Editor’s note: This piece was written during the week of Alton Sterling’s and Philando Castile’s shooting deaths by police officers, as well as the deaths of five officers in Dallas, Texas. This is the second of two TT staff reflections on these events. Find the first here and teaching materials to discuss these events here.
Here I sit, at the end of my first week at Teaching Tolerance. I sit in the shadow of the Civil Rights Memorial and Dr. King’s first pastorate. I am steps away from the epicenter of the civil rights movement—and watching as my newsfeed explodes with violence.
For days, I have been awakened to grim news. On my way to work today, I sang “Itsy Bitsy Spider” with my son, fighting back tears for his beautiful life. His young, male, black life that I know is not safe. I would protect his life with my own, but this week is another startling reminder that, no matter what I do, there will be times when I cannot protect him.
I was pregnant with my son when Michael Brown was killed in Missouri. I remember weeping with my hands held to my growing stomach, knowing that my son would be born in this unfair and confusing world. As mothers-to-be often do, I imagined what my son would look like. And I knew that his skin tone could be any range of color because of his mix of cultures and races. But my pregnant daydreams were tinted with fear. I was terrified for what my gut already knew: I could teach him to be proud of his unique blend of cultures and heritages—and of his skin—and to be respectful to others and accepting of all. I could control this. But I could not control how the world would see him.
Now he is here, and as the months pass and he swims and plays in the sun, his skin gradually darkens. His beautiful curls grow tighter and his big, dark eyes stare up at me. He is too young to understand me, but I say to him every day, “Mama’s got you.” I’ve got his back, but weeks like this make me feel like the world will turn its back on him.
He is so similar to the hundreds of boys who have entered my classroom, their personalities, skills and gifts a second thought to a society that sees color first. I taught them respect, I taught them to value their minds, and I showered them with love. I taught them how to navigate this world as best I could, but I could not control how their skin would affect their lives.
As a mother and as an educator, I’m concerned. I’m scared. I know that I am running out of ideas of what to say to my son when he gets older. I am just as tongue-tied as I was when I stood in front of a classroom full of boys looking to me with pleading eyes for answers after Michael Brown’s death. As we watch the new normal unfold in the United States, what do we tell our sons, our daughters and our students?
For now, I sing during car rides with my son. I focus on what I can control: reading our favorite books every night or cheering together as he says a new word. While he sleeps, I take time to pull out the box of handwritten notes from my students that I cannot seem to part with. I scroll through old videos and pictures of my brilliant students learning, dancing and doing anything to make me laugh. These small moments with my son and memories of my students are what bring me joy to face another uncertain day.
Mascareñaz is the director of Equity Affairs for Wake County Public Schools and a former teaching and learning specialist for Teaching Tolerance.
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