Always Mom

A reflection on raising a son, holding the line, and watching the lessons show up in time.

The Karmelo Anthony verdict has had a lot of parents talking, and I understand why. It brings up questions we don’t always say out loud, especially when we are raising Black children and hoping our lessons show up in time.

As parents, we want the best for our children. We put them in the best schools. We sign them up for whatever sport is in season until the sport chooses them. We parent from experiences what we wanted, and affordability.

It all comes from love, but access can make us believe our children are protected when they are not.

Life will show its ugly face, and when it does, the question becomes real: Have we taught our children how to stand up for themselves without violence?

That question made me think about Khalil.

Raising Khalil in Chicago required me to be vigilant. Okay, a Mother Hen. Being a mother already makes you watchful and for me over protective. Being a Black mother raising a Black son adds another layer. You are not just thinking about grades, sports, friends, and manners. You are thinking about how one wrong decision can change everything.

I was involved in his school activities. I knew the teachers, the coaches, the parents, and the children.

That presence mattered. If an issue popped off, people knew exactly who I was and how to contact me. The respect and treatment of my child were a priority, and when there was an issue, I was “Johnny on the Spot.”

I remember one incident when Khalil was in grammar school, eighth grade to be exact. He went to play basketball on the other side of 35th and Prairie. Khalil knew he was not supposed to play basketball in that area, anything across 35th was off limits without an adult, including McDonald’s.

For those who do not know Chicago, the inner city is a mutt. One block can feel familiar. The next block, you know to keep moving. We lived in Bronzeville, aka the Low End. You see and learn to pay attention quickly. Some boundaries are not just rules; they are protection.

Khalil was with two other children that lived on the block. Out of curiosity one kid suggested to play basketball at a different court on the other side of 35th street (the side that was forbidden without an adult). It was there they ran into rowdy boys around their age. That group decided to take their ball.

My child was not leaving without his basketball.

And to a fault, I had told him not to let anyone take something from him. So in his mind, he was not leaving without what belonged to him.

The boys started playing with his ball. The other children watched from the sidelines. When one of the boys took a shot, Khalil grabbed the ball, and they ran home.

I was sitting on the sofa watching television when he walked in looking like he had seen a ghost. I asked if he was all right.

He said, “Yes,” quick and short.

Then he put the basketball in his room and went back outside.

Something did not sit right. I looked outside and saw Paul, the neighbor who knew everybody’s busy, a mother of one of boys with Khalil, Khalil, and a several children I had never seen before. The unknown children were scattered in the street, and it looked heated.

Being nosey, and being a mother, I slipped on my shoes and went outside.

I found out one of the boys wanted to fight Khalil.

My child.

In his mind, he had not started anything. He had only gone back to get what was his.

That day taught us both. Khalil had crossed 35th Street to play basketball at a court that was off-limits. Later, I learned he had also been walking to the McDonald’s across 35th Street.

It was a hard lesson. Safety had to come first. I did not need to know every basketball court’s politics. I needed him to understand choices, consequences, and awareness.

That is what I worked to put in Khalil. Character. Respect. Discernment. I am a woman, and I have never been a man. But I understand character. I understand accountability. Before a boy becomes a man, he has to learn how to be a decent human being.

Society loves to emphasize the challenges of a single mother raising a son. In the Black community, we have also heard the harsh saying: a woman cannot teach a boy how to be a man. I understand the concern. I do not dismiss the value of male presence.

But a two-parent home does not remove worry. A single-parent home does not create worry by itself. If you are raising a son, concern, care, responsibility remains. The lessons still have to be taught.

Parenting will stretch you. Raising a son taught me motherhood is not about having every answer. It is about paying attention, correcting what needs correcting, and knowing when your child needs more than you alone can give.

That same child determined to come home with his ball has become a man who understands choices have consequences, safety comes first, and character is not optional.

Charm will never hurt anyone either.

On June 30th, Khalil turned 32. I am still his mother, and I still remind him that you are never too old to listen to your mom.

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