I am Black. My husband and the biological father of my two boys — one toddler and one in utero — is white. We knew early on that we wanted children, but it wasn’t until I was pregnant with our first son that I really started to dig into my husband about being a father to Black children — Black sons, no less. To his credit, he dove into reading and research and frank conversations on his own. We were getting him ready for a journey he maybe thought he’d never be on: fathering Black boys.
All the while, I didn’t give much thought to my own journey: being the Black half of the equation for our multiracial children.
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My expectations were blown up pretty early on. I just assumed that our oldest son’s complexion would fall in between my husband’s and mine and that he would clearly, unequivocally look Black. But nope, he is quite fair-skinned. Furthermore, for the first 12 months of his life, his hair was stick straight, really eliminating any trace of my heritage in him.
During my maternity leave, many, many women assumed I was his nanny. There was one woman in particular who could not fathom that he came from me. One day, we were in the post office getting things organized for our son’s passport. I was tending to him and my husband was filling out paperwork. This older white woman ambled up, looked at our baby, turned to my husband, and said, “He’s gorgeous.” I chimed in with a thank you. She gave me a sideways glance and turned back to my husband to ask his age and his name. Again, since my husband was trying to fill out some paperwork, I hopped in. At that point, she said, “Are you… are you his mother?” And I said, “I am.” Just to confirm that she had no social grace whatsoever, she insisted, “No you’re not! I don’t believe it.” Wanting the interaction to end, I laughed and said he favors his father, but he is absolutely mine. I should’ve told her to mind her business.
Pride and love for their Blackness do not erase the fact that just being Black can be lethal under far too many everyday circumstances.
My husband has no recollection of this interaction, but it pissed me off for weeks.
Our son is only 15 months old. He may darken. His hair started to curl at 12 months and still might kink. But for now, he is a chameleon. Depending on who is holding him or on the proximity of the on-looker, he doesn’t look Black. Which… threw me for a loop. My kids are Black, as of course, I knew they would be, but I wasn’t prepared for a scenario where my children might not look it.
In an ideal universe, this quirk of genetics wouldn’t matter; here in reality, he may have dodged a bullet because of it — bullets that are typically reserved for people that look like his mother. This ambiguity offers him a layer of protection that I am deeply — secretly — grateful for. That I’m secretly grateful that my son could be mistaken for a fully white child makes me ashamed. Secretly because a confession like this would make my parents, my brother, my family ashamed. It would confuse and wound my husband. It would demand an explanation that I don’t typically have the energy to give. But given the circumstances, I will try.
Being the Black half of a Black–white set of parents makes me feel like the guilty half. It makes me feel like I have robbed my children of the shield that their whiteness would’ve otherwise given them.
When I watch the news and yet another Black man has been slaughtered, my first thought is that maybe my Black son, because he is light and because his hair is loose, maybe my baby boy won’t ever be subject to that kind of torture. Maybe the terror familiar to people with my complexion will skip him. Maybe he’ll be spared the inhumanity of becoming the sacrificial lamb that forces white people to acknowledge that we have a fucking problem.
It makes me ashamed that this superficial yet essential protection is something I could never provide him. Furthermore, this protection vanishes when he is with me. It makes me worried that one day when he grows up and realizes that this country (this world) values humans based on the color of their skin, he will look at the difference between his father and mother, and be ashamed of me too.
I have to clarify something here. I am not ashamed of being Black. I am proud to be Black. I love being Black. I am aware, however, that the Blackness I have passed on to my son — even with all the glory and history and joy it brings — puts him in mortal danger. And that awareness is a weight on my heart. I am his mother! I am supposed to protect him at all costs! But my contribution to his personhood, my blood, puts him at risk in a way that his father’s does not.
All Black people learn that their pride and love for their Blackness does not erase the fact that just being Black can be lethal under far too many everyday circumstances. This makes me terrified for my children. I am quietly, ashamedly hopeful that the splash of whiteness gifted by their father will let my sons have their cake and eat it too.
Our younger son will arrive in a few weeks’ time, so we’ve yet to see which genetic cards he has been dealt. Of course, no matter his complexion and no matter the texture of his hair, his mother, his family, and our friends will love him unconditionally.
And yet, I know the world will have to wait and see.
*The writer is anonymous to protect her children’s identities.
