Let Me Speak to the Mothers of White Children Out There

I am the last person in the world anyone wants to hear from about race. I am super white, super privileged and super afraid of saying the wrong thing or offending anyone.

I thought I was a peacekeeper. I thought I was diplomatic. Nope, I was just chicken-sh*t.

It's freaking scary to talk about race in this country. On one hand, you have people shouting from the rooftops that something has to change while on the other hand you have people who are yelling let's go back to the way things were. I know people from both sides and I love people from both sides. And I don't want to see people get hurt.

But, here's the thing: people are getting hurt. Every. Day. Nope, they're DYING every day. They are dying because we cannot have an honest conversation about race in this country. They are dying because people like me are afraid to ruffle feathers. They are dying because people like me are having a hard time believing that life is not as fair as we want it to be. And they are dying for a host of other reasons that are as complicated as reasons get.

We are having a hard time believing our brothers and sisters of color when they tell us what their lives are like. Maybe we don't want to believe it or maybe we just don't see it for ourselves yet. Either way, we are failing to have faith in our fellow humans when they tell us they are struggling, afraid and oppressed.

Now, let me speak to the mothers of white children out there. Imagine for a moment that you have a son. But imagine your son is black. (Now, we mothers can do this whole "imagining" thing quite well because we dream about our families. We envision what they will look like in 5 years, 10 years. We imagine ourselves with daughters or sons and love them even if they don't exist, even if they were never born. We can do this "imagining" thing.) Imagine that your son just started driving. You're nervous about his ability to maneuver a car and you lecture him on the importance of not texting while driving. Imagine that you also have to tell him that policemen would be will be inherently suspicious of him. Not all of them--but enough that he needs to be aware. Imagine nagging your son to pull his hood down not because you want him to look more presentable (because who doesn't want their teenage son to be more presentable?) but because you don't want people to think he is a threat and shoot him. Imagine trying to explain to your son that people will think he is going to harm them just because of the way he looks. And you know your son. You know he is gentle and kind and brave and smart and witty. But you can't see that stuff, especially not in a first impression. And so you tell your son to be careful because people will assume that he is dangerous. People will look at your baby and be afraid. People will look at your baby, clutch their purses and draw their weapons.

Your baby. Your boy.

And this is where it gets me most of all, my fellow moms. Our babies are our hearts walking outside of our bodies. Whether you are black or white or Mexican or Syrian, our babies are our EVERYTHING. We know this. This is the cherished not-so-secret gift of motherhood. This is the most incredible thing we mothers have in common!

It is also why we should believe our fellow mothers of color when they tell us how afraid they are for their sons. There is a circle of trust that exists among moms when we are at our best. And, let's be real, we are at our best A LOT. We make each other laugh, hold each other up and witness each other's pain all the time.

When a friend miscarries, we hold them in our hearts and bring them flowers.
When a friend is expecting, we throw showers and cook food.
When a friend gives birth, we show up and we clean and sit.
When a fellow mom is waiting for that adoption call, we wait alongside them with baited breath. When someone loses a child, we sit with them and grieve, knowing that life will never be the same.

We are there when it counts and we listen (it's what we do best). We listen and we believe the stories and the struggles of our fellow moms.

And so I ask my fellow mothers of white children to offer the same courtesy to our sisters: mothers of black children.

Let's hold them dear and hear what they have to say about their children: their fears, struggles and worst nightmares. They are hurting, this we know. Now is the time to believe and to have faith in them. To quote Trayvon Martin's mother, "You know a mother's heart."

And we do. We know a mother's heart. We can imagine what mothers of black children's hearts must feel like right now.

For they are mothers, just like us.