The views and opinions expressed in this piece are the author’s and do not necessarily represent the position of Positive Women’s Network – USA.

June 22, 2020

by Brooke Davidoff

It was a warm sunny afternoon in Long Beach, CA. It was one of our first days out in public for months due to Covid-19. My 9-year-old son and I were at our local park. On one side of the street from my picnic table, I could hear a Black Lives Matter protest with a live band, car horns honking, and people cheering. From my table and the road they were marching down, we shared an ocean view and a sunny cloudless sky with multi-cultural locals who either walked, skateboarded, or rode bikes with signs of brokenness, love, and hope. Near their gathering point, a local police brutality shrine was erected weeks ago with pictures, candles, flowers, and messages.

To the left my 9-year-old son who looks at least 12, was the only white kid on the playground surrounded by little brown and Black children wearing masks. After playing on the playground, he excitedly ran towards me.

“Do you want to take off your bike helmet?” I ask

“No, I’m going to ride with him,” he said pointing to a little Black boy who was maybe 5.

“Why do you want your bike, if he doesn’t have one?” I asked.

“I’m going to chase him,” my son innocently said.

Immediately tears streamed down my face. “No, you’re not,” I told him.

“I asked, he said it was okay, it’s from a video game.” My son pleaded.

I motioned for him to walk closer so the little boy’s mother sitting feet away on the grass under a tree couldn’t hear.

“You are a big white kid. You can not chase a little Black boy on your bike,” I told him. In my mind, all I saw was the face of Ahmaud Arbery, news coverage of him being tracked by white hunters. With tears still running down my cheeks, but I touched the picnic table so I can’t rub my eyes, I might get COVID and die so I let them fall. I imagined this little boy’s mother watching my white son chase hers and thought will it traumatize her? Will it traumatize her son?

I explained that in Georgia a few months ago, a young black man was jogging and white men chased and killed him, for no reason other than his skin color. I told him we did not come to the park to chase kids; he can ride his bike or play with them. As my son walked back to the boy on the playground, I continued to cry for our country, for his mother and the cultural PTSD she must have. I thought of how hard it must be to be brave, positive, and strong every day and how much fear she has for his future, even her own in this country.

Our country’s cycle of abuse is no longer obscured by our everyday life noise. The movement enables us to get educated about our silent U.S. history and to change its future for the better. The people’s party is still in the streets; they won’t go away or give up until equality and justice for all are no longer a slogan. 60’s musicians sang of a revolution never finished. It’s time.

I am not afraid to have open and honest conversations with my son about racial injustice. As a white male, he will not grow up to be part of the problem. In Long Beach, we are a minority, in my neighbors’ eyes when they look at us they probably see white privilege. When I look at them, I feel heartbreak from ICE raids to Trump rallies, even Republican talking points. I know they are not safe from white men’s imaginary entitlement; however, their reign is coming to an end. Fundamental change is needed in America, and the time is now.