Raising a Black Son Changed the Questions I Ask

By Jay Baugh Houston

I slept on it and realized something: As the white mother of a Black son, I know my perspective may reach some people who dismiss Black voices when they should be listening to them. So I will speak up, even if my voice shakes. If it helps someone understand why the death of Nolan Wells has shaken so many people, then I’ll use the platform I’ve been given.

I also want to be very clear about something. I have never personally experienced racism. I cannot tell you what it feels like because it is not my lived experience. I cannot relate to my son in that way, and I would never pretend that I can. Everything I know has been learned because people I love trusted me enough to share their own experiences with me. They were willing to have uncomfortable conversations so I could become a better mother to my son. I am deeply grateful for that gift and also hate that it even exists at the same time. My hope in this post is not to replace any black voices, but to echo and amplify them. If you’ve dismissed a post from someone who understands this in a way that I don’t, I would encourage you to stop here and read that first.

When people look at my family, our boat photos probably look a lot like Nolan’s boat photos.

The difference is that raising a Black son has taught me that what looks safe and what actually feels safe are not always the same thing.

My white children were taught from day one that they are their brother’s keeper. Leave together, return together. Look out for each other. Think about things that don’t affect you. Consider every scenario.

For example… My white children know never to walk in front of their brother in public. Because what if someone sees it and decides that a Black boy is following them? As ridiculous as that sounds to some, I don’t have to elaborate on how that could potentially end.

My boys don’t wrestle in the front yard. Because what if someone sees it and calls the police? Who gets viewed as the aggressor? I don’t have to answer that. You already know.

When my boys introduce themselves to people, it’s always, “This is my brother.” They lead with the relationship before anything else. First name and last name. And yes, I realize that’s borrowed privilege.

I could go on.

When we’ve received birthday party invitations, I’ve politely declined unless I knew my son wouldn’t be the only Black child there. “We can’t make it.” And suddenly, whether we did or not, we had other plans.

We only played one season of baseball in our county, despite my son loving the sport and being good at it. Because in the stands I heard him referred to as “the Black kid.” They didn’t know his mother was sitting right in front of them.

When we visit a church, I pay attention to the demographics before deciding whether we’ll come back. I’m thinking five years down the road. What will those friendships look like? Who will know and love my son when I’m not standing beside him?

Some people read those things and assume they’re about comfort.

They’re not.

They’re about risk assessment.

Raising a Black child forces you to ask questions many parents of white children may never have to ask.

Who will advocate for him when he’s not in the room? Who will believe him if something goes wrong? Who will notice if he’s isolated? Who will step in if he’s being treated differently? Who sees him as a whole person instead of a stereotype?

Being welcomed and being protected are not always the same thing.

Being invited somewhere doesn’t automatically mean your child belongs there.

A school can have great test scores. A church can have a beautiful mission statement. A neighborhood can have immaculate lawns and great property values…

None of those things tell me how my son will be treated when nobody who loves him is watching.

Before people get to know the demographics of the family I grew up in or the family George and I built, I’ve been part of conversations that would …and should… make your skin crawl. Racism is so common that some people assume if you share their skin color, you must share their beliefs. There are white people who say things around other white people that they would never say in mixed company.

That reality changed how I parent.

What happened to Nolan Wells is exactly why.

Did his friends murder him? I don’t know.

Was race the reason he died? I don’t know. Maybe not in the sense that someone took him out on a boat because he was Black and intended to kill him.

But maybe. History says it’s happened before.

And that’s where the fear lives. In the maybe.

Because if everyone on that boat had shared his lived experience… or even just a few more people, many of us wouldn’t be left wondering whether race played any role at all. Maybe the outcome would have been the same. Maybe it wouldn’t have.

The point is that there are questions where there shouldn’t be.

Questions about who notices. Who speaks up. Who intervenes. Who tells the truth when it’s inconvenient. Who lawyers up.

To my white friends whom I love dearly: this isn’t about whether you’re a good person.

If I call you friend, you can assume I believe you are. But there will always be a small seed of caution.

…and probably not because of you.

Because even if you’re safe, what about your uncle at the family cookout? What about your grandparents who lived through segregation? What did they believe? What do they still believe? What side of history did they stand on? What if they stop by while my child is at your house?

How many people in your family will love my child but still see him as different? How many will compliment him in ways they would never compliment a white child? “He’s Black, but he’s so cool.” <<< a real “compliment” I’ve heard from other kids via Fortnite.

How many assumptions will be made before he ever opens his mouth?

Those are the things parents of Black children think about.

Not because they’re looking for problems. Because they’ve seen enough to know those problems exist.

Maybe some people think that’s dramatic. Truthfully, I stopped worrying about that a long time ago.

Caring what people thought could have kept me from prioritizing the feelings, dignity, and safety of my son. If the death of Nolan Wells has reminded me of anything, it’s that those priorities were never misplaced.

And if you think I’m exaggerating…

Right here in Albany, Georgia, an 18-year-old young man named Samuel Jackson (pictured in the first photo here) has been missing for nearly two weeks.

I keep thinking about the comments under the first news story announcing he was missing. The comments are still up on WALB. You can read them yourself.

Too many people focused on the color of his skin instead of the fact that someone’s child hasn’t come home. His own mother had to beg people to stop feeding stereotypes and start helping find her son.

Imagine carrying the fear of not knowing where your child is while also having to defend his humanity. No parent should have to do both. Or either, honestly.

I read those comments, and all I could think was: Samuel looks a lot like my son.

When I read stories like Samuel’s or Nolan’s, I don’t see strangers. I see my child.

I hope Nolan’s family gets answers. I hope Samuel’s family gets him home. And I hope one day parents of Black children no longer have to make the kinds of calculations I’ve described here just to help keep their children safe.

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