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That Black Man You See … He’s 12

Updated: Oct 25, 2022

It seems it was a short time ago that my son was an infant — soft and small — his tiny body easily cradled in my arms. Just last week he turned 12. He stands taller than me and is quickly gaining on his dad’s height.


Drawing in pencil by a small child shows two adults hugging with a child between them and two more children in the foreground. Adults have talking bubble above them that reads: “We Love all of you. Jude is now 12”
Drawing by author’s youngest child in celebration of her big brother’s 12th birthday.

He has big beautiful eyes, a fantastic sense of humor, he’s kind, and he’s friendly. He plays flute and ukulele and is trying to teach himself Japanese. He’s great on a pogo stick, times his runs to improve his speed, and manages better than I ever will on a skateboard. He knits, wants to learn how to code, and enjoys cooking. His natural tendency is to give people the benefit of the doubt. I wish I could tell you more about my wonderful boy, but it’s difficult to capture in written word how lovely he is.


And he’s 12. His dad and I often have to remind people how old he is. His size, deep voice, calm presence, and manner of speech can fool you. He looks and sounds older. He stands taller than many of his young classmates and even his older cousins, his shoulders broader and arms more muscular. I know that while — when I look at him I see his empathic and gentle nature — others may see something sinister. Something assumed because of his darker skin, textured hair, and larger-than-12 years size. Something connected to the narrow, disparaging, and untrue narrative of black men that’s steeped in the white American story.


He’s 12 and we treasure him. As he grows so does my fear that we will lose him to this racist world. When I share this worry with white loved ones, it doesn’t go well. The myth of colorblindness is also strong here.


“Where’s your faith?”


That’s the question recently asked by my white loved one. It was their response after I shared our, my husband and my, fear about allowing our biracial 12 year old to ride his bike alone to the nearby playground. Though I’m sure my questioner didn’t intend to create distance, their question did just that. After they asked it, I felt as though they couldn’t hear me or, worse, they heard and couldn’t bring themselves to care.


I explain how we live in a community with mostly black neighbors. I said that our home is located in a historically black part of our city — described as “bad” and “dangerous” by many white people. Cops frequently drive down our street — daily in fact. I shared that the presence of the police does not promote comfort or safety.


I remind my loved one that things often don’t go well when cops interact with people who don’t look like us. We talked about my son’s age — how he just celebrated the beginning of his 12th year and last month entered the 6th grade. About how he is so young, has much more to learn, more ways to grow. How, to me, he’s a baby in a world that already sees him as a man.


I recall with my white loved one how they expressed deep sadness over Tamir Rice. I reminded them of Tamir’s age when his life was ended by police. How Tamir was simply playing with a toy in a park — doing what kids are supposed to do in a place where kids belong. I tell them this is just one of the stories that is connected to my fear and sadness.


I leave the talk with my loved one feeling unheard. My sadness unacknowledged. My fears dismissed.


It wasn’t until later — after a conversation with friends (shout out to Clayton and Sean) — that I was able to rethink this conversation with my loved one and better frame the differences between us. It wasn’t until later that I recognized where my faith lies and that, my positionality as a white woman partnered with a black man, parenting 3 brown children, has informed and shifted my faith.


My loved one — also a white woman — saw us as the same within our system of race. On the surface, the racial design benefits people like us. We both have faith in it.


While her faith is what mine used to be, optimism that this system looks out for all people, my faith has changed. I have faith that a racial structure, built for white dominance, cannot be about the safety and flourishing of brown and black people. I trust that the racism I’ve witnessed is real. I believe my family and friends of color when they speak their lived experiences of racial inequity. I trust that the way we white people learn to center whiteness, makes it hard for us to connect to, empathize with, and humanize black and brown pain.


I trust that the white people in my life will expect me to continue being an agent of whiteness. I have faith that white people will continue to deny or try to counter the truths about racism and racial inequity. I believe that whiteness will carry on infecting the minds of so many. I believe that whiteness will keep trying to draw me in with offers of belonging and safety. Sadly, I also believe that I’ll succumb to whiteness again — that my work is not done.


I trust that I’ll continue to struggle letting go of the ways whiteness taught me to demand the privilege to sit comfortably rather than come face to face with the truths of race. I can solidly rely on whiteness to try and keep me blind to and quiet about the ways I was conditioned to mindlessly participate in and perpetuate racial violence. Whiteness will try and dissuade me, but I already know that violence out of consciousness and out of sight is not peace and inequality unconsidered is not justice.


My white friends and family try to offer comfort. They tell me they “completely understand” my fears. More often than not, this comment is followed by the sentiment “you can’t let fear rule your life.” They remind me that I have to have faith all while confirming the faith I hold that whiteness will continue on it’s racist course.


But my fear and faith are tied together. They reflect what Gavin de Becker speaks of as a “gift.” It’s the instinct that tells us when something is unsafe; the gut feeling that protects us from violence. Black and brown bodies are not safe here. To tell me differently is to ask that I deny this instinct.


I have faith. I believe our history — one in which the US has proven time and again that, overwhelmingly, it’s not interested in protecting or valuing all of our citizens. Where’s your faith?




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