When I look into the big, brown eyes of my black boy, I see innocence and joy radiating from his soul to the depths of mine.
But fear lingers in my soul alongside it.
His innocence and joy are mine to grasp and hold onto like treasure, ‘til they slip through my fingers and into the hands of a world where many people view what meets the eye and are blind to the heart and humanity that only becomes visible when you go deeper.
I desire to erase the recent tragedies from my mind, but what mother can forget another brother slain when she looks her son in the face and knows that he will grow up to be a black man in a wicked world, too?
My mind reverts to George, among others. Perhaps because of the details.
The lense in which I view these stories is not that of a politician or a protestor.
I view through the lense of a mother.
I think of his mama- how the being of a mother and child are so intertwined. She passed before he did, but I wonder about her soul.
Did her soul tremble as his body was pressed against the concrete?
Did her soul quicken as he cried “Mama” in his last seconds?
Did his polite plea, “Sir, I can’t breathe” remind her soul of the little boy she taught to use good manners?
Did her soul quiver, knowing that the baby she watched take his first breath, took his last breath beneath the weight of a stranger’s knee??
Ultimately, God sustains every breath, but I take it upon myself to protect my own boy’s breathing at all costs.
When he was a newborn, I kept one eye open all night, out of fear that the swaddle might come undone and cover his face. When he learned to roll and preferred tummy sleep, I tiptoed into the room throughout the night, making sure his head was turned and his nose and mouth were visible.
When he is congested, I will go to any measure to clear his nasal passage. When he is hot, I shed layers so that his breathing can be effortless.
What is a mother to do when the breath that she spent her life protecting is cut off so heartlessly?
Her story is my story. Her pain is my pain. Because her son could be my son. God, please, change the narrative.
Son not statistic.
Son not statistic.
Son not statistic.
