- August 3, 2020
By Associate Cheryl Archibald
When he was born, I was so proud to have a Black son, a namesake for the family.
When he was little, I had him baptized and taught him about God.
When he was in elementary school and had a little pushing incident at school, I taught him to use his head and not his fist.
When he was in middle school, I signed up for pre-paid legal services just because I have a Black son
When he was in high school, I taught him to have no more than two of his friends in the car and not drive in certain areas to avoid encounters with the police.
When he might have encountered the police, I taught him what to do and say if he got stopped after calling us. He was to put and keep his hands in the open, don’t make sudden moves, say "Yes, sir," and "No, sir," and follow orders.
When we moved into a predominately white neighborhood, he was pulled over three days in a row by police officers just to be asked what he was doing in that area.
When he went off to college, he was stopped numerous times for walking around campus.
When he became an adult, I asked him if he has ever been in the back of a police car. He responded, "More times than I can count." Yet he only has one speeding ticket.
I fought back the tears the first time he experienced racism on the job.
I held my breath, when he couldn’t get a loan to fix up a home that he purchased, but the next buyer (white) got one right away.
I rolled my eyes when he was asked to train the white person that was promoted over him.
I now realize no matter what is done to raise a decent, law-abiding, tax-paying citizen, my son will still be hated, looked down on and treated differently because of the tone of his skin.
I now have a new hope—that my son does not have children, because being a Black child in America is too much for a mother to bear.