My Son’s Encounter with Racism

This is not the first encounter with racism, but this is the worst experience he has had.

My son told me something today that made me both furious and incredibly proud.

First, some background. When I teach my children about racism, I don’t teach them to fear it or to let it make them feel inferior. I teach them to recognize it, to understand it, and—most importantly—not to let it derail their goals. I tell them plainly: I will not always be there to protect you or even to help you identify it in the moment. Don’t expect special treatment. Don’t expect people to care. Focus. Handle your business. Reach your goals anyway.

One way I teach my children to identify racism is this: if they are being mistreated by a White person who does not know them, if they have done nothing to offend, if they are following the rules and doing exactly what is asked—and yet no matter what they do, they can never seem to be “good enough” to be treated with basic decency—then that is racism.

When there is hostility with no explanation, no cause, and no correction that will ever be enough, that is racism. Unexplained hatred is always racism.

I teach my children not to waste their energy trying to convince someone like that of anything. Focus. Get what you came for. And get out. Because hate is a distraction. Its purpose is to pull you off your path.

The best way to respond is not to argue. The best way to respond is to succeed. That hatred exists precisely to keep you from succeeding.

The test itself was two long, intense days. On the first day, his anxiety was high, and really struggled. He also began experiencing painful leg cramps. Instead of offering support or guidance, the woman overseeing the test warned him that if the cramps happened again on the second day, she would send him home without his license. This is an example of how racism often operates now—not through open exclusion, but through the constant threat of removal. Gone are the days when people could openly discriminate without consequence. Instead, racism shows up as finding any excuse to cancel, dismiss, or justify the removal of a Black person from a space.

When I picked him up that evening, he didn’t mention the interaction at all. He simply asked if we could stop by the store to get water and a few other things. He had figured out what was happening to his body and knew what he needed—hydration and bananas—to stop the cramping. We went to the store, got everything he asked for, and returned to the hotel. He took care of himself, went to bed early, and prepared for the next day.

The following morning, he went back and handled his business. He passed the test. No cramps. No issues. The instructors were pleasant. They said he did well. He passed. He got his license. When it was over, everything seemed fine.

Or so I thought.

Fast forward seven months.

Today, he told me the truth.

He said the main woman running the test was mean—really mean—to him. Not strict. Not firm. Mean. The way she spoke to him was harsh, demeaning, and constant. He said the experience was bad enough that it made him doubt himself.

And then he said something that stopped me in my tracks.

He told me he didn’t say anything to me at the time because he knew I wouldn’t handle it well. He knew I would pull him out and take him home. And he didn’t want that. He just wanted to finish. He wanted his license.

“Mommy,” he said, “it was bad. The way she talked to me was really bad. But I didn’t cry. I didn’t talk back. I just focused on getting my license. That’s all I wanted to do.”

Y’all. I was HEATED.

He told me how her words made him second-guess himself, how awful she treated him. And yet—he locked in. All the conversations, all the preparation, all the truth-telling we had done together kicked in when he needed it most.

I had to sit down. I had to breathe. I had to process.

Then I looked at him and said, “I don’t even know whether to be angry or proud.”

Because what he showed me is that he’s going to be okay.

He faced racism and didn’t let it paralyze him. He chose his battle wisely. He refused to be distracted from his goal. He didn’t just pass—he finished strong. By the time we left, the same people who had made the experience miserable seemed to respect him. His persistence earned that respect. And now he is a licensed lifeguard. No one can take that from him.

When I was working on my PhD, I had to do the same thing—endure hostility, stay focused, finish the work. And now, no one can take that from me either.

So listen, parents: stop pretending racism doesn’t exist. Stop acting like your children won’t encounter it. Teach them. Teach them. Teach them.

Don’t let them be shocked by it when it shows up at the worst possible moment—when they’re alone, when the stakes are high, and when they have to decide how to move forward without you. Teach them how to navigate this world without letting it break them.

My son did not let that woman make him doubt his right to be in that space. He said, “I knew I could do the tasks. I just had to put it out of my mind and focus.”

I am so proud of my boy. It feels like just yesterday he was a little boy. As a parent, you always wonder if the years of teaching, guiding, and talking are actually working. When you teach your child about racism, there is always that quiet fear: If I tell him the truth, will it harden him? Will it make him bitter? Will knowing my pain somehow harm him?

In this moment, I was not there. I could not protect him. He knew I was five minutes away, but he chose not to “tell his momma.” Instead, he chose to do what so many before him have had to do just to survive and succeed in this world. He chose to stand up. He handled himself with class. He did not cower. He did not shut down. He stayed focused, handled his business, and walked out with what he came for.

His strength took me back to a story my mother often tells. When she was taking her driving test, the White man administering the test treated her cruelly. She wanted to quit. But her father told her, “That man does not care if you ever get your license—in fact, he’s hoping you don’t. That’s why he’s treating you that way. Focus and get your license.” And she did.

My mother passed that lesson on to me. It shaped how I learned to pursue my goals no matter how much racism I encountered along the way. And now, I see those same lessons taking root in my son.

He has grown up in a protected environment—attending my school, living in community, worshiping in a diverse church. But when he stepped outside that comfort, outside that covering, he stood the test. And while my heart swells with pride, it also breaks.

It breaks because in predominantly White spaces, gatekeeping still exists. It breaks because in 2025 my child is still fighting the same battles his grandmother fought, the same battles I fought, the same battles generations before us were forced to fight.

So this isn’t about stopping racism. I don’t believe we ever truly will. It’s about equipping the next generation to become who God has called them to be in spite of it. It’s about teaching them how to stand, how to persist, how to remain whole.

As I reflect on all of this, I let the pride take over—and I smiled.

But don’t let me see that lady again.

For real.