Whew, lawd. I have been away for far too long. I didn’t have
a lot of intelligent thoughts to write because I’ve mostly been thinking ‘What
the fuck is going on here?’ the whole summer.
Israel and Palestine at odds. Again.
ISIS beheading people.
Everyone
seems to have forgotten that those assholes of Boko Haram have terrorized an
entire country by stealing boys and girls and rallying AGAINST the education of
those same boys and girls.
Ebola ravaging populations the world likes to forget
about.
And then, here, militarized police forces and citizens silenced for
speaking out.
I am not the mother of a black son.
I am the mother of a
white daughter.
And I recognize that makes
me the one who should be listening instead of the one speaking but I can’t stop
writing this post in my head.
I’m not here to start debates that have already been had,
argue points that have already been made, dispute facts that have already been
purported. I’m here to talk about the pain under all of those straw man
arguments. I’m here to tell you that I don’t really give a shit what side you
stand on because I don’t think love takes sides. I’m here to tell you that
behind all the violence on both sides- the looting, the protesting, the rubber
bullets and tear gas is pain. And that’s what I care about.
When I hear mothers of black sons say they are scared for
the lives of their boys, I feel a call to pull up a chair, open my ears and my
heart because what she’s about to tell me is too important to ignore.
When I hear black men
say that they have felt humiliated, scared or stereotyped, I feel a call to
listen intently because I am neither black nor male.
When I tell people that I feel my most pressing job of
raising a daughter is to teach her how to not get raped and that sometimes it
keeps me up at night, I want them to listen. I want them to really hear me with
their hearts. I don’t want them to tell me not to worry about it.
When other mothers tell me that their most pressing job in
raising a son is teaching him how to not get shot, that they pace the floor
when their sons walk out the door, that they are never at peace while their
boys are not home, they’re asking for us to hear them. They are not asking for
us to recount the sins of the boys who have met the fate they fear for their
own boys. They are not asking us to give a list of reasons why their feelings
are wrong. They aren’t asking for us to immediately defend our position, our
race, our perceptions, thus making their position, race and perceptions
invalid and unworthy. They want us to listen. They want us to try to
understand. They want us to try our very best to walk a mile in their shoes or
at the very least, walk beside them on that mile.
Because no matter
what makes us vastly different, what makes our realities worlds apart, we are
still mothers and if we can’t see all of the children of the world as we see
our own-to be loved, to be valued, to be respected, then how can we teach our
children to love humanity? If we can’t value the struggles of other mothers and
see their fears as valid, then how can we teach our children empathy? If we can’t
listen intently to experiences outside of our own, if we can’t internalize the
lessons we learn from hearing those experiences, then how can we teach our
children respect?
If our dream for all of our children is that one day they
will grow up and make a difference in the world, then we have to start by
making a difference at home. Sometimes that looks like listening, sometimes it
looks like speaking out, and sometimes it looks like walking a mile hand in
hand. It always, always looks like loving.
