by Kyra Wooden
What will my future child look like?
Will he be a boy?
Will he have locks that fall gently at his shoulders?
Or will his hair kink and coil up toward the sun?
Will he take on my likeness and be a free spirit?
Or will he be more reserved and prefer his alone time?
Will he want to play, run, and jump all day long?
So much so it’s impossible to make him sit still?
Because his growing limbs are constantly moving
When he grows older, what will he love to wear?
Will he take up a casual street style with nice sweatshirts and baggy jeans?
Or will he beg me to buy him another pair of suspenders?
Will he lead his friends on adventures as I did?
Spending late summer nights at the beach dancing under the moon
As the sand melts under his feet,
Feeling the world around him, thinking to himself
Life may not always be beautiful,
But sometimes, even joy can pour down like the rain
What will my boy be?
I’m not sure
But what is true
Is that he will be black
He will be a black boy.
Although it is unclear what shade his melanin will take
He is my black baby boy.
My son will have my blood through his veins
The blood of a mixed woman
But still the blood of a black woman
So what if his hair grows to the sun?
Will he have to cut it to obtain a job?
Have to conform and compromise his locks to live?
What if he is a free spirit?
Will it destroy him that I must teach him words like “comply?”
That a man hiding behind a badge will have control over his life
Will he fear that word control?
What if my son, who was never able to sit still
Is unable to “not make any sudden movements”
As his rousing limbs reach for his identification
Will this cost him his life?
Will I be the mother convincing the press that my boy was gentle?
That his heart was good
And that the shots that bore through it were underserved
And will they respond that he looked like a threat?
That I should’ve known better than to let him wear baggy jeans and sweatshirts?
Should I have pushed for those suspenders?
Will witnesses come forward and recall seeing him late summer nights
Thinking he was probably “up to no good” on the beach?
When he asks “Mom? How do you do it everyday?”
And I know he is simply asking me how do I live everyday.
I think what my response will be.
Because I want him safe
I don’t want my son to die
But I don’t want him to die a thousand deaths
As he tries reconcile who he is with whom they want him to be.
So dear son, if you want to be wild or serene
Preppy or street
If you want to feel the world or look from a distance
Run in the mornings or late at night
If you wish to buzz your hair or grow it as tall as the clouds
Speak as fiercely as you can or whisper your words softly.
Do so.
Because the only way anyone can kill us
Is by killing who you are first
