I watch the world of permissive parenting from behind a glass of self- and socially imposed limitations. I enjoy observing the children’s huge smiles as their parents allow them to explore the world with few restrictions, if any. The benefits of allowing kids to experience the world around us are countless. I know that if I want to raise children with a healthy sense of attachment, it’s the way to go.
Despite my knowledge, I practice a more restrictive set of parenting behaviors. Right now, my children still smile, but I know that one day they will realize how different my parenting style was from their friends’ parents’. Because, unfortunately, many of my parenting decisions are made from a place of anxiety and fear. I can’t help but wonder if I’ll be able to comfortably allow my children to participate in the freedom other children enjoy.
As I watch the other children experience the freedom to make mistakes and have the option to just be kids, I feel guilty.
At 3 years old, my son has a sense of what isn’t acceptable during play. And when he violates those boundaries, I have no problem sending dagger-filled glances his way. The looks I give him have been passed down. It’s a powerful glare that was perfected across generations of black motherhood. It’s a connection to my ancestors who limited their children’s actions in an attempt to preserve their existence.
The times of imminent danger have passed, but the fear remains. My son doesn’t know about that world. He hasn’t heard the stories of black children punished for doing normal child things. He just knows I’m stopping him from running with friends, so he cries like a normal kid.
But our world doesn’t see black kids as “normal.” It sees them as future criminals.
Studies have found that as early as 4 years old, children show an anti-black bias and interpret black faces as “less nice-looking.” In those studies, while black images in general got fewer positive ratings than white images, the differences in perception were even more pronounced for black males. Simply put, white people are taught to see my children differently than they see white children, starting at toddlerhood—but my son is at the highest risk for being misunderstood.
Being the mother of a black son and a black daughter enables me to see the best and worst of both worlds. Both of my children are at risk for unjust treatment, but the manifestation of those risks looks different for each child. I’m reminded of the dangers my daughter will face as I hear stories like that of the four 12-year-old girls who were inspected and allegedly strip searched for suspected drug use. Their mistake? Being “too hyper and giddy” at their New York middle school.
My heart hurts when I think of Tamir Rice, who was killed by police for playing with a toy gun, while young white boys hold real guns without consequence. The treatment of those existing while black puts all of us at risk, regardless of age. And often, those attacks are justified by the public.
Right now, my children are fetishized. Without permission, people reach toward their curls to feel their hair while suggesting they “look like dolls.” I hear the comments even as I see the expressions of distrust on their faces. Research has shown that black children aren’t granted the period of assumed innocence that children of other races are. Black boys are perceived as older than they are. Similarly, black girls as young as 5 years old are seen as requiring less protection and perceived as less innocent than their counterparts of other races. The comments on how “awesome” my son’s hair is in an afro and how beautiful my daughter’s complexion is will mean nothing when those features are used as tools for hiring and wage discrimination. Besides, I know the same individuals who opine insistently about my children’s beauty will suggest they are responsible for the mistreatment they receive as they age. I’m forced to keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. I fear the day they transition from “cutie” to “criminal.”
Having knowledge of the risks is a blessing and a curse. I’m not sure if I can ever truly protect them from anti-black bias. In the past, I’ve parented in a reactionary manner and used the same tactics generations of black women before me have used: proactive limitations. But we live in a rapidly shifting culture. Black children are experiencing higher levels of freedom than ever before. Likewise, I’ve decided I want more for my kids.
I want to experience the carelessness exhibited by the permissive parents on the other side of the glass. I often imagine a world where I smile from a distance as I watch my children engage playfully with other children. During this daydream, I shrug and respond calmly when my son plays with toys in a store instead of reacting emotionally, as if some moral offense has occurred. And more than anything, I would like to avoid the heart palpitations and anxiety that accompany thoughts of my son entering the public school system.
But that’s not my world. I've seen too many accounts that remind me of the risks that they face growing up black.
Despite this, I’m determined to give my children some level of normalcy. It’s not their fault that the world is broken. Everyday, I’m learning to stop making my children pay for the sins of white supremacy.
I know someone has to break the cycle of robbing black children of a childhood. As the years pass, I’d prefer to stand and fight against the double standards imposed on them rather than restrict them in public, and allow authentic expression only at home. It’s difficult, since there’s no precedent for joyful black children. And historically, permissive parenting was viewed as antithetical to black childhood.
Allowing them to move freely through life means I must relearn everything I’ve been taught about parenting. It also means witnessing my children display levels of authenticity I was never granted.
As I fight the urge to limit them, I can’t help but wonder: Will my children ever truly be free?
A. Rochaun Meadows-Fernandez is a diversity content specialist whose work can be read in the Washington Post, InStyle, the Guardian, and other places. Follow her on Facebook and Twitter.
This post was written through our Daily Kos freelance program.
