I recently became a mom of 3. My eldest children are little girls, and I remember feeling extremely overwhelmed, yet excited about their pending arrivals. My life was forever changed – in the best way! Sugar-coating is not my ministry, so I won’t even pretend that I wasn’t afraid or that motherhood wasn’t a huge challenge. My husband and I were adjusting well as parents of two young girls. And then we got the news that we were expecting a third — we soon learned we were having a son.
We had our fingers crossed that maybe the third time would be the charm and we would be blessed with a son, and if not, we would be completely fine with it. I still remember the day we found out that we were indeed having a son and we were so full of joy and excitement.
But then, the more I racked my brain, that excitement turned to immediate concern.
Social platforms were not as popular during my first pregnancy, so there was no immediate access to all the horrible things happening in the world. We pretty much knew of mostly what the mainstream news reported, what we personally experienced, or the things that occurred closer to home. Now, with the rise of social media platforms and smartphone use, police brutality has dominated our conversations, and rightfully so. The Trayvon Martin case, one of many, hurt me to the core. All I could think about was the pain of his mother. I didn’t want to imagine what it would be like to walk a day in her shoes. Not even for a second.
I worried for my son. I worried that he would be born with a target on his back. I worried that he would make some of the same mistakes I’ve made in my youth and that they would cost him his life. I worried that he would breathe and it would cost him his life. I just worried.
I felt cheated out of my joy.
Then, Sandra Bland happened. I worried for my daughters. I worried that they would be at the wrong place at the wrong time. I worried that they would be too feisty and self-assured when communicating with authorities. I worried that they would breathe and it would cost them their lives.
It seriously never ends. As parents in general, we naturally worry for our children. But this is an additional layer to the already-growing laundry list of fears for black mothers. We can’t let our lives (and their lives) be dominated by fear, but that doesn’t mean we worry any less.
