This is my son.

This is my son.

I pray that there will never come a day when he is reduced to a hashtag. I pray there will never come a day when he will look down a barrel of a gun or feel its tip pressed against his back while he is splayed on the ground with his empty hands at his side, or standing in a street with his hands in the air, or reaching for his identification. I pray that he won't ever have to feel the panic of knowing that his unpaid ticket, busted taillight, or mere presence in a neighborhood is potentially about to cost him his life. I pray that my son will never die alone on a street while passerby film and some people stand around having a conversation like nothing happened. I pray there will never come a day when some people will use every C on his old report cards, every bad day, every misstep, every mistake to justify why he is dead.

This is my son.

At 11 years old I introduced him to the cold hard truth. I told him that some people would not be able to see anything but the color of his skin and they would be afraid. I introduced him to the dangers that such fear could bring about. At 11 years old. I told him there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing at all. So when he was just 11 years old, I stripped some of my boy's childhood from him. I trampled on his rose colored glasses. I stole some of his innocence. To keep him safe.

This is my son.

12 years of private school, t-ball, church, band, lacrosse, karate, soccer, tutoring, summer camps, cross country, track, volunteering, internships, trips abroad, perfect enunciation, and a $60,000 per year college education.

My husband and I have made many sacrifices to give my son opportunities. But none of it makes him safer. It actually puts him at risk. We have watched over the years as my son fell into the comfortable lull of his life. As he wrapped himself in a false sense of safety and belonging. Every so often, we had to  strip him of that. Remind him. To keep him safe. It feel cruel. Like turning the bright lights on a sleeping person and spraying them with a strong burst of cold water. The truth is cruel, cold, and hard.

This is my son.

He doesn't deserve to die in the street for something that warrants a citation, a fine, a ticket, or worse yet - for doing nothing other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The truth is ugly. The truth is that the color of his skin puts him at a greater risk. Whether he sits on the curb like a good boy or whether he resists or questions...none of it matters. It's open season and there's no use in denying it. We've seen the pictures of men - men who aren't black - weapons in hand, being calmed  down, deescalated by officers. We know that Dylan Roof was brought Burger King by officers after walking into a black church and killing 9 people who were there praying. PRAYING. We know that Sandra and Freddy died in police custody.  We know that Trayvon had Skittles and Tamir had a plastic gun.  So I cry for Alton and Philando and countless other men and women. Every time one falls, my cries get louder and stronger. Every time one falls, they fall closer to my son.

I'm scared for him every single day.

This is my son.