Maternal Desires, Maternal Angst
Lately, I’ve been thinking more and more about motherhood. Maybe it’s because I’m getting older and I can hear that biological clock ticking away, or maybe because my best friend recently became a mom herself (which she finally did, after five years of trying, at the ripe old age of 42!).
There’s also that other subconscious thing about these past few years when I was obsessed as a David fan. I used to go back and forth: do I see David as a son I’d like to have, or is he an ideal partner from my youth?
I used to say, back in the early days of the Archufandom, that I didn’t know if I wanted to tuck David into bed or climb in next to him. 😛
What I do know, as I think more and more about motherhood, is that while I’m not yet sure what I would name my child if I had a girl, I absolutely and unhesitatingly know my son – if I should ever have one – will be named David.
David. King. Warrior. Royal Line of Jesus. Psalmist. Poet. Musician. Lover. Friend.
David. My Beloved.
Lately, black motherhood has been on my mind as well, not just because I aspire to be one someday but because the burden of raising a child in this country is so filled with contradictions.
If President Obama gets re-elected, will I be able to plan to be a mother and have a child under his watch? And if that happens, what would it mean to raise a son in this era, a black son (regardless of the color of his father, having me as a mother will make him “black”)?
Where my black son (if I had one) could see that he too might aspire to be president or, considering the tragic killing of Trayvon Martin, he too could be racially profiled.
Today in New York City, there are plans for a “Million Hoodie March” on Union Square later this evening at 6 pm, and if I had a black son, I would encourage him to go.
But will such actions bring real justice for Trayvon Martin and for his mother, Sybrina Fulton, whose anguish over the death of her son has not stopped her from organizing and bringing to the world’s attention what happened to her boy? She reminds me of so many black mothers warring for their children, especially of Mamie Till Mobley, whose 14-year-old son Emmett Till was brutally lynched back in 1955 and who deliberately kept the casket open at his funeral so that the world could see “what they did to my boy.”
1955. 2012. Nearly 60 years between, and still, we have black mothers mourning the unjust killing of their sons.
So, you heard it hear first, dear readers.
One day, I hope to have a son named David, and as much as I want that son to have David’s innocence and good heart and pure talent, indeed, as much as I would love him to share such light-hearted tweets like this
he may have to run for his life because someone thinks, because of the color of his skin, that he’s “up to no good” instead of thinking that he’s venturing out to the corner store to buy a bag of Skittles and a bottle of Arizona ice tea.
I mourn that his mother didn’t get a chance to scold him for having a “sugar high” while watching sports. No. She has to mourn not just that some unstable, wannabe cop shot her son to death, but that a police department took his body to the morgue without notifying his family and immediately started covering up the events, even “correcting” eyewitnesses about what had happened (for surely, this young boy was “up to no good”).
So, as I share in the angst of all you “Fan Mothers” of David, wringing your hands and worrying about what country is “safe enough” for David to complete his mission, I’m already wringing my hands and worrying about a black son I have not yet had but hoping to have, named for my Idol.
David – with the hope of a Barack Obama and the threat of a Trayvon Martin.