Mama – Day 73

Last night, my spouse and I were watching the news and we learned about George Floyd’s murder — another black man killed by a cop. My spouse commented, “Every time I see this happen I think about E, S, and C. I can’t imagine how awful and fearful they feel.” I agreed. There is so much we as parents worry about. Anxiety comes naturally to any parent who loves their kid. We want to help navigate our children safely through the world. But one thing I don’t have to worry about is my son being brutally murdered by a cop because of the color of his skin. It’s not fair that our friends’s boys have to play by different rules. It’s not right that racism still has such revered place in our society and that the people we pay to uphold the law are permitted — again and again — to break it. 

While the news was on, the anchor told the audience that the video he was about to show might be too violent for children. Maybe it is for little ones. But children my son’s age, especially white children, need to see it. They need to observe the truth. They need to know that police are not always the good guys. They have to witness racism because if they don’t, they won’t realize it’s there, and you can’t work to eradicate something you don’t see. 

Last fall, in one of my writing classes, we had read an essay about black parenting. A discussion regarding racism followed and my favorite student — a young black man — asked me, “I think the difficulties of black parents are almost too obvious. You only have to turn on the television to see it. But if you don’t mind sharing, please tell me what you see as some of the difficulties of white  parenting?” At first, I was a bit taken aback. And I’m not always good at thinking and processing quickly, which is why I write much better than I speak. But I said, “One of the hardest things is raising my son to be race conscious in a sensitive and sympathetic way. I’m not always sure what is age appropriate. Nor am I always confident that what I say is correct.” And it’s true. As you know, I read an awful lot, but sometimes the material I read regarding race is conflicting. And when I talk to minority friends, even they disagree. But every time I read or hear about another black man being murdered, my student’s question comes back to me. And I wonder, in regards to race am I doing enough? What more can I do?

Personally, I do not understand this irrational fear of black men. I’ve had numerous high school and college students who are black, and I’ve never been afraid of any of them, even the ones who could easily bench press me with one arm. I’ve traveled through parts of Africa — a woman alone — and I wasn’t afraid. I’ve hugged black men and their hugs are no different than white men. Black men have held my child and I’ve never worried they would cause him harm. Twice in my life I have been physically attacked. Twice I’ve had to defend myself. Neither time was my attacker black. 

Today, we have reached 100,000 Americans dead from the Coronavirus. However, Floyd’s murder overshadows that huge milestone. My life has been terribly altered by the virus. It killed the man I loved most. But today, my tears are also for a man I never met. They are for all the young black men I know, and those I don’t. My tears are for the parents of black children who have to raise their children in a world where cops continuously kill them so callously. Science is working to find a vaccine for the virus. They are researching ways to cure it. What are we doing to prevent another brutal act by police? The virus has killed 100,000 Americans. When you look back over the course of our history, I’m fairly certain cops — or men empowered by the law — have killed more than 100,000 black men. Each of whom had a life. A family who loved him. A future stolen.

In other news, Disney has set a date to begin phasing open its parks — July 11. This summer, as you know, Dad wanted to take his grandson to Disney and Universal. We were set to depart on June 30 and we were due to return on July 10. Disney is opening the day after we were to leave. The dates are still marked on my calendar, written in happier time. It was to be the start of a fantastic fun filled summer. Now, nothing fun remains. Dad’s death made sure of that. But at least the park won’t be open until after we were supposed to be there. It doesn’t minimize the pain, but it takes away a bit of the sting. Even if Dad hadn’t died, our plans would have been foiled. 

My son’s school work is taking forever to complete today. I don’t think he has more than usual. He’s just moving in slow motion. Maybe it’s the heat. Or more likely, lethargy. He’s bored of the same sort of assignments over and over. The endless staring at a computer screen. It’s no way to learn, especially not for children.

When his work was done we went to play tennis. My son has reached the age where a compliment in public from me — his mom — is the equivalent of public shaming. He’s improved a great deal from when we started playing last summer (I just wish I was a better tennis coach). While we were playing, I told him that he was doing much better and that I was proud of him. Immediately, his nostrils flared, his brow crinkled, and he whisper screamed for me to “stop it or I’m going home.” I made the mistake of asking him what was wrong. He shot a glance at the people on the other court, rolled his eyes, and answered, “You’re embarrassing me.”

At home — after another half hour of tennis — I asked him if he wanted to play cards. He didn’t. Instead, he wanted me to watch him construct a boat, one he designed himself using paper. He then cut cork and glued it to the bottom so that it would float. It was a cute project. And when it was time to take a bath, he let one of his rubber ducks ride in his boat. 

Some of you have suggested that I try to publish the early entries of my Pandemic Diaries. I’m considering it. Finding an agent will be the tricky part. In prior attempts to find an agent, I’ve been told that memoir really only sells if the author is well known. I am not. There are so many voices already out there speaking about the virus, I’m not sure anyone would care to add mine to the mix. However, I’ve begun to go back to the beginning in an attempt to clean up my typos. Writing while crying made for some interesting mistakes. But the reading is slow and challenging. Living through it all once was hard enough. I’ve also written my query letter. Perhaps I should start researching agents.

Snapshot Rewind

2017: Every summer, my brother is kind enough to let us stay in his condo up in P-Town (Cape Cod) for a week. It’s a wonderful gift for all of us, especially my son. We go during Family Week, the largest international gathering of Queer families. It was there that my son met LC — a black boy with two dads. The boys connected almost immediately and they got along remarkably well. One night, we were hanging out with LC’s family. It was probably one of our most enjoyable evenings in P-Town, but what made it so enjoyable was watching the kids interact. Joking. Telling stories. Being silly. At one point, they wrapped their arms around each other while walking. Happy, simply to be in each other’s company.