Why this Minneapolis mom needs to talk to her son about race

I love my son.

He is not of me, but he is black like me. Born of African parents, birthed in Bemidji, a tiny thing, barely able to see.

I held him as soon as he came into the world. Perfect and beautiful. Curled up on my chest, fingers outstretched. Dreaming the dreams that sprinkled smiles on his face.

Ever since I was small, I collected ideas and stories to help me raise the child I knew I'd someday have. I learned the most from my kindergarten teacher in my hometown of Roosevelt Island, N.Y. Her name was Pat Semenza.

She taught me the importance of engaging young people as full humans. To treat children with respect and empower them to make their own decisions. To love them and see them for who they really are.

So with that tiny baby boy in my arms, I thought of her words. I remembered her graceful presence in my young life as I looked at my son.

As soon as that boy could walk, he ran. Family members and friends chased William in a constant loop around our block. Neighbors and strangers stopped and gushed over him. It was a stream of smiles and high-fives as he made his way around our Minneapolis neighborhood again and again.

He loved the world and the world loved him back.

But for how long?

Even as I marveled at his joyous freedom, a dark sadness crept in. When will it happen? When will the world stop loving him?

He is a black boy. There is no hiding from it. His reality will change, and I am dreading that day because with it comes the death of his innocence.

His love of the world will be buried with one racist word or act. There is no escape. It's going to happen.

Even when he was a baby, I wrung my hands in worry about how to best protect him from this. Not his spirit; there is nothing that can save the pieces that will be taken from him. This is just about keeping him alive.

He was still an infant when I started planning the conversations I will someday need to have with him. I will have to look that boy in the eye and explain why it isn't safe for him to wear the hood on his hoodie sweatshirt, even though it makes him feel cozy.

That he will have to be careful walking around his neighbors' yards, even though right now they delight in his surprise visits.

That sometimes it will not be safe for him to run, the one thing he has done since he could walk.

Why? Because he will grow to be a tall, strong black man and people who don't know him might fear him.

This won't possibly make sense.

Perception. Assumption. Fear. It's the cloud that will engulf him and poison him if those of us who know and love him can't help him navigate.

With every child comes a loss of innocence. That's a part of growing up, part of stepping into the world. A child must make mistakes, pick himself up and try again.

This is different. This is trying to save my son from people who may see him only as a towering black man and all the assumptions that go with it.

I think of my neighbors and their son. He is six months younger than William with blond hair and blue eyes. Lovely boy, lovely family.

What do I do? I do what all mothers try to do. Give him as much information as I can to prepare him. Help him become mentally, physically and emotionally strong. And love him as much as I possibly can.

And then I hope and pray for more people in the world like Pat Semenza, treating all people with respect no matter how tall or small, no matter how fast they run or how slowly they walk, no matter how dark their skin or blond their hair.

I pray that William can continue loving the world with the fullness he does now. And I pray that the world will love him back.

Kyndell Harkness is a Star Tribune photo editor.