I've raised two sons. One is white, and one is black. I did my graduate research in historical race relations in the Americas, and I've worked in academia and the nonprofit sector as a language specialist and diversity trainer for about 30 years.
When I read media reports on "Black America" and "White America," I am saddened, furious and scared. Much of what I read addresses polarization and white privilege — a dynamic I am intimately familiar with. I am relieved that, as a nation, people are protesting en masse, and hopefully, our collective conscience will take notice.
My own experience raising a black son has been an eye-opener. I have watched him be harassed by police at the end of the driveway — they insisted he put a key in the door to prove he lived in our (slightly) upscale neighborhood. They didn't think he had business being there. After graduating high school, three days before his 18th birthday he was hauled off to the Juvenile Detention Center for breaking curfew; his white counterparts were told to go home. I once got a call from a middle-school teacher who confessed that she was scared of him because he was tall and "he looked like a man." He was enrolled in an International Baccalaureate program. He was 13.
These are some, but not all, of the incidents he's suffered. As he approached manhood, they became more frequent, and the potential consequences grew more severe.
My white son has never been exposed to this kind of treatment. When he gets in trouble, he is gently reprimanded, reminded that he's a role model, and told to go home and think about it.
My black son has been harassed by police for sitting in public spaces.
My white son has not.
Daily, I scroll the local newspapers, looking for shootings involving black men my son's age. When I read accounts of the shootings of Trayvon Martin, Michael Brown and, more recently, the tasering of Christopher Lollie in my hometown, I think, "it could have been my son."
