"Mama"

It took a while for me to watch the video of George Floyd's assassination. I had read countless descriptions, seen the photo stills, and read his last words. But I had actively avoided watching. Call it self-care, if you will. Late one night last week, I was up watching videos of protests on Facebook. A video ended, and the next video that started was a repost of the murder. My gut told me to toss the phone across the damn room. I knew that if I watched, the anger that had mobilized me to write, share, and donate might melt into debilitating sadness. But I watched. Every muscle in my body tensed. Tears burned hot in my eyes. My jaw clenched. My pulse raced. My heart broke. I wanted to run. When it was over, I dropped the phone, and cried until I fell asleep. 

"Mama." 

"Mama."

On the first night of major protests in Atlanta, mayor Keisha Lance Bottoms said, "When I saw the murder of George Floyd, I hurt like a mother would hurt." There was little that she said that night that resonated with me, but those words did. That exact sentiment is why I have not been able to stop hearing George Floyd call out for his mother in his dying minutes. Through this all, me and the rest of Black America have had to keep working, paying bills, speaking out, cleaning, showing up, cooking, donating, protesting, organizing - living. But the hardest thing, y'all, is mothering. I have had to look my babies in the face, and explain why the world is on fire.

"Mama."

"Mama."

My baby girl, at 3, has been floating around engaging in her latest obsession, having picnics. She is blissfully unaware.  But my boy, at 5, and sensitive like his mama, is not. At age 4, a classmate told him that he could not play with them because he had brown skin. He has been the only Black kid in nearly every class and extracurricular activity that he's been in for the past 3 years. He is acutely aware of his skin color. The night after I spoke to him about George Floyd and the demonstrations in our area, he dreamt of getting hurt by a bad cop, and having a good cop take him to the hospital. No doubt the result of his little brain trying to reconcile the hard lessons I taught him the day before, with the "cops are good" mantra that is taught in preschool, kid shows, and children's literature. I felt guilty for doing this to him. The same kind of guilt I feel when I hold him down to get a vaccination. The hardest part of parenting - inflicting temporary pain so that you can literally save your kid's life. 

Daily, I make sure that both my babies know their worth.  I affirm their beauty.  I encourage their creativity. I applaud their bravery. I cultivate a space where they can be free. Except when I can't. What does freedom look like for little Black babies, anyway? Our little boys' rambunctious energy is pathologized as ADHD and emotional disturbances. Our little girls' assertiveness is classified as disobedience and bad attitudes. Black children don't get to have bad days at school, or else they're handcuffed and routed into the system. Even their hair is "against the rules." Our babies have to learn about the dangers of racism early on, because their lives depend on it. Where is the freedom in that?  The world beyond my reach wants anything but freedom for my children.  So like Mayor Bottoms, when I heard George Floyd call out for his mother, I hurt. And when that word, "mama," rings in my ears, I feel helpless to protect my children. 

 

I feel cynical toward the sudden outpouring of support for Black lives from individuals, businesses, and major corporations. If after Trayvon, or Eric, or Tamir, or Sandra, or Philando, or any of the many others, they had been willing to do the uncomfortable "thing," we might not be printing George's name on t-shirts right now. I can write, post, donate, vote, protest - but what is going to prevent the need for printing more shirts? More specifically, what is going to prevent them from having my children's names printed on them?  Real questions and real fears of every Black mother that I know. 

There were many white mothers I know that sent me text messages, liked my Facebook messages, or shared stories on their pages last week. I was not in any mood to thank or applaud them. Because quite frankly, it is not enough. It is the bare minimum. I am parenting my children to protect themselves against racism. And white mothers, if you really mean what you say, you should parent your children to be anti-racist. 

This week I had to tell my children that their lives matter. Specifically, that their Black lives matter. That they are beautiful, smart, and loved. I need you to tell your children that my children's lives matter. 

This week I had to tell my children that there are people who hate them solely because of their skin color. I told them that those people are wrong. I need you to tell your children the same. 

This week I had to teach my children the meaning of the word "protest." I told them about the long history of people putting their bodies on the line to effect change. I need you to teach your children the same.  

This week my husband and I had to struggle together over what and how to tell our children. I need you to call your spouses to the carpet, and work with them to raise your children to be better.  

This week I was made to feel uncomfortable at work. I spoke up. I need you to be okay being uncomfortable, and to speak up. And to let your children see you speaking up to your friends, family members, and coworkers. 

I will have to tell my children these things again, and again. Yes, it feels like I am stripping away their innocence. I need you to keep telling your children these things again, and again. It would be an active exercise of your privilege to do anything less.

I need you to not cower behind the "I don't see color" line. I need you to see mine and my children's Blackness, and to celebrate it. I need you to say to your children that Black lives matter. 

I need you to raise your children to not hate my children. 

"Mama."

White mothers - this week I heard a Black man call for his mother while a white cop murdered him in the street. Pretend that he was your son. I need you to hear George Floyd's cry for his mother, and hurt as only a mama can hurt. I need you to allow that hurt to fuel action. And I need you to continue to act when no one is looking, when the Facebook likes are irrelevant, and when it's not trendy to do so.  

If history has shown us anything, it's that we can't do this alone. So as much as I'm annoyed by the bandwagoning, I know that it is necessary. Everyone is going to have to do their part, bear some burden, and pull their weight. White mothers in particular, I am calling you out to do your part. The most important job you have in this effort is to check your privilege, acknowledge your bias, and break the cycle of raising racists. 

If you're not willing to do this, then don't "ooh" and "aah" over how cute my kids are, don't like a single social media post of mine, and don't private message me your support. If you're not willing to do these things today and everyday moving forward, then we have nothing left to talk about.