I would have remained oblivious or found out much later if the pack of candy hadn’t fallen from my son’s pocket, clattering across the pavement as we hurried through the parking lot.
It was a pack of Mentos.
I hadn’t bought anyone Mentos; I had purchased some superhero shirts for a friend’s birthday party we were running late to.
“Did you take those!?” I exclaimed, gripping my son’s arm and turning us back toward Old Navy. Oh no. “You did! What made you think you could just take them? I told you no! And yet, you took them anyway!? We’re going home! No fun for you!”
“I saw them on the floor, so I thought I could take them,” he replied, looking confused.
“That’s nonsense! You know you can’t take things from a store without paying!” I shouted, my voice a mixture of frustration and fear. “If you do this when you’re older, Mama won’t be there to help you. Do you understand?”
Of course, he didn’t. How could he?
I stormed into Old Navy, dragging my son and his little sister behind me. With a mask of anger and embarrassment, I approached the cashier. “We took this by mistake,” I said, placing the candy on the counter.
The cashier looked puzzled but nodded as we left. We ended up at the birthday party anyway. I figured it wasn’t fair for my daughter to miss out because of her brother’s mistake. I made him sit in a time-out for the first hour, denying him any fun.
After the party, I decided he needed to return to Old Navy to apologize to the security guard and store manager. His eyes brimmed with tears as he faced them. Both men—young, white, and probably no older than 30—looked at him with pity, almost as if they wanted to apologize to this innocent little boy who had made a childish mistake.
I spoke with friends, both black and white, who shared their own stories of childhood mischief. They agreed I did the right thing: the time-out, the return of the candy, and the restriction from playing outside afterward. But deep down, I worried that I was overreacting, fearing this incident foreshadowed worse things to come.
In a different reality, perhaps I could brush off my reaction as an overreaction fueled by desperation and anxiety. However, I knew the consequences were harsher for children of color. A friend had told me about her “chubby white teenage nephew” who faced no repercussions when caught shoplifting. Would my son have received the same leniency?
I envisioned him at 15, tall and athletic, facing a store owner who might insist on pressing charges for a petty offense. The thought made me nauseous.
Instead of directing my anger at a 6-year-old boy who had made an innocent mistake, I should have channeled it toward a society where such fears exist. Why is it that 50 years after Rev. Martin Luther King Jr.’s passing, black parents still lie awake at night, worried that their children are judged by their skin color, not their character? Why must we still have “the talk” with our sons, knowing that one wrong move could jeopardize their futures? And why do most white mothers rarely face such fears?
As a parent, I’ve experienced countless moments of exhaustion and stress, but raising a child within a biased system feels like an overwhelming burden. I sensed that this was just the beginning of a long, challenging journey.
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Summary
The author recounts an incident where her young son accidentally took candy from a store, leading to a deep reflection on the implications of race and parenting. Her fears stem from societal biases that disproportionately affect children of color, highlighting the reality of having to prepare her son for a world that may treat him unfairly.
Keyphrase: Parenting and Race
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