There is a fear that permeates black culture that usually goes unexposed. Black mothers and fathers worry about the of safety their black sons, simply because they are black.
When I was in my twenties I was at the mall with my little brother. He was about 14 at the time, but he was already taller than me. I don’t think he’d ever lifted a weight, but he was still long, thin, and muscular. Like his classmates he wore baggy pants and t-shirts everywhere he went. Unlike his classmates he had a severe learning disability that left him with a pronounced stutter and the mind of someone much younger. He had to be watched closely. In spite of this, my brother is the essence of kindness in its purest form.
Once when we were kids I tried to get him to sneak into a movie with me after the one we’d paid for was over. He refused. I started going anyway. He cried, and begged me not to break the rules.
That day at the mall, he and I were eating. I finished before he did and I decided I wanted to stop at a store while he finished his food. I told him to wait for me. I told him I’d be right back. I went to a store, not far at all from where I’d left him. When I returned he was gone.
I called to him. Walked into store after store and could not find him. I remember becoming convinced that he’d been taken by a security guard of one of the high end department stores and that he was being questioned. Because of his disability, they might even have thought that he was mocking them. I was panicked. I searched and searched. Thirty minutes passed. I asked people if they’d seen him. Finally I found him. I burst into tears and buried my head in his chest.
“Uh-uh, it’s, it’s, it’s okay, Yvette,” he said as he awkwardly patted my back. I didn’t tell him why I was so upset. But I didn’t take my eyes off him again.
When I was pregnant I prayed for sons. I love my boys and the way that they dig in the dirt, play with mealworms, and never tire of laughing at the word “toilet.”
My oldest son has some anxiety and when he feels as though he may cry he makes angry eyes to fight the tears. He’s only seven, but he’s as tall as his friends who are ten. Late last year we went to the dentist for a cleaning. I told the hygienist about his anxiety and I never left his side. I rubbed his arm as a stranger put a loud tool in his mouth that sprayed water everywhere. Every now and then he fought back tears by making angry eyes. After a few minutes the hygienist said, “If you don’t work with me, buddy, I won’t work with you.” To me he looked all the more afraid, to her he looked defiant.
How old will he be when I have to have the talk with him? He’s so tall. Do I have to tell him when he’s eight that people will mistake his anxiety for a precursor to violence and that they may shoot him dead on the street?
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