The Terrifying Truth of Raising a Black Son
Words and Image by Amy
I have an 18-year-old son that is graduating high school this year. He is not a straight-A student, he did not letter in a varsity sport, and he is not volunteering in soup kitchens on the weekend. He is just an average kid, trying to figure out his way in the world as adulthood rapidly rushes upon him. His father has been in prison since before he was born; however, a year after he was born, I married a black man who worked in corrections and took on the role of step-dad as seriously as he took on the role of husband and provider. While we were married, we followed rules of society and laws governing us, we paid our taxes, we went to church, and we helped out people in need when we could. Not to say we never made mistakes along the way, but we taught our children right from wrong and showed them that people of different colors were all the same and they could be anything they wanted to be.
The elementary school my son went to provided an International Baccalaureate curriculum and taught German as a second language to all of the students. Because of this, it was a melting pot of all demographics and was an excellent place for our children to learn about diversity and the importance of being a global citizen. Just in my son’s Cub Scout Troop of nine, the following nationalities were represented: two white boys, a Syrian boy, a Jamaican boy, an adopted boy from Guatemala, a half-Japanese boy, two black and two mixed boys; my son and his best friend. They were all showing everyone how race did not matter and they were the best of friends for the five years they attended.
Fast forward eight years. The boy scouts were all seniors, and while many of them went their separate ways, they were still a credit to the community, excelling in different ways and making their parents and teachers proud. It was around the beginning of January when I realized that raising a black son was not the same as raising a white son in Trump’s America. (This is not a political piece, but I must comment on how radically racist things have become since he took office.) My daughter has a large group of friends (she is mixed). It is never a shock for me to come home on a Friday and learn that anywhere from two to five girls will be staying the night. I have a small home, but my boys occupy the downstairs bedrooms and my daughter and I sleep on the main floor. In January, a young (white) girl decided she was coming forward with an allegation against my black son. She claimed they had engaged in activities of a sexual nature one day back in July of 2019. Getting that call from my daughter (she was in the guidance counselor’s office when it was discussed) was shocking, but then hearing my son choking back tears and begging me for an idea of what to do was even more terrifying. I called the police and left messages. When I learned the state police might be involved, I called them. No one returned my calls. I did not know what to think or do. I called my cousin, an attorney, and asked what we should do. She in no uncertain terms told me to hire an attorney (she is white). She reminded me that I had a black child and laws did not work the same way for black people in today’s society.
I froze. Hiring an attorney was the same as admitting guilt, wasn’t it? If I paid for someone to represent my son, he was guilty of the crime she accused him of, right? Wrong. I hired the attorney and my son continued to go to school like everything was alright. A month after we learned about the accusation, a detective came to my house on a day all of the schools had off and he met my son. As he was not yet 18, the detective immediately ended the meeting and called me. I told him exactly what I was supposed to, “We have retained an attorney and if you want to speak with my son, you must contact her.” I said those things, but I didn’t mean them. What I wanted to say was, “My son is not a monster! He is not guilty! He will tell you himself. I would never let a child get hurt in my home under my care!” I wanted to defend myself and my son, but I remained silent. A week later we learned the case was going to the prosecuting attorney.
It was during this time, as we were waiting to see if the prosecutor was going to press charges, my son was jumped. We lived within walking distance of the school and he walked home every day. On a Tuesday, he walked home, wearing his headphones and listening to music, when a car slowly pulled up behind him. A group of four white boys, students at his school (including the girl’s older brother) got out of the car, ran up behind him and jumped on top of him; smashing his face into the cold sidewalk and punching him in the side of the head repeatedly while calling him a nigger and a rapist. Luckily, an older couple saw what was happening (this was in the parking lot of a restaurant on the way back to our home) and chased the boys off and gave my son a ride home. He called me when he was safely in the house, sobbing, hyperventilating, and begging me to come home. I left work immediately, called the lawyer and called the principal. The attorney, a black woman, said to let it go until we knew what the prosecutor determined. I couldn’t even press assault charges on these boys. The principal, a black man, said it was out of his jurisdiction. I had to send my son back to school with them. I wanted to stay in the house and hold him and never leave his side again.
Our story ended much better than others. The young lady changed her story so many times the prosecutor dropped all charges. My son went back to school and the rumors died down. I cannot imagine how differently it all could have ended. If my son had been a darker shade of brown, would this still be the outcome? When the detective called me to tell me everything was being dropped, he told me if it were his son, he would have hired an attorney, too. Even the good guys know that black boys, and especially black men, cannot get a fair shake in the world we live in. The best I can do is continue to teach my black son right from wrong, remind him he is not just a color, and tell him daily that I love him. Who knows? Every day I say it may be the last time I am able to.
About the Author:
Amy is busy trying to raise grateful humans in the mid-west. She loves reading, writing, pie, wine, and all things Gone with the Wind.
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