The phrase “Keep Calm and Carry On”, which originated in England during World II, was coined by that nation’s Ministry of Information. (George Orwell mercilessly lampooned that agency by calling it “The Ministry of Truth” in his seminal book, 1984.) The phrase was to have appeared on a few million posters in order to encourage the British to stand firm in the face of a devastating war. However, a serious paper shortage prevented the message from being seen by more than just a handful of people for roughly 60 years. Then, in 2000, one of the posters was “discovered” in a bookstore.
Today, of course, the phrase “Keep Calm and…” (followed by various and sundry imperatives) is ubiquitous. Hardly surprisingly, said imperatives are employed to hawk a dizzying array of products. “Keep Calm” has also become an immensely popular social media meme. Conversely, it has also spawned counter narratives, one of which is very personal to me: “I can’t keep calm. I have a Black son.” While I’m not suggesting that parents of Black sons should cower in a perpetual state of hysteria, I am suggesting that we have good reason to be on high alert regarding their well-being.
Not only do I have a Black son; I was a Black son. And grandson. My mother and grandmother were constantly concerned about how the world would receive me and their other male offspring. (That is not to suggest that they weren’t concerned about Black girls and women; they very much were.) Along with admonishing me to behave with Christian character, these women taught me always to strive for excellence, irrespective of the challenges that they knew I would face.
I often reflect on my upbringing as I attempt to co-parent my Black son, who just turned 16. Like most parents, I couldn’t be prouder of him. He’s witty (though I often don’t “get” his offbeat sense of humor.) He’s charming. He’s on track to become valedictorian of his class. He’s very well-liked. Most importantly, he is loving, compassionate, and humble.
Yet, despite all of his wonderful attributes, I am constantly worried about his mental, emotional, physical, and spiritual safety. For example, a few years ago, we were in the grocery store to pick up some things for a family gathering. Three police officers walked in. Based upon the serious looks on their faces, and the fact that they were walking side-by-side, it was clear that they were looking intently for someone. My goofy, happy-go-lucky son had been galloping around the store. I sternly told him to stop. I then quickly paid for our supplies and we left.
With tears streaming down his face, my son asked me what he had done wrong. I said, “You didn’t do anything wrong.” Then I haltingly explained why he had to stop doing what he was doing – stop being himself – and remain at my side. I felt horrible as I looked at the utter confusion and disappointment in his eyes. I was reminded of that incident, and several others, when he asked me if he could get his ears pierced for his birthday. A long discussion ensued.
I broached the issue of how he was likely to be perceived by influential white people. That’s exceedingly difficult for me to admit, even to myself. But it’s true. Given the disproportionate racial power dynamics in our country, African Americans at least need to be aware of how we’re perceived. We then choose whether to present our authentic selves. In any case, I shared that wearing earrings would lead many white people to assume that he’s a “thug”, which is a euphemism for the N-word.
He understood my point – and quickly dismissed it. Given our conversations over the years, he was well aware of the potential for negative perceptions; he simply doesn’t care. I applaud him for that. And I would hasten to add that there are more than a few Black folks (usually my age or older) who engage in the same tired tropes about young Blacks. Still, the fact is that our stereotypical opinions, whether about ourselves or white people, tend to carry less weight.
Obviously, I consented to the piercings. There was never any doubt that I would do so; I just wanted my son to make an “informed decision”. Incidentally, his mother gave her consent as well. Though we’re divorced, I’m happy to share the credit for all of our good parenting decisions – and to jokingly blame her for all of our bad ones.
My son is succeeding in so many areas of his life, and will continue to do so, in large measure because he’s not at all limited by the racist notion that Black boys aren’t “supposed to” succeed. This has nothing to do with their intelligence or inherent abilities; it has a lot to do with what then presidential candidate George W. Bush accurately called “the soft bigotry of low expectations”. All three of my children have benefitted from the fact that they were reared in an environment that nurtured and encouraged them. I am delighted that they all present themselves just as they are; there is no other proper way to be.
