When my sister announced her pregnancy to me, I instantly prayed for what would never sense to a Sunday Morning congregation.
“God, make her a girl, because black boys are so vulnerable.”
I prayed you were a girl because knew, should you be a boy, the school-to-prison pipeline favored you less. I knew US families of color brought home 6-8% of what white ones did for babies like you, and I even knew- should you be suggested for adoption- black children are sold for far less than what you, my dear, will ever be worth.
I prayed because I knew black boys grow into black men- ones who look like Philando Castile and Alton Sterling, who died two months before your arrival. They looked like the men in my church and cousins who took me to school. After Alton Sterling’s death, I’d tail-spun so far into grief, took a ‘sick’ day and wept the rest of the morning.
How dare your mother bring you into a world that was not ready for you.
I prayed you weren’t a boy, because I too, had experienced the shock of prejudice, and it was heartbreaking enough to recall memories and prayers for my own wellbeing.
When I was a teen, I prayed from backseats of my friends’ cars to be hidden as I met up with my high school boyfriend. Interracial relationships weren’t welcomed in our rural community, and his family believed he shouldn’t start one, even with an ‘Oreo’ (a term of endearment black kids who code switch in predominantly white spaces- we don’t find it endearing).
As a adult, I’ve prayed to blend in, after being followed in other countries, while locals eyed my every move (When I asked why, they pointed to my skin, and told me it was to prevent theft).
And when I told trusted friends, I often lost them on spot. Some thought I was just looking for blame. Some gave me news clippings to deny the prejudice I faced (can you imagine being met with news clippings that denied something you’d lived your entire life?).
And now, how many seats would you hide behind to visit the one you loved? Who would follow you at the local market? Who would deny your anger and hurt?
Several days before you arrived, my viewpoint changed entirely.
One day at work, I noticed a coffee drop on our office staircase. I walked to the kitchen and back to the spot with a towel. As I cleaned it, I remembered the days I spent with your great grandmother, cleaning houses (sometimes for people her age or younger than she was).
Today, I make decisions at tables your great grandmother only had privilege to polish. It is never lost on me how access to those things was not created by believing the world’s idea of who we are, but by living, fighting and praying well in spite of it.
So, for you, I began to pray well.
God, let this child be seen. Let no one tell them ‘they don’t see your color or present-day racism’, when we will spend a lifetime doing things differently and thriving because of it.
God, let this child be moved. May they project our country with love, but also with action in the face of injustice at any intersection. Let them remember- silence is a response we choose to deny love from moving forward.
God, let us be with them. Maya Angelou once said, “Anytime you have anything to do, bring everybody with you who has loved you.” We love them and will root for them always. We are always in the room, in their voice, heart and drive to do their best.
Amen.
And when you feel lost, or overlooked- remember the day we met (you won’t, but I do). I traveled miles and hours to meet you. I brought my best camera and the biggest smile on my face to greet you before the world ever knew your name. You arrived into this world with a head full of hair, voice all your own and heartbeats I counted as you slept.
You arrived into this world as a 6 pound, 5 ounce African-American boy, and all the days of your life, I eagerly await for you to take the world by storm.
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