My sweet son,
Even as I type this, you are tumbling around in my belly. You are only two pounds in weight, so your kicks feel like flutters, like butterflies in my stomach. You are my butterfly.
I often wonder if you will be as active as you feel. Will you play basketball or join the swim team? Will you climb trees and jump in puddles? Will you beg your daddy to learn karate and scare me to death by jumping off tables and couches and shopping carts and playground bars? Or will you prefer to stay inside? Will you forever have your head in a book? Will you be like your uncle and have an obsession with computers? Or will you be more like your aunts, with a flair for the artistic? I wonder about your developing personality. I wonder what the church mothers will prophetically declare about your future.
Your daddy and I talk about you all the time. He can’t wait to show you all his favorite films, and he hopes you will like horror movies as much as he does. I think about taking you to the park, and indulging in my own childish sense of curiosity at the world, seeing it through your eyes anew. We wonder about the shape of your eyes, the sound of your laugh, the feel of your toes. We wonder how much you will cry. Your daddy is already dreaming of the day when you will join him in the barbershop for your first taper.
And though you are still being formed in my tummy, your father and I are slowly turning into parents—wondering more about your future than about our own. While we delight in these conversations about who and what you will become in life, we have been avoiding other conversations.
We have avoided talking about the first time someone will call you a nigger. We have been avoiding talking about the first time you will be pulled over by a cop because you look suspicious. We have been avoiding talking about the many assumptions people will have of you simply because God kissed your glorious skin and it blushed at the attention. We have avoided discussing how we will tell you about the world.
Of course we will. But we don’t like to think of it yet. We would rather wonder if you will be precocious or subdued, bold or shy, funny or serious, adventurous or introspective. We would rather wonder about your humanity than ruminate on the ways the world will try to take that away from you. They will first think you are beautiful, innocent—and you will be. But as your baby fat disappears and your height comes to match ours, they will start to see you as dangerous—but we will be here to refute the lies. We will be here to remind you that you are worthy of joy and love and adventure.
In our house, there will be dancing. There will be laughter. There will be love. In our house, there will be the smell of soul food and the sound of Stevie. We will teach you all of Michael Jackson’s moves, and we will let you stay up late to watch the NBA finals with your dad. There will also be tears. It won’t be all joy all the time, and yet you, too, will be inducted into this blessing called Black love. It will undergird you and push you. It will envelop you and warm you. It will remind you of who you are. And we will be the first to welcome you into this divine community of hope.
For now, you keep tumbling around and around in my tummy. (Maybe consider taking a break at night.) I will never be able to protect you as I can now. So, you stay safe and grow strong. Though we are crazy scared, stupidly excited—we can’t wait to meet you when the time comes.
Love,
Your Momma