Things I Can Do That My Black Son Can’t
In the days after the Michael Brown shooting, I wrote an essay titled "I Hope My Son Stays White," detailing my fears about what might happen to my biracial three-year-old son if he grows up to have dark skin. The upshot: America, to its shame, is still a place where black males are feared, and I don't want that fear to turn itself on my son in a way that leads to his arrest or death.
I published the piece on Ebony.com, and the reactions from black readers ranged from "sad but true" to allegations that I myself was engaging in the very racism and colorism that I was decrying. But buried among these was a comment from a white reader who accused me of "sucking up to black folk" and then went on to list the supposed advantages of being black in America. (Apparently, according to this reader, my son will have an unearned fast track to a career as an air traffic controller. Um, okay?)
I can't help but think that, if the essay had been published in an outlet with a larger white readership, many more commenters would have chimed in to deny the continued existence of racism. In my experience, white people (and straight people, and male people, and Christian people — all groups of which I'm a member) tend to dismiss the notion that we're privileged. It's an uncomfortable thing to acknowledge that you're the recipient of unfair benefits, especially when those benefits are often nearly invisible to those who receive them.
But when you're a parent, those privileges stop being invisible. It's the reason why male congressmen with daughters are more likely to support women's issues. It's the reason why Ohio Sen. Rob Portman suddenly declared his support for same-sex marriage after his son came out as gay. And it's the reason why, everywhere I look, I see hassles that my son will have to face that I don't. Here's a partial list of things I can take for granted, but which will likely be problematic for my son: