In the spring of 2015, pregnant with my fourth child, I find out we’re having a boy. Our first son.
On one hand, I’m thrilled — my husband had talked about having sons since I had met him seventeen and a half years earlier and I’m excited his desire is coming true.
But on the other hand…
You see, I had learned how to be a mom to girls, how to be a mom to three little brown girls, how to breathe through the hopes and dreams and fears I had for them, how to live with the knowledge that I needed to prepare these girls to be women in a world filled with turmoil.
I’ve stumbled through remembering my own experiences and through intense dialogues with my husband and through tear-filled conversations with the Lord and come out the other side, clutching a hard-won handful of jewels — fire-tested, pressure-packed, wisdom-filled — that I pass on to them in the hope that they will be equipped for what lies ahead.
And now, I would have a son. A brown-skinned male child to raise into a man. I have hopes and dreams for him.
I fight against fear for him as well.
And — with the backdrop of ever increasing racial tension, of brown boys being treated like the men they aren’t (and, in many cases, having that chance stolen from them forever), in a world where almost every time my husband gets pulled over he gets asked if he’s behind on child support payments — I start a new conversation with the Lord in the hope of producing more gems to pass on to this little boy in the hope that he will be equipped for what lies ahead.