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Over the past week or so Braydon and I have had a series of encounters with overt racism. Of course we encounter various forms of racism regularly. Nevertheless, that doesn’t make it easy. It is horrifying. Racism has always been something that has horrified me. But it takes on a new level of horror when you’re raising black children. I remember talking about this once with a black friend of mine. He told me that racism had always been the dark side of life for him, but when he became a father racism was suddenly in “all caps” (racism became RACISM). Not being black myself, I surely don’t even know the half of it. But I’ll go out on a limb and say that as a mother, racism is no longer racism… it is RACISM. It screams out at me. It shakes me at the core. It sends me into that crazed-hyper-protective-mother-bear-mode that makes it hard to sleep at night. I hate it. “How can I protect them?” I keep asking myself. And the answer just pounds back every time, slamming me into its wall: “I can’t protect them.” It feels like an inescapable disease that I can’t keep at bay from my babies’ tiny lungs — no matter what I do, they will breathe that air, that sickness will flow in, I cannot keep them from catching it. I think of that After School Special I saw in 4th grade– ‘The Boy in the Bubble.’ Surely there is some sort of hygienic protective place where I could hide them so they don’t have to be exposed to this? But no, there is not. No such place exists. So, here we are. Trying to live our lives amidst this. We do our best to cope, to let it roll off us whenever possible, to get up and keep going. The looks and stares and inappropriate questions/comments/statements are manageable. But when you take a few heavy hits right in a row, it is hard to not feel weighted down by it.