On raising a Black man in America

I was scrolling my feed not too long ago and came across a picture of four young Black men. Two initial thoughts crossed my mind. The first was, I can’t even imagine Ash at this age (why do they grow up so fast? **ugly cry face emoji**). My second thought was, I wonder how America is going to treat these young Black men. Then something happened that I couldn’t quite process well. I felt nervous for them. Like almost tangible, butterflies in the pit of my stomach, weird, uneasy nervousness.

Some days after that, I saw “This Is America,” the provocative video from Donald Glover (a.k.a Childish Gambino). Honestly, my first thought was, okay; I can’t easily comprehend the profoundness. I was compelled to watched it again though…and again…and again. The more I watched it, the more it unfolded for me; the value (or lack thereof) that has been shown for Black men (and woman), the racially charged injustices that still flows through America’s veins. Then something happened that I couldn’t quite process well. I felt disgust like almost tangible, sickening to my core, loathing, revolting, disgust.

That day, I came home and hugged Ash so tight. I kissed him probably a hundred times more than my usual. While I was engulfed in my affections for this beautiful, sweet little boy, I looked at Brian and said, “it’s so much we have to teach him about being a Black man in America….” Brian looked at me. It seemed like a million thoughts began flooding his brain at one time, but his response was a simple, “Yup.” I just kept kissing Ash. He laid back on the couch, smiling and laughing from all of the attention.

Then, he began to playfully push his legs against me as in “mommy, that’s enough…” (Side note: Ash is strong, like remarkably so. Most people, including his doctors and nurses, are often amazed at his mighty baby power when it is tested). As he pushed those little legs at me with all of his strength, I laughed and grabbed on to (maybe) a fickle piece of assurance. I looked at Brian and said, “I hope this is his way of telling me, ‘don’t worry mommy, I’m very strong.'” You are going to have to be son.

Later that night, I got a text from one of my co-workers. It was a picture of her lovely son and daughter. My mind and heart were still charged. When I looked at the picture of her precious children, I couldn’t help but think, “It’s not fair; they are White, so she gets to raise her son without warning…” I silenced my own self though because comparing your life to others is faulty, and well, self-pity is a waste of energy. Even with that realization, I was feeling some kind of way about the “extra-ness” of my son’s life being a Black man.

That makes me remember something. Some months ago, I was walking back to my clinic with one of the doctors I work with. He is not Black, but a lot of his research focuses on racial disparities in care (particularly with Black people). Anyway, he was asking me about how Ash was doing. Of course, my love beams were instantly turned on and in full effect as I gushed on and on about his yumminess. I was expecting an “awww,” or “oh how nice…”, or something to that manner. He entertained my mommy rant for half a second and then asked me had I seen Chris Rock’s Netflix special on raising Black kids in America. No, I hadn’t seen it. His response was, “You gotta make Ash tough, Amyre. He’s a Black man in America…You should check out that special.” Thanks.

I remember my dad would not allow us to hang out in or patronize certain surrounding areas of Detroit. “They do not like Black people…” We never questioned him and the “limitations.” There was plenty to do otherwise and certainly plenty of places we preferred to gravitate to anyway but I honestly never really fully understood his rationales until I got older. In fact, my naivety may have even caused me to believe that he was just making certain rules out of paranoia from his prior life experiences growing up in Alabama in the ’40s. Me back then: It’s the 90’s; things are different now, right?!

Daddy, I get it now. That was not paranoia; that was your way of raising Black children in America. That was your way of protecting us from certain “encounters.”

Thinking about it all made me have an anxious moment like I needed to talk to everyone I knew who did it. How did you raise your Black son in America? What did you do? What did you tell him?

It would be beautiful if America would miraculously receive an epiphany about love and equality. Until that happens, I realize that Brian and I are going to have to do what our parents did (and their parents did), protect Ash as best as we can, teach him about the “extra-ness,” the “encounters,” and pray that God always is with him. Be strong, son.

Photo credit: Toni Braxton/Instagram