By Sarah Thach
My partner and I are the mothers of three beautiful sons aged 10, 6, and 4. Our youngest two boys are African-American, and my partner, our oldest boy, and I are white. Currently in our country there are so many exciting advances for LGBT marriage equality and so much violence against African-Americans. This juxtaposition is painful. It is amazing to watch the rapid adoption of marriage equality across the land and poignant to see the dramatic shift in popular opinion about LGBT people. And it is frightening to witness African-American boys and men being killed in interactions with law enforcement over and over again throughout our country.
This summer and fall it hurt to see many white friends weigh in on Facebook about Robin Williams’ death and remain silent about Eric Garner, Michael Brown, and 12-year-old Tamir Rice’s deaths. It hurt to hear them discuss the rioting in Ferguson more than the precipitating police killing. It felt as if they did not think these deaths were relevant to their lives. I am guilty of not fully noticing my connectedness too – despite having grown up in a town adjacent to Ferguson, I did not feel fully sucker-punched by Michael Brown’s death until I learned his mother worked in my home town.
When many LGBT youth died – taking their own lives after being bullied about their sexual orientation – Dan Savage spurred a movement telling youth how “it gets better.” I am afraid our country sends the opposite message to African-American boys: as you hit adolescence, others stop seeing how beautiful you are and start seeing you as a menace.
I do not want to have “the talk” with my sons, telling them to be careful of and submissive around police officers and other authority figures. I do not want to raise my white and African-American sons differently – to prepare my African-American sons for discrimination while resting assured my white son is not as likely to be harassed by police officers, watched closely in stores, or have teachers ignore his potential and not challenge him. I do not want to teach my three boys that the world is less safe for two of them. I do not want to be the instrument that brings down the oppressive burden of racism on my precious 6 and 4 year olds.
We named our youngest son after Bayard Rustin, the African-American civil rights leader who helped Martin Luther King embrace nonviolent civil disobedience and organized the 1963 March on Washington. The only reason he is not a household name yet is because he was gay and purposely kept out of the limelight. I do not want to crush that rebellious, justice-seeking spirit in my boys. And I am afraid that spirit could get them killed.
LGBT people have gained acceptance in popular culture in part because we are embedded in every family. Straight family members, friends, and coworkers who know and love us recognize the injustice of laws treating us differently. Harvey Milk was right about how important it was for us to come out. As white LGBT people raise African-American and African children (which we seem more likely to do than straight white couples), brown-skinned children are part of our extended families and social networks. My father, a good ol’ boy from Oklahoma raised with pretty traditional views, embraced my African American sons as he did my partner when I came out. White friends told me they thought of my boys when they heard the police officers had not been indicted.
I think we white parents of African-Americans have an important role to play in holding (white-dominated) institutions accountable to fair treatment for all. And in standing in solidarity with – and learning from – African-American mothers and fathers who have been navigating these injustices with their children a lot longer. It pains me when I hear stories from African-American moms about how their boys are not challenged academically as much as their daughters, but are more likely to be suspended from school. But these are not new experiences for them. It hurts me when I hear white parents’ incredulity that their privilege does not protect their African-American children.
As a white parent of African-American boys, I love my children with the protective fierceness of a mama bear. But that does not mean I do not have some unexamined white privilege, some racism smeared on me that I have not scraped off yet. When I do something stupid, I want my African-American friends to let me know, to point it out just as if I had spinach in my teeth – “hey, you got something there, might want to remove it before you go out in public”… might want to remove it before you hurt your kids.
I want my white friends to notice that all of these murders of African-American boys and men affect them too. I want my white friends who have already noticed this, who commented on the lack of indictment with cynicism, to act. I want my activist white and African-American friends who are already leading marches, writing blogs and challenging unjust policies to gently spur the rest into action and give the benefit of the doubt when people unintentionally act racist.
I want to hold my sons tight and keep them safe. I want to keep your children safe too. I want us all to keep each other’s children safe and help them grow to their full potential, enriching the world with their gifts.
Sarah Thach is a health educator promoting healthy aging and racial health equity in Asheville, NC.
