Traces

Last summer, my mother fell seriously ill. We thought, for several days, that she was dying. My four brothers and I gathered at the regional hospital in the small city where she lives, preparing for the worst. We said our goodbyes. But that time we were fortunate; eventually she rallied and survived, and she’s still with us. The crisis passed.

I woke at about 4 the other morning, thinking about my brown daughter and my brown sons, about the dangers they’ll face. The fear I feel is different, of course, from what I experienced with my mother. I wonder whether my children will ever find a place in this world where they can be safe. And by safe, I don’t mean free from any possibility of harm. No one has that. I only wonder whether they’ll they find a community that accepts and encourages them for who they are, a…