I had always thought that this conversation would be one of the most heartbreaking moments of my life—and I was right. It’s indescribably painful to witness the world dim the light in your child’s eyes. The helplessness that fills a mother’s heart as she sees her child confront fear is overwhelming. We paused for a moment, with Jordan resting his head on my shoulder.
In that instant, he appeared older—less like the boy we tried so hard to shield and more like the man he would need to become. He wiped his eyes, stood up, and walked toward the door, only to turn back and ask, “Mom, does Dad know that racism still exists?” I chuckled through my tears, “Yes, he knows.”
Black lives matter. This simple phrase has become laden with political implications, creating a barrier for some to voice its truth. Saying “Black lives matter” does not diminish the value of other lives; it acknowledges the unique struggles faced by the Black community.
When Alex and I created our living trust, we had to confront difficult topics we preferred to avoid. We discussed many scenarios, including what would happen if one of us passed away too young. Choosing Jordan’s Uncle Mike as his guardian was an easy decision. Uncle Mike is the best person we know—kind, generous, and devoted to his family. He has loved Jordan as his own since the day he was born.
What many don’t know is that Uncle Mike is also a police officer. He sees people for who they are, not their appearance, and puts his life on the line daily to protect everyone in his community. His existence is a testament that not all officers are the same; there are those who genuinely seek to serve and protect.
Police brutality is a harsh reality, but Uncle Mike gives me hope that change is possible. He exemplifies that saying “Black lives matter” does not mean that other lives do not; it is simply a call to recognize the pain and injustice that has persisted for far too long.
I am grateful to everyone who has reached out in the past week, especially those willing to engage in uncomfortable discussions and acknowledge their privilege. Your activism, no matter the scale, is a beacon of hope.
Every time someone has publicly stated, “Black lives matter,” it has moved me to tears. I never realized that small gestures, like those little black squares on social media, could alleviate my feelings of isolation in such a profound way.
As I lie in bed tonight, contemplating the divisions within our society and what they mean for my children, I find comfort in your commitment to activism. It gives me hope that we can all navigate through this together, ensuring a better future for everyone.
In conclusion, it is crucial to acknowledge the struggles of the Black community while understanding that all lives matter. We must strive for a world where every person feels safe and valued.