‘You Ain’t Everybody’ – Black Moms & Their Sons

I could hear the familiar tinging sounds of Frosted Mini Wheats hitting the sides of the bowl, so I knew that Evan, my youngest was having his breakfast.  I grabbed my robe from where it lay at the bottom of my bed, slipped it and my slippers on and shuffled to the kitchen where I found Evan standing in front of the counter pouring milk into his bowl, bobbing his head to whatever rap song was playing so loudly that I could easily hear it blasting through his ear buds.

I closed the refrigerator door, which he had left opened and started dancing to the beats of his music.  He shot me the ubiquitous “why do I have the crazy momma” look and said way too loudly, “I was gonna shut it when I put the milk carton back in.”

“What I need you to do after you finish your cereal is to go put some clothes on that makes it look like somebody loves you,” I ordered.

“Oh my God, Mom, everybody dresses like this during exams,” he stood indignantly in pajama pants, white socks, Nike sliders, and a long-sleeve white t-shirt that looked as if it had been balled up for months.

“You ain’t everybody.”

He rolled his eyes and started shoveling the cereal in his mouth – drips of milk splashing with every scoop. “I’ll be home later tonight because the team is splitting up and going into the neighborhoods around the school, to sell the rest of our coupon books door-to-door.”

“That ain’t happening.”

“Huh,” he replied putting down the cereal bowl and taking his ear buds out.  Mom, it’s a fundraiser for the team. It’s required and I’ve got to go.  Everybody on the team is going!”.

“You ain’t everbody.”

I had probably said that phrase to him 1,000 times in his life; and by now he had learned that it was useless to argue with me.  In my mind, he knew because of my countless lectures that when it came to him, my Black son, I thought that even the smallest wrong decision could be disastrous for him.

“You want me to allow my 6’1″, Black child, with natural twists all over his head to show up at the doorsteps of strangers’ homes in an all-White neighborhood at night,” I questioned. “Are you crazy or do you think I’m crazy?”

“Mom, I will have on my jersey.  The people will know that I am part of the basketball team,” he countered.

“Baby, some people won’t even see your jersey.  They will see a big, Black guy and automatically will become scared.”   I went on to remind him of Trayvon Martin and Tamir Rice. I reminded him about the stories of how his Dad used to have troubles catching a cab sometimes even when wearing a suit, and of me who had been followed around stores although I was dressed to the nines. 

 I went on to remind him of the messages that were frequently posted on Nextdoor, our online neighborhood watch, alarming the neighborhood that there was a person walking or driving who looked as if they “didn’t belong”. The person was always Black or Brown. 

“When you get home you can go try to sell the books on our street – where everybody knows you; and won’t be startled to see a Black man at their door at night.  We can also call your Godmother, the family, your play aunties and get the books sold,” I reasoned. 

Mom, that’s not the point, he said dejectedly, as he picked up his cereal bowl, poured the leftover milk into the sink and left his bowl and spoon there.  He walked past me, hustled downstairs and went to change his clothes.

I leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, and questioned myself.  I didn’t feel any better about my decision than my son did. Naturally, I always wanted to give my son what he wanted.  I understood that he wanted to be with his teammates running around canvassing neighborhoods and happily enjoying the competition of who could sell the most or hit their goals most quickly.  He deserved to have those moments – fun and carefree with the rest of his friends.  But my impulse to protect him was overwhelming – it caused me to act somewhat irrationally. But isn’t that what fear does? After watching video after video, reading article after article, and hearing personal stories repeatedly of Black boys being abused by police, hunted down by neighbors, and treated like criminals by store owners, it’s understandable that Black parents suffer from a form of PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder).

A long time ago, I stopped trusting America to see my Black son the same way I do. A long time ago, I stopped trusting America to treat my Black child the same way they would a White child. So how can I possibly parent him the same way? I never felt as if I had the luxury to simply love him and indulge him. No, my parenting style hasn’t been fueled solely by love; it has been fueled by love for sure, but also by fear. America has taught me that my son will be seen as a man, not a child. America has taught me that Black boys are deemed dangerous. I understand that a lot of kids – or as my son says, “everybody” – do many of the things that my son wants to do, but I don’t permit. But I am trying to raise a Black boy in America.  And he – and all Black boys – ain’t everybody.

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