Children

We live in a world where people are easily influenced. Heck, I'm a writer and influencer for a living, so I get this in its most extreme state. But when it comes to the nitty-gritty — the big life decisions — I want my son to have a strong head on his shoulders and do what he instinctively knows is right for him.

Yes, a lot of parents are assholes. But you know what? A lot of people are assholes; some of them happen to have kids, some don’t. I can’t speak for all parents, and I wouldn’t want to try. But speaking as one particular person with kids, here’s what I wish my childfree friends would understand…

My son is particularly anxious about death. He’s generally sensitive — he’s yet to make it through a full movie because anytime there’s a minor conflict he gets too upset and we have to turn it off. We left Zootopia in the theater when the big animals were being too “mean” to the rabbit. We left a screening of Toy Story in the park because he got too anxious when Woody and Buzz got left at the gas station. (We didn’t make it to the genuinely terrifying broken toy hybrids.)

For the first time in March 2014, the U.S. Department of Education, Office of Civil Rights (OCR) collected data regarding how early learners are disciplined during the 2011-12 school year.
That report showed that while black children represent 18 percent of preschool enrollment, they accounted for 48 percent of students receiving one or more suspensions.

I'm 23 years old, I don’t want children, and every elder who discovers this feels compelled to tell me how wrong I am about my own feelings.

“Don’t talk to strangers. Unless they resemble George Clooney and have a steady job at Microsoft. In that case, give them Mommy’s number, or just walk them straight home with you.”

This piece is for you, my non-Black friends, my non-Black family members, my non-Black activists, my non-Black educators, and my non-Black partner. This piece is for you, because whether you know it or not, you benefit from anti-Blackness.

I find myself in this place again. I am numb. I feel empty. I almost have no words.
In 2012, around the time of the birth of my son, I had a similar feeling. Trayvon Martin was killed. I was pregnant with a black male in a world that was not ready for him.