Thinking about my son's safety

When I heard about the shooting of Ralph Yarl, the thought of this incident in Kansas City, Missouri played over and over in my head. This could have been my Andrew. What struck me most was the shooter saying he was afraid because of Yarl’s size.

I remember the day when my neighbor took a look at my son, who was maybe 14, and said, “Wow, he looks like a man already.” She seemed shocked at my Black son’s height and changes that come with puberty — a deeper voice, a handsome masculinity, and physical changes from years of competitive swimming.

I took her statement as a wake-up call. That my son, in the eyes of white America, is now considered a Black man, no longer afforded the innocence of a child, mainly, a white child. He would have to use tactics to make himself known in a way that was benign and non-threatening. We would have many conversations about what it means to be Black in America, the advantages of being white, and that the benefit of the doubt and being innocent until proven guilty would not apply to him.

My 6-foot-1 son, an 11th-grader at Half Hollow Hills West High School, will be inducted into the National Honor Society, on the same successful academic trajectory as his two sisters. He’s been a saxophone player since fourth grade, plays in school bands, is vice president of the student council, participates in clubs and plays school volleyball.

Sadly, he will be judged as he moves through life by the color of his skin more than the content of his character.

His dad and I have suggested that he think twice before helping someone on the street because others may assume he is trying to steal or harm that person. That he should choose his friends carefully because if they are engaged in wrongdoing, and he is not, he may be the first to be implicated.

As he looks ahead to college, he must weigh the diversity and racial issues in that college and city in an attempt to minimize his risk of harm. When he wanted to braid his hair, I was initially against it, thinking that it was too ethnic, that he would be mistaken for someone lacking education. But braids are a rich part of our culture, and our blackness won’t change if we have our hair straight, curly, braided, in an Afro, a mullet, or bald.

He’s been collecting shoes for an organization called Soles4Souls this month, and he picks up donated shoes at the front doors of homes as a service to those who donate. People leave them on their porch. In light of recent events, I can’t have my son go to unknown homes to pick up these donations. I fear for his safety, that some homeowner will think he’s stealing a bag from a neighbor’s property.

Unfortunately, in my reality, I have to consider situations that white people wouldn’t think twice about.

This guest essay reflects the views of Tedra Grant, a registered nurse, staff educator for Hospice of New York, and mother of three who lives in Dix Hills.