My son will one day be a white man, unless he identifies differently, with all the corresponding unearned privilege. Raising him to be an advocate, an ally and an activist is at the forefront of my mind most days, and the weight of this responsibility terrifies me. He is only three, but the ways he learns to behave now, and the dynamics of his social space, will inform his view of the world
Navigating the gendered space became more important after I had a son. More specifically, when I had a child that was a white male, imbued with all the unearned privilege that comes along with being a white man in this country. My sweet boy is the most beautiful thing in my life, and I think of him all the time in relation to the state of the world. I thought of him, when I watched the news I saw that AOC was called a “fucking bitch” on the steps of our Capital by Ted Yoho, while Roger Williams stood by. I thought of my son when I remembered how Brock Turner was only sentenced to 6 months, and only served three for raping an unconscious woman because the judge said prison would have a “severe impact on him”. I thought of my son when George Floyd called for his mother.
How am I to raise my son to be an advocate and ally when 70 million Americans voted to re-elect a president that talks openly about violating women, “Grab ’em by the pussy. You can do anything.”
The answer is: thoughtfully, deliberately and with a conscious narrative that is both implicit and explicit. The answer is to start at birth, because in a society with gender reveals, it is never too early to start unlearning privilege and gender constructs.
In our home we are gentle with each other, with our words, and with our bodies. My husband and I lead through example, and navigate the challenges of parenting through the pandemic — having no free time, little space, and lots of challenges with communication — with calmness, conversations and sometimes lots of deep breaths. In my child’s limited experience, the answer to conflict is never physical, demeaning, or combative. Additionally, there are frequent conversations about economics, broken down into language a three year old can digest, how we work to “have a nice home and good food”. My time and contributions are as valued as my husband's, making way for examples of economic equity. We also stick to our skill sets and preferences, which means I cook and do home repairs, while my husband cleans our home and takes care of the yardwork.
Our home is bicultural and bilingual, and we have created our community to reflect those values. Our friends and their children are just as likely to speak a different language at home as they are to speak English. My son is surrounded by diverse examples of family and parenting. We do not shy away from deconstructing gender, and in turn he has normalized that people are different and that further conversation is not necessary.
During playdates consent and autonomy are the main features of conversation. Bodies are our own and no one is allowed to infringe on that sovereignty. This includes conversations, noises and even looks. There is no one better to express the power of a “look” than a three-year-old. The refrain, “They are looking at me!!” can be plaintive, infuriated, and frustrated when uttered by a toddler. At first it seemed like I was placating to respond, but then when I thought about it more, and through my own experience as a woman, I realized that a “look” can be as demeaning, violating, and assaulting as any physical gesture.
My son is being raised in a community where he is made to feel safe in his body, and to make sure the others around him feel safe as well. He seeks consent before touching and hugging his playmates, and their parents. He honors their autonomy. The groundwork has been laid. Now it is my job as a parent to guide him through his childhood, and strengthen the foundation of consent and advocacy, to help him use his white male privilege to advocate and empower, instead of oppress or feed into white saviorism.
As I tuck my son into bed, feel his heavy arms clutching my neck, kiss his sweet rosebud lips, I think of all the other parents that tucked their boys into bed at night. Kissed them goodnight and wished them sweet dreams, not knowing that in 10 or 15 years, their sweet little children would become someone else’s nightmare, would turn into men that demean their partners, call strong women bitches, partners that abuse their families or rapists that will hurt and violate.
When I think about my life, what I will contribute to this world, it is a mix of professional and personal. The work I do in the nonprofit space, to address social justice through economic justice, is essential. However, the best thing I can do from a personal standpoint to contribute to society is to raise this sweet boy into a man that will intervene, that will not allow violence or disrespect to be the status quo, at work, at home or in society. Months ago, when the election results were finalized, and I could finally take a dep breath, I watched Kamala Harris speak at the inauguration. As I watched the first woman Vice President speak, it occurred to me that I had never dreamed that my son would be president. That is just not on my radar. But, as I contemplate about how I can raise a child to be the best person he could be, it does occur to me, that maybe he could be the president’s husband. A man of intelligence and kindness, who knows how to support, encourage and advocate. That is a new kind of dream.
