George Floyd’s murder fueled the fears of mothers with Black sons — including my own
(Note: This piece was originally written in June 2020 following George Floyd’s murder. It’s been sitting in my Google Doc drafts, and I finally have the courage to share this vulnerable space with others.)
I’ve always been conflicted by the seemingly harmless compliments by white passersby.
“He’s so adorable.”
“Look at those dimples.”
“He’s going to be a heartbreaker.”
Why? Because I’ve always wondered how long it would be before the adoration for my boys is replaced by fear because they feel threatened by the color of their skin. And I know that I won’t have to wait long to learn the answer, as our Black sons are seen as older and less innocent than their white peers — as early as 10 years old.
I’ve always wondered how long it would be before these feelings of adoration for my boys are replaced by fear because they feel threatened by the color of their skin.
In a country where every citizen* has the constitutional right to bear arms and shooting a gun is a rite of passage in many white households, I grapple with the idea of putting a toy gun in my sons’ hands. I’ve watched innocence leave my stepson’s eyes as I told him he couldn’t play with his Nerf gun as we walked around our neighborhood.
My husband once told me he was attacked by four policemen for playing music too loudly at a college dorm party. He’s even had a gun drawn on him for parking in an area that a security guard deemed suspicious. And like George Floyd, he’s had a police officer hold a knee to his neck to restrain him.
These events you see in the media? These aren’t isolated events where we have the privilege of posting a picture with hashtag #PrayFor and going about our lives unaffected.
Nope.
I hold my boys, revel at their innocence and their #BlackBoyJoy, and wonder if these are the moments I’ll reflect on if their lives are cut short.
I haven’t been able to shed tears after witnessing the recent tragedies. Maybe my body has become conditioned to the trauma of seeing a Black body discarded in the street at the hands of police. Instead the pain is internalized and packed away, as history has shown nothing will be done to relieve us of it.
But the photo of young George Floyd in his mother’s arms did it.
It was unexpected, as I was simply having a conversation with my husband about how I discovered the photo on Twitter. Then, I broke.
I understood the security and comfort he must have felt cradled in his mother’s arms. With the smile on her face, I felt the tender, unconditional love that any mother has for her young child. Most important, I sensed her motherly duty to keep young George safe.
My sons are around the age of George Floyd in that photo. I know that those moments when they’ll lay peacefully in my arms are few and far between. And I don’t have to imagine what it feels like to be a mother of a Black boy. I am the mother of Black boys. I saw my son and me in that photo. It opened my eyes even more that George Floyd could be my son.
And his final cries only echoed my fears as the mother of Black boys.
