I would have remained oblivious to my son’s actions if it weren’t for the sound of a pack of Mentos tumbling out of his pocket as we hurried across the parking lot. I hadn’t bought those candies; my focus had been on the Batman shirts I’d purchased for a birthday party we were already late for.
“Did you take those!?” I exclaimed, grabbing my son’s arm and redirecting us back toward the store. “Oh my God! You did! What made you think that was okay? I told you no! So you just took them? That’s it! No Chuck E. Cheese’s party for you! We are going home!”
“I saw them on the floor, so I thought I could take them,” he replied, clearly confused.
“That’s nonsense, and you know it! You don’t take things without paying for them!” I shouted. “If you do this when you’re older, I won’t be able to help you. Do you understand?”
Of course, he didn’t grasp the gravity of the situation. How could he?
I stormed into Old Navy, dragging my son and his little sister along. With a mixture of anger and embarrassment, I approached the cashier. “We took these by mistake,” I admitted, placing the stolen candy on the counter. The cashier looked puzzled but nodded, and we left the store. We ended up going to Chuck E. Cheese’s anyway; after all, my daughter shouldn’t have to suffer for her brother’s error. We were already there. I made my son sit alone in time-out for the first hour before he could join in the fun. And since it takes a community of well-meaning individuals to offer unsolicited advice, I decided that after the party, he would have to return to Old Navy to apologize to the security guard and the manager.
He could hardly face them, his eyes glistening with tears. The two young white men, no older than 30, looked at him with pity, almost as if they wanted to apologize to this innocent little boy who had made a typical childhood mistake—a lapse in judgment that required parental correction but would be merely an anecdote in most families.
I discussed the incident with a few mom friends, both black and white, who shared their own stories of childhood mischief. They agreed I handled it well by enforcing a time-out, ensuring he returned the item, and restricting his playtime. Yet, I couldn’t help but feel that I was overreacting, digging too deep into my fears.
In a more equitable world, I could say my reaction was unwarranted. But I knew better. The stakes are higher for children of color. Just the other day, a friend recounted her “chubby white teenage nephew” getting caught shoplifting from a convenience store, and facing no consequences whatsoever. Would a child with darker skin have received the same leniency?
I couldn’t shake the vision of my son at 15, tall and strong, facing an angry store owner or manager who might consider pressing charges. A minor offense could escalate into something catastrophic.
Instead of directing my anger at a six-year-old boy who had made an innocent mistake, I should have directed my fury at the systemic injustices that cause black parents to lose sleep, knowing their children will be judged by the color of their skin rather than their character. Why do black parents still have to give their sons “the talk,” knowing that one misstep could have dire consequences? And why is it that most white mothers live free from these worries?
As a parent, I’ve experienced exhaustion and frustration, but navigating this harsh double standard took me to a whole new level of anxiety. I felt overwhelmed—especially knowing that this was just the beginning.
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In summary, my child’s innocent mistake highlighted a harsh reality: the world judges differently based on the color of one’s skin. As parents, we must navigate these challenges and consider the implications for our children as they grow up.