Letter To My Son
My Dear Son,
I pray that I will always be able to protect you.
I remember rubbing my belly as I sat in the dark room. You had been brewing for about six months and fear ensued as soon as the illumination of the TV screen filled the room. The words appeared shortly after: “When They See Us.” The longer I watched, the deeper my heart sunk. The more I thought about you. The gut wrenching story of the treatment of those five boys remained relevant 30 years later. Almost one year after the publication of that film, and seven and a half months into your time on this earth, I am bombarded by the #justiceforahmaud hashtag. The permeation of this hashtag throughout media streams transports me back to the root of the #blacklivesmatter hashtag and movement. I am reminded of the 2012 Million Hoodies March that I participated in. I am weighted with a flashback of the Emmett Till memorial I was immersed in at the National Museum of African American History and Culture. All of these accounts and the countless others weigh heavy. I carry them as I look into your eyes and tell you how much I love you.
My heart hurts for you, my child, as I know that my love does not lace the sidewalks that you will stroll when the time comes. My love does not stand between you and any encounter you may have with law enforcement. The world does not love you or your brown skin the way I do and it is scary. I always wanted a you. I had always dreamed of my first child being a son, but not like this.
I remember preparing for you before I even knew you were a boy. I talked to God about you. I prayed a prayer of gratitude and thanked him in advance for granting me: (1) whatever was in His will and (2) for willing that a son would be my first child. I remember picking out your first outfit at the Baby Gap and getting butterflies because I just knew my heart’s desire would be fulfilled.
I remember dreaming of a chocolate baby boy who’s skin was the perfect mixture of his mom and dad’s. I plotted on how often I’d tell you how beautiful and regal your skin was. I imagined a course head of hair that I wouldn’t question what to do with. I saw dimples like mommy and a bright smile that would warm my heart.
I remember the day I found out that you were a boy. Disappointment settled immediately, as I did not want to know so soon. The disappointment was also coupled with excitement as what I already knew had been confirmed. I remember coining you my “chocolate drop” at that point. The excitement of the prospect of having a chocolate drop of my own who would love me unconditionally came to a screeching halt that day six months into being pregnant. With each day that passes and as the love that I have for you grows deeper, the fear finds a way to creep back in.
As I stare into your eyes and tell you how much I love you, my double consciousness wants to scream out that the world does not. You were a victim upon conception. You were never given a fair shot. Your Black body will only be protected within a small scope. I talk with your dad about the amount of time we have left to simply treat you as our baby. When does time run out? Do I start grooming you for encounters with cops on your second birthday or do I have a little bit longer? Do I start telling you from now that your Black body is being preyed on? I am riddled with fear. My innocent son will experience things in this life that I will not always be able to shield him from.
So, if I hold you a little closer, stare at you a little longer, remind you more than enough that you are royalty or plant a few more kisses on your cheeks, don’t ever mind me. I want to savor the moments that Sabrina, Wanda and Mamie were robbed of. When I talk to God about you, I will always ask that He will keep you here a little longer…just for me.
Love,
Mommy
