Racing through my head are hundreds of disjointed thoughts. It’s like a to do list that needs prioritizing.
Remember, teach your young son how to handle authority ASAP:
Never run. Don’t make sudden movements. Show your hands, palms toward the officer, all fingers visible.
Don’t walk with your hands in pockets.
Don’t look menacing (even when it’s painful to falsely smile).
Don’t laugh – – presumed mocking is dangerous.
Avoid unfamiliar neighborhoods, and never linger in your own.
Obscuring your face for fashion could get you confused with another black boy. Flashy clothes, accessories could be seen as weapons’ metallic flashing.
Let’s face it, it’s safer to stay inside.
I think: Justice is not blind. It wears magnifying glasses that see color, but blur other factors of consideration – of common sense.
I pray: My black child won’t be seen as a threat to peace, to society, to the institution, to life. Thrive. Dream. Reach. Achieve. Become. It’s what every mother clasps hands together and asks of God.
I wish: Things weren’t always so hard. It doesn’t have to be easy, just not so seemingly impossible. Is this test ever going to end? Don’t I deserve a chance to see the results?
I wonder: When will I find the time to complete this project? Finish that book? Start that dream?
I want: to feel fulfilled. to be appreciated. to find affirmation…