I Shouldn’t Feel Grateful That My Son Doesn’t ‘Look Black’

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By: Jamila Carter

My son is biracial; his father is Caucasian, and he has my features but his dad’s fair complexion. Unless he’s been in the sun, he appears more like a light-skinned white child. People often say he looks mixed, but if you see him with his dad, you’ll quickly realize he doesn’t present as Black.

Initially, I felt a tinge of disappointment that my son didn’t appear more Black. However, as time has passed, I find myself feeling a sense of relief. Why? Because being Black in America right now carries a significant risk.

When I heard about a teenage boy who was shot at simply for knocking on a neighbor’s door to ask for directions, my heart dropped. Luckily, he wasn’t harmed, but it highlights a distressing reality: a Black boy can’t even ask for help without being viewed as suspicious.

This fear has been accentuated by other incidents, such as when two Black men were arrested at a Starbucks for merely waiting for a friend without making a purchase. I can’t help but think that my son’s lighter skin and curly hair might protect him in situations where others may not be so fortunate. If he ever encounters police, I believe he’s more likely to walk away unharmed, albeit shaken.

From the moment he was born, I became acutely aware of how others perceive him. He was just a baby when Eric Garner was killed by police not far from our home. During a visit to Missouri shortly after Michael Brown was shot, I felt the stares directed at us. It became painfully clear that I stood out as a Black woman with a white child; there was an unspoken question in the air about our family dynamics.

In New York City, we faced similar scrutiny. Out with my family, people would glance at us as though I had abducted him, despite him climbing into my lap to nurse and calling me “Mommy.”

Once, a stranger told me I was “lucky” my son looked white. I was taken aback, but perhaps she was touching on a more profound truth. The reality is that I don’t fear for my son’s life the way many Black parents must. He won’t face the threat of being shot while playing with a toy gun or being killed during a routine traffic stop. If he finds himself at a Starbucks without making a purchase, he likely won’t draw a second glance, let alone a police call. I’ll always worry about him as any mother would, but I don’t have to live in constant anxiety about his safety.

Every day, I think of the Black men I care about. I’m concerned for my father, who likes to sit outside during the day waiting for my mom to come home from work. Do I worry he could face harassment just for waiting at a bus stop? Absolutely. My brother and nephew live in a small Midwestern town, and I fear for their safety if they’re pulled over. I dread the thought of my friends becoming hashtags due to violence against them.

But my son? If he’s lost and knocks on a door for directions, he’ll likely be welcomed inside, perhaps even offered a ride. He won’t be perceived as a threat because of his skin color. He may experience challenges stemming from being of mixed race and having a Black mother, but he will not live in the same state of fear as his relatives and friends.

I don’t have to engage in “the talk” with him—the crucial conversation many Black parents have with their children about navigating a world that can be hostile. Instead, I’m teaching him to be an ally to his future Black friends, to stand up for and protect them, knowing he holds a privilege others in our family do not. He will straddle two worlds, but it’s troubling to think that if this is what it means to be “lucky,” I’d prefer to reject that notion entirely.

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In summary, my son’s appearance may shield him from societal dangers, but it raises complex feelings about privilege, identity, and safety in an unjust world.