Send Them Home to Me

I prayed relentlessly for my son—the salvation of the Lord—Isaiah. I wanted what I thought of as a “second chance” since I placed my firstborn son for adoption from birth. I got him.

But when I found out I was getting him, I cried. And I cried. And I cried. Some were tears of joy, but mostly I cried because I was scared. I was so profoundly and completely engulfed with fear because I did not (and still do not) know how to keep a black boy safe in America.

I cried because I felt, and occasionally still do feel, ill-equipped to teach a Black boy “how” to behave so as not to be seen as a threat. Now, I cry because I’m angry that I’ll one day have to tell my little Black boy that even if his head and ears are cold, he shouldn’t put his hood up. I’m furious that I’ll tell him that should his hands be cold and he puts them in his pockets, he should pull them out slowly when he sees law enforcement officers. Or, better yet, he should just not put his hands in his pockets because he may never be given the opportunity to explain himself, simply because he’s big, tall, and Black.

I am crying now, as I watch him try to figure out how to crawl forward and reach his toy, because his innocence will wane considerably sooner than that of his non-colored counterparts, because he will have to be taught that being a person of color can be perceived as being dangerous, especially a male POC, especially a Black, male POC.

So please, I implore you, if you ever see my Black kids in the streets, especially my son, and they, God-forbid, are behaving in a manner in which you construe as threatening (especially if that behavior is simply their existing), don’t try them in the streets. Don’t be their judge, jury, and executioner on the sidewalk. Please, please, just send them home to me.

Let them live to see another day.

— originally posted December 29, 2015, on Facebook.