I first noticed the way people began to stereotype my son when he was merely a toddler. During our visits to parks or local play areas, any minor scuffle among the children would cause the heads of nearby parents to jerk up from their conversations or phones. Their gaze would instantly fall on my son, who often stood out as the only child of color in the crowd.
Their reactions were automatic, almost programmed—and sadly, all too predictable.
Just a year earlier, my son was a sweet, caramel-skinned infant with warm brown eyes and a tiny curly afro. We were frequently stopped by strangers who would rave about his good looks, speaking to him in cheerful, high-pitched voices while tickling his feet, hoping to earn a gummy smile in return.
But as he transitioned from babyhood to toddlerhood, everything changed. He grew rapidly, moving into the upper ninetieth percentile for height and weight. He was no longer a baby with chubby cheeks; he was a muscular little boy who looked much older than his two years.
With this change came a noticeable shift in how others interacted with him. A tantrum would elicit side-eye glances and hushed whispers, while if he acted age-appropriately by grabbing a coveted toy from another child, we could hear the irritation in the other parent’s voice.
I even considered dressing my son in a shirt that indicated his age, but deep down, I understood that his size wasn’t the only factor. My maternal instincts told me that it was his skin color that made adults uncomfortable.
A particularly striking moment of racism occurred when my son was two-and-a-half. While chatting with an acquaintance who commented on his growth, I smiled and said, “Yes, he’s a big boy.” Without hesitation, she called him a “cute little thug.”
Fast forward six months, and my son began preschool. During a parent-teacher conference, the teacher leaned in and asked me, “I probably shouldn’t ask this, but was he born addicted to drugs?” I was left speechless.
I realized she wouldn’t have asked this question of every child’s parent. Naturally, I reported the incident to the principal, and my son was moved to a class with a teacher who valued him for who he was rather than making assumptions based on his skin color.
Navigating life as a big-for-his-age black boy in America is a reality we’re learning to handle as a family. We are acutely aware of the preschool-to-prison pipeline and take precautions to keep our son safe. He isn’t allowed to play with toy guns outside our home, knowing all too well the potential dangers, especially in light of tragedies like Tamir Rice’s. The thought of him driving or dating one day fills us with anxiety as our primary concern is his safety.
The harsh truth is that black boys are often viewed as tough, suspicious, and threatening, simply because of their skin color. Consequently, we must prepare our son to face a world that will question and distrust him. Although he is only six years old, he understands that when we enter a store, he cannot wear his hood up, can’t keep his hands in his pockets, and must refrain from touching items that we do not intend to purchase. He knows he must always have a receipt and a bag for any items he buys with his allowance.
His guidelines differ significantly from those of his white peers, as he will always be viewed with suspicion. The color of his skin and the texture of his hair will lead to assumptions of guilt.
Recently, I took my son and his sibling to a medical appointment. He was his usual excited self, eager to explore the new environment. As he climbed onto the exam table and reached for an overhead lamp, the doctor’s assistant glared at him and snapped, “Are you always like this?”
To her, his energetic demeanor was a nuisance that needed to be controlled, but as his mother, I see his enthusiasm as a precious gift.
People often make assumptions based on how my son looks. Media representation—whether from news, movies, or even children’s literature—has conditioned society to associate brown skin with negativity. What I wish is that those who fear a big black boy could see my son for who he genuinely is.
He is deeply empathetic, a trait that is increasingly rare. Last year, when a little girl in his class was crying, he sat next to her, wrapped his arm around her, and cried with her, even though he didn’t know why she was upset.
My son is a nurturer. When we adopted our fourth child, he would sit on the floor, cradling her and feeding her a bottle while softly stroking her hair and singing her name.
As for his older sisters, he embraces their activities, whether playing with Barbies, racing bikes, sharing Shopkins, or dressing up as superheroes; he is all in.
I’ll always remember a Sunday when we were leaving church. My son stopped to introduce himself to a group of women by the door. One woman extended her hand for him to shake, and he gently kissed the top of her hand and smiled. He has an innate ability to connect with others. Just last Sunday, he took his time getting to his classroom because he was busy shaking hands with adults chatting in the hallway.
This is my son—empathetic, enthusiastic, playful, intelligent, and handsome. And he is not an exception; there are countless black boys like him, filled with remarkable personalities who deserve to thrive without the weight of stereotypes attempting to confine them.
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In summary, my son is a vibrant individual who deserves to be seen beyond the stereotypes. He is a reminder that children, regardless of their skin color, should be celebrated for their unique qualities and cherished for who they are.
Keyphrase: My Son Is a Big Black Child
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