We wear hoodies in our family, all 4 of us. I am the mother of 2 young children, one a little boy. He probably has more hoodies than the rest of us, in a range of colors. He even has a gray hoodie, one that we got during our visit to my husband’s high school for a reunion a few months ago. Each day when we send him to his pre-K class, we have to send him in with a sweater or sweatshirt. Even on hot summer days, since New England weather can turn quickly, or the air conditioning inside can be excessive. This past week, I have found myself consciously avoiding that gray hoodie. I see it hanging there on the hook on the back of a door, along with the yellow hoodie and the blue one with the prints of cars.
I look at that little gray hoodie, and my heart hurts. I can’t even bear the thought of posting a photo of my little boy in his gray hoodie, because of the association with the vulnerability of being a target. Because of the association with a boy who lost his life, and a mother who lost her child.
One day my little boy will be the same age as Trayvon Martin was that night last year. He will be a teenage boy, with the range of moods and sometimes unpredictable behavior that come with that stage. He may be an honor student, or a rebel, or a little of each. He may choose to behave exactly as Trayvon did, buy the same candy and sugary drink. Want to walk out in the rain to get away from adult company. He may be the same height and build as Trayvon. He may choose to dress exactly as Trayvon did. And yet I also know that he will never be a target in the same way that Trayvon Martin was. The privilege of white skin will give him license to wear that hoodie, to walk in an unfamiliar neighborhood, to shop in a store, without being profiled by default as a potential threat.
The discourse of the past 2 weeks reminds me of the privilege that I have and that my family has. The fact that I can be reminded of my privilege is itself a hallmark of privilege: I have the luxury to be able to regularly forget. Where I live, I can drive around my town, I can walk through my neighborhood, shop in any store, without once wondering if the color of my skin will attract negative attention. I know that I don’t entirely fit in where I live, and my hairstyle and clothes mark me as a bit different. But never in a threatening way. I can dress like a slob without worrying that it reflects badly on my heritage. I can drive a nice car without raising any eyebrows, or drive a beat-up car without people assuming that I am poor. As a white female, people make lots of assumptions about me, which may or may not in any way reflect who I am. But none of the assumptions put me at higher risk of being stopped by the police, or worse, someone like Zimmerman: highly armed but poorly trained, full of anger and self-righteousness and fear.
I have been feeling heartsick since Zimmerman’s acquittal. The messages I read from that verdict and some of the ensuing discourse just drive home to me how far our society has yet to go to achieve equality. I have the sense that this country is divided: those who see the systemic inequity and the harmful biases, and those who are unwilling or unable to see them. I know that I live in a society that continues to have systemic racism. I am ashamed to sometimes see evidence of that racism in my own thoughts, my own assumptions. Much as I sometimes find my thoughts reflecting sexism, ablism, agism, classism and so many of the other isms that are part of our society. But I call myself out. Sometimes I even have the courage to call out others when I see it.
I have had conversations with close friends and family members, and feel lucky that those closest to me see things much as I do. But I am realizing that these private conversations with like-minded people are not enough. I need to make a public stand, even if in my small way, by writing here. I know that people who are blind to what I see, to both systemic racism and the privilege that allows them that blindness, are not necessarily bad people. I know people, some of them even friends or family members, who fit into these categories. Even thinking about starting conversations with them about race and privilege exhausts me. But I am thinking about these things, and with this post, I am showing that I am willing to be part of this conversation.
I have been reading posts and articles every day since the news of Zimmerman’s acquittal. I have spent a lot of time reflecting. I have felt outrage and deep sadness, but also great hope that this conversation will continue, and will bring progress. I am busy and am protective of the time I need to spend on my work and family obligations. However, this conversation is too important to me. I need to be part of the conversation because I want my children to grow up in a world where no child’s life is cut short by others’ assumptions about race.
I want to live in a world where a mother’s worries about her son’s choice to wear a hoodie when he goes out on a walk will never be about anything more weighty than whether that hoodie will be warm enough.
I have recently read lots of post relating to the death of Trayvon Martin, Zimmerman’s acquittal, and privilege. Here are some of the ones that have stuck with me:
- Walk this way, by Arnebya of What Now and Why: This was one of the BlogHer Voices of the Year posts read at BlogHer in New York last summer, and I was lucky enough to be in the audience for the author’s powerful reading.
- Calling out my sisters, and Explaining White Privilege by Kelly of Mocha Momma (the second one is on babble)
- White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack, by Peggy McIntosh. This was written in 1990, but it is still sadly quite up to date.
- It could (not) have been my kid by Sarah of Splitting Infinitives
- Understanding my privilege by Neil of Ctiizen of the Month
- We are not Trayvon Martin: this is a Tumblr where individuals can submit their stories. It was started on July 15th, and already has over a thousand posts. I have not read all of them, but I have visited and read several posts every day. Seeing so many stories, so many people lending their voices to the discussion, gives me hope.
If you have written things about these topics yourself, or read things that moved you, please feel free to share links in the comments.
12 thoughts on “the little gray hoodie on the hook”
I respect this so much.
Just saw the report that reactions to the verdict are startlingly aligned along the race divide. Post racial? Definitely not.
I’m sharing your post. Thank you.
Thanks, subwow. It took a lot out of me. I really appreciate you sharing it.
Well articulated. There is so much making me sad and angry about our society these days… you’re right, we need to be brave about having these conversations.
Thanks, Sally. I’m glad you’re in on the conversation, too.
These words and the accompanying photo are terribly poignant. Thank you.
Thank you, Sarah. It’s funny how even posting a photo of Theo’s clothes can make me feel vulnerable in this context.
Well said. I agree with all that you wrote. The photo is haunting. Such a sad situation all around.
Thanks, Ally. It’s good to know that you feel the same way I do. (Not that it surprises me. But it’s important to have these conversations in the open.)
Thanks for this.
Hi, R! I really appreciate your support. It’s so nice to know that you are still reading my blog.
A very affecting post, Alejna. Thank you for writing it. And yes, that photo… it takes on so much meaning within this particular blog entry.
Thanks so much for your comment and supportive feedback. This topic leaves me feeling so vulnerable, so it is good to know I have friends who get what I am saying.