It was one of those unexpected winter Sundays in the Midwest. The temperature soared, and the sun was shining brightly. Our town came alive, with many families heading to the park, including mine, after months of indoor confinement filled with arguments, Netflix binges, and far too many snacks.
When we arrived, the parking lot was almost full. I maneuvered our minivan into an open spot, barely shifting into park before my kids flung open the sliding doors and raced toward the playground. I waved the older three ahead, reminding them to look out for younger children, while I held my three-year-old’s hand. As I watched my kids dash toward the slide, I trailed behind with the baby, dropping our bag of water bottles on a nearby bench.
About ten minutes into our playtime, another family showed up. Two white parents with their two daughters, likely around four and six years old, stepped out. The mom sipped her coffee and informed her girls that she and their dad would be jogging around the long track encircling the playground. The girls nodded and took off to join some other kids in a game of tag.
The parents strolled off, gradually fading into the background. I noticed the younger girl started looking anxious, her eyes darting around. Before I could intervene, she took off in the opposite direction from her parents, heading toward the bathrooms that were unfortunately closed for the winter.
Meanwhile, the parents were still engaged in conversation, unaware of their daughter’s distress. Should I wave my arms to get their attention? I couldn’t abandon my own kids to chase after a stranger’s. Just as I was weighing my options, the parents finally noticed their daughter darting down the track. They waved goodbye to the other couple and ambled back toward the playground. It felt like I was watching a scene unfold from a privileged perspective that I could never attain.
I was bewildered. I could never imagine leaving my children unattended, not even if I was close by squeezing in some exercise. My kids—two tweens, a first grader, and a preschooler—are black. The harsh truth is that black children face stereotypes and racism in nearly every public space. Each visit to the park reminds me of Tamir Rice, the twelve-year-old who was tragically killed while playing in a Cleveland park, a stark reminder of the dangers that lurk even in innocent play.
As I observed this incident, the difference in how we navigate parenting became starkly clear. My son, along with two Asian twin boys and a white child, began a game of dinosaurs, growling playfully atop a plastic rock tower. Suddenly, the white boy’s dad, who was previously oblivious while his son climbed trees, intervened. He called his son away from the group. The boys were just having fun, but their loud play seemed to signal a threat to the father.
I wasn’t at the park to judge other parents; my hands were already full with my own kids. However, I couldn’t help but notice how parents of kids of color tended to keep a close watch on their children, while some white parents were engrossed in their phones or absent entirely. The reality is clear: white children are afforded a sense of safety that my kids simply do not share.
My children are burdened with rules that their white peers do not face. We don’t allow any toy guns outside our home—even brightly colored ones that are obviously not real. They must always take a bag and receipt when making a purchase, no matter how small. We’ve drilled into them the appropriate responses when interacting with law enforcement. And when we enter businesses, they cannot have their hands in their pockets or wear their hoods up.
Are these rules fair? No. Are they necessary for my children’s safety? Absolutely.
Monitoring my children isn’t about curtailing their independence or limiting their enjoyment; it’s about protecting them from the “Cornerstore Carolines” and “Barbecue Beckys” who are quick to surveil children of color. While I can’t be with them forever, my hope is that these lessons will help keep them safe.
Parents of white children have their own worries—social media dangers, bullying, and child trafficking. Yet, they do not share the additional concern that parents of children of color face: the fear of how their kids will be perceived by others.
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In summary, a day at the park serves as a powerful reminder of the different realities that exist for my black children compared to their white peers. While all parents share common fears, those of us with kids of color must also navigate the added layer of societal perceptions and biases that threaten our children’s safety.
Keyphrase: Black children safety in public spaces
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