We used to joke that I could go anywhere at night with my two big black sons. No one would mess with me with those two tall men, one on each side, walking down any dark alley you care to name.
Now it’s the other way around.
Now it’s the other way around.
But even if I were to go with them, would my whiteness protect them from trigger-happy cops wondering why those two black men are one on each side of the small white lady. Would my very presence doom my children? Would the police think–if someone called 911 and said, “There’s two big black dudes and they have this little old white lady”–would they think to ask, “Ma’am, are you okay?” Would they shoot first? Would they assume I was the victim of a crime because I was out with my babies?
Tall black men whose diapers I changed, whose faces I wiped the baby food off, whose first steps I cheered, whose first words were “Mama” and it meant me.