Thank you for my precious boy, who was created perfectly, in your image, with a sharp mind, a tender heart and cinnamon skin.
Since I first held him in my heart, and then my arms, I have
prayed for wisdom and strength, with gratitude and joy, to be the mother he
needs, now and always.
Now I pray for his life, his future, his sense of purpose in
this world that breeds injustice and intolerance even as you have taught us to
love first, always first, and love most and love best.
Please enter the classroom where my son will sit on the edge
of a chasm between himself and his white classmates that is filled with lowered
expectations, higher rates of suspension, suspicion of cheating even as he is so articulate.
Turn the pages of his book, lift his ballpoint pen, build
the connections in his mind despite the depths of that chasm, so he can prove
himself over and over and over.
Hold in your hands the inferno of his curiosity so the pervasiveness
of institutional racism does not extinguish his light.
Please walk alongside him in the store while he clutches his
allowance in search of the perfect reward for a dollar earned, all the while
tailed by suspicious security, a concerned cashier, a secret shopper.
Help him not to lose the lessons we have imparted in the
excitement of his purchase.
Never touch
merchandise you do not intend to buy.
Never wander
aimlessly in a store.
Always
ask for a bag and a receipt, no matter how small the purchase.
Hold in your hands his carefree
spirit that he must leave at the entrance to be ever alert, on guard, in
control, until he can resume a relaxed posture, perhaps in the privacy of his
home at least, and always in the arms of his family.
Please sit in the passenger seat when my son is pulled over
for a burned out taillight, not using his turn signal, drifting too close to
the center line, driving while black.
Speak the words ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’ through his lips,
even while spread eagle and cuffed, without hesitation, as if his life depended
on it, which it does.
Hold in your hands the hurt, the anger, the attitude, the
humiliation, the questions, until he is among his own, who will be ready to hear
it and bear it, every time it happened.
Please keep my son alive.
Please keep my son safe and healthy.
Please keep my son motivated, passionate, and loving…
…even when
he has every right not to be.
Please hold my son in your hands, along with every other
black boy who sits in that classroom, walks into that store, and
drives down that street.
