The Endangered Species

In light of the current events, I MUST exercise my voice for the community of black mothers and fathers raising black boys. I want to remind all of you that you have the power to empower our children with the gift of identity. It is said that "if you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the results of a hundred battles...". No matter what the unlearned society may try to label them, our children must know who they are: Kings, Queens, and Heroes, by showing them who they are not: victims and villains. This is for you and yours...

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The other morning after forcing myself to stay current on the recent injustices, my son, unaware of it all, grabbed me and held me tight. With a kiss on the cheek, he thanked me for his life. Ever so sweetly he said, "Mom, I'm just so happy you made me and stuff...". I pondered at this moment all day. I could not seem to figure out what prompted my son to express such gratitude. As if my eyes could stand to shed any more tears, I cried. I cried tears of unrest knowing how many black sons are being taken from us. I cried uncertain tears not knowing whether or not I should disclose to him the new devastation to our community. Above all, I cried tears of relief seeing that at the ripe age of eight he knows how precious his life is and is grateful for it. I questioned myself on how to convey the anomaly that is present when a black boy loves himself. How do I tell him that his appreciation for is own existence is a double-edged sword that when struck, will defend and offend? How do I help him master his power and not have a fear of using it?

When my son was two years young all he ever wanted was to be a superhero. Like most young boys he wanted to live out his imagination through character impersonation and makeshift cosplay. With my headscarf tied around his neck and sunglasses shielding his eye-dentity, he kept me safe from the bad guys day in and day out. His innate desire to be the hero spoke to me. I made it my responsibility to foster his development into the superhero he knows himself as. I knew then that I had to protect his image. From that day forward, every year, I gift him a new superhero costume for his birthday. In public, we get confused glares from passers-by wondering why I would allow my child to walk around like this. On the other hand, more often than not, we attract smiles of admiration for my willingness to provide the space for him to explore his childhood on all edges of reality. For him it is more than a costume, it is his identity; self-assured, fearless, and resilient.

When he turned five years old I lifted his mask and taught him the truth about the world he fights to protect in playtime. I informed him of how the living world continuously breeds enemies who will challenge his strength in ways he could never imagine. I explained to him that hate and all its minions will not view his mask as a heroic representation, but as a villainous disguise. But like a true hero, the hunger for justice keeps him suiting up for battle. Like a true hero, he remains confident that all things good and righteous will prevail. He remains sure that his nature to love and protect will be received and reciprocated.

My baby boy's eccentric ensemble represents more now than he can comprehend at his age. Equipped with the power of virtuousness and love of self, his identity is a divine force against systematic oppression. It is in his mask and super-suit that he basks in the glory of his ability to conquer his fears and fight his enemies. In his mask, he conjures up new rivals and new reasons to defeat the opposition once and for all. This gift of identity has highlighted his capacity to love and be loved, to fight and be fought, to fear and be feared all within the boundaries of his young imagination.

While my story is laced with the nostalgic essence of a boy and his toys, I do not wish to romanticize the journey into self-awareness while being a black child. As a mom, it aches me that I have to reality check my children's aspirations out of fear of them being targeted. I guess that is our privilege. We "stay woke" though our dreams are where we can find liberation. I am sharing my personal story in hopes that you too can see the role you play in protecting the endangered existence of a black boy's identity.

It was in George Floyd's cry for his mother that I heard my son's voice. Every mother heard her son's voice and every father saw his legacy muted. The community heard his cry. George Floyd, like so many other brutalized men and women of color, needed a hero. They needed someone like my son who does not stand down in the presence of evil. Yes, I allowed my child to watch the gut-wrenching video of a man's plea for his life because I knew it would fuel his fight for future generations. As you go forth, remember the power of identity. We are the earthly creators of our destiny and through our children, our destiny will be fulfilled.