19 and 9. The ages of my 2 sons. Dear God protect them.
I always thought the hardest part was raising them as a single mom. Now, I know that’s the least of my worries.
The hardest part is raising 2 black sons period. It seems like every time the war against blacks from the police was dying down, I’m faced with a reminder that rocks me to my core. Dear God protect them.
What have we done to the white race for us to be hated so much? When God did this all begin and why?
2 eyes, 2 ears, 1 nose, 1 mouth, same red blood. We’re all one in the same except for the color of our skin. So why? Somebody tell me why because maybe if I know I can help fix it so my kids can be safe from brutality. It needs to be fixed so my sons can live.
I’m so tired. Tired of crying, tired of worrying, tired of questioning God.
We’re standing on this side of Heaven. So much beauty, so much to be thankful for. Yet darkness always seems to dim the light. Darkness that’s darker than night.
They were resisting arrest they say. They had drugs and weapons they say. They were harassing us in the park they say. All lies.
We’re getting killed just for being BLACK and I have no words to tell my sons to keep them from that horrible faith. So still I pray, Dear God protect my black family, protect my black neighbors, protect my black friends. God protect my BLACK sons.
