I have three sons, two years between each. They are various shades of blond, various shades of pinkish-white, and will probably end up dressing in polo shirts and button downs most of the time. Their eyes are blue and green. Basically, I’m raising the physical embodiment of The Man, times three. The White is strong in these ones.
Clerks do not follow my sons around the store, presuming they might steal something.
Their normal kid stuff – tantrums, running, shouting – these are chalked up to being children, not to being non-white.
People do not assume that, with three children, I am scheming to cheat the welfare system.
When I wrap them on my back,
no one thinks I’m going native, or that I must be from somewhere else.
When my sons are teenagers, I will not worry about them leaving the house. I will worry – that they’ll crash the car, or impregnate a girl, or engage in the same stupidness endemic to teenagers everywhere.
I will not worry that
the police will shoot them.
If their car breaks down, I will not worry that people they ask for help will call the police,
who will shoot them.
I will not worry that people will mistake a toy pistol for a real one and
gun them down in the local Wal-Mart.
In fact, if my sons so desire, they will be able to carry firearms openly.
Perhaps in Chipotle or Target.
They will walk together, all three, through our suburban neighborhood. People will think, Look at those kids out for a walk. They will not think, Look at those punks casing the joint.
People will assume they are intelligent. No one will say they are “well-spoken” when they break out SAT words. Women will not cross the street when they see them. Nor will they clutch their purses tighter.
My sons will never be mistaken for stealing their own cars, or
entering their own houses.
Lecrae 