My Hope For My White Sons
“Daddy, what are they doing?” Cyrus asked from the gray steps of my parents’ porch as protestors marched past chanting the words, “I can’t breathe.” The sound was enough to draw us from our home, enough to form a knot in the back of my throat and cause my four year old son to understand that this was not your run-of-the-mill parade.
I never thought I’d be here, if I’m being honest. By here, I mean in 2020, having to explain to my son why people march. Why people cry. Why people are repeatedly saying the name George Floyd. Now I know it is because of my ignorance, my white privilege that I never thought we’d be here, back in the heart of a civil rights movement. A movement I naively thought had long passed with favorable results. I have always wondered what I would have done had I been privy to that era sixty years ago. Would I take a stand? I hoped so. Well, here we are, nearly six decades later, and we are given another chance to make our voices heard.
Growing up, I never thought much about race. My favorite preschool teacher was black and I often had playdates with her daughter, thinking nothing of our differences. I think that’s typically how it begins for a lot of people. But when I was in the second grade, we moved to a tiny town in North Texas where there was very little diversity. My Highschool had one person of black ancestry, that’s it. So my naivety continued well into my teenage years. I was in an Advertising class my second year of college when I first heard about “the talk.” My professor had shown us a video of black families having hard conversations with their children about what to do in certain situations. She then addressed the black students, asking for a show of hands how many have had “the talk”. To my amazement, hands shot up all over the room. I fought back tears as I watched these students stare expressionless with raised hands. This was their reality, and I was shocked.
When privilege is recognized, it has the power to transform from a weapon of harm to a platform for reform.
More years passed and the memory of that moment faded in my mind. Moments would hit me with a whirlwind of conviction and emotion through news headlines and movements. A couple years back, my husband and I went to see “The Hate U Give” and were so moved, we just sat in our parked car for minutes after in complete and utter silence. The next day we tried to co-write a song about it, but time is often the enemy of passion, and every passing day led us to deeper complacency. And to my black community, for that I am deeply deeply sorry. I realize now that if we were to only fight the battles that affect us directly, this world would never recover from all the poverty and injustice and hatred that exists.
Photo by Perry Grone on Unsplash
This past month has found me humbled, crying out in prayer, shoulder to shoulder in solidarity and worship with my fellow black brothers and sisters and like-minded community, and if I’m being honest, I feel like it’s still not enough. I feel this deepening burden to raise up sons who have a better understanding of their role than I ever did. So when my son asked about the protest taking place in our literal front yard, my husband sat down next to him and began to engage. Maybe before my eyes had been opened (and to some degree they will always be opening wider to the injustices I’ve so fortunately been blind to most to most of my life) I would have given a half-hearted response, resolving to share more as he got older. But if I’ve learned anything these past few weeks, it’s that once again, time is often the enemy. And it’s never too soon to put a name to hate. So we told him the truth. We told him that there are some people in this world who feel threatened by people who look different than them. That God created people of all different colors, that all are precious to Him, but not everyone sees it that way. So we march because we want the world to know that black people’s lives matter, are seen, and have value.
I don’t worry about my boys growing up racist. My biggest concern in raising two boys of white privilege is ensuring they never become complacent. When privilege is recognized, it has the power to transform from a weapon of harm to a platform for reform. My hope for my sons is that they would never hesitate to stand with the oppressed. That they would not be blind to the differences that make our world so beautifully diverse, but that they would celebrate those differences through recognition and respect. I will aim to raise them aware of our nation’s history and well acquainted with the vast variety of cultures and lifestyles different than our own. My sons may never walk in the shoes of their black peers, but my hope is that they would forever walk alongside them until change is recognized on all fronts.
Matt has since felt compelled to finish the song we began. You can find it here. Please give it a listen.