Читать книгу Parenting for Liberation - Trina Greene Brown - Страница 6

Introduction

In 2014, when my son was five years old, it seemed like every time I watched the news, I saw another Black person being murdered or impacted by state violence. It wasn’t only adult men and women, but young Black children’s lives that were (and still are) being taken by those sworn to “protect and serve.” The recurring images of Black bodies left in the streets after being shot by police (such as Michael Brown, an eighteen-year-old gunned down in Ferguson, Missouri, in the summer of 2014 whose lifeless body lay in the street for four hours), coupled with the historical legacy of Black bodies hanging after lynchings, compounded my fears as a Black parent. Trayvon Martin, Jordan Davis, Aiyana Stanley-Jones, and Tamir Rice—are contemporary Emmett Tills. I became worried that I would become a modern-day Mamie Till-Mobley, a mother-turned-activist after her fourteen-year-old son, Emmett Till, was murdered in the summer of 1955 in Mississippi when Carolyn Bryant Donham falsely accused him of whistling at her. Mamie is a foremother to the many modern-day “mothers of the movement,” all of whom are compelled by grief to share their children’s deaths publicly with the world; it is a “club” that many Black mothers are fearful that we will be forced to join, crying over the bodies of our African American children. This fear, which is a trauma response, encourages Black parents (including me, and maybe you) to engage in parenting strategies that are detrimental to Black children, in the name of protecting them—and us.

These behaviors are rooted in what Dr. Joy DeGruy coined as posttraumatic slave syndrome wherein “African Americans adapted their behavior over centuries in order to survive the stifling effects of chattel slavery, effects which are evident today … in large part related to transgenerational adaptations associated with the past traumas of slavery and ongoing oppression.” Dr. DeGruy gives an example of the survival strategies employed by enslaved mothers, such as being hypervigilant about the whereabouts of their children because it was unsafe for Black children to stray for fear of severe punishment.

Does this sound familiar to you? This dynamic has definitely been at play in my parenting practice, and it took deep self-reflection and a lot of reading to begin to unpack it. Even though my family lives in a community with an enclosed community playground, I was terrified of allowing my son, Terrence, to play outside without me being present, let alone out of my eyesight. In the fall of 2016, I hosted a Parenting for Liberation gathering on Black Friday. As parents sat in a community circle sharing our deepest fears, our children were next door dreaming up their visions of liberated lives as superheroes. At the close of the event, the parents and children came together, and as each child shared their superhero name, costume, and superpower, each parent was to make a commitment to a shift that would help to foster that superpower in their children. When Terrence shared his superpower—to teleport—it dawned on me that he wanted to have the freedom to move without constraints of time, space, or even me as his mother. I made a commitment that day—publicly—to allow Terrence more space to explore and play.

That shift came in increments. In 2017, when I finally allowed him to go outside and play without me, I required him to check in every ten minutes, with one “simple” request: “Let me know you’re alive.” Every ten to fifteen minutes, Terrence would run to the door and check in. What he said upon checking in made sadness rise up like a lump in my throat. My seven-year-old son would burst into our home and yell “I’m alive!” and then run back out to play.

After a while, his non-Black friends caught on and would come to the door with him, waiting for this small interruption in their playing to end. Though at the time it appeared to be a minor inconvenience, I realized I was communicating something to my son. When I saw my Black boy having to affirm his life, with his non-Black peers in the background, I realized I was reinforcing that he had to validate his right to be free and childlike. It was like his own version of declaring Black Lives Matter. The only difference was that he wasn’t proclaiming this to a racist system or institution and he wasn’t declaring this in the face of state violence; this proclamation was to me, his mother. He had to affirm to me that his freedom matters and his space to play and have fun matters.

I realize that the mainstream may refer to this as being a “helicopter parent.” As a Black parent who is raising Black children, I did not see this as being a helicopter parent. In fact, many of us actually are parenting children in “helicopter environments,” where our children are frequently under surveillance and their movements policed. Parenting under constant surveillance and policing places limits on the exploration, play, freedom, and free spirit of children and childhood. These conditions lead Black parents, including myself, to use harm-reduction techniques such as not allowing my children to speak up for fear of them being considered a threat; having “the talk” with my children on how to engage with police; being the “fashion police” for fear that what my child is wearing could cause deadly interaction with the police; or moving to a “better” neighborhood school because we believe education is the ultimate equalizer. Parenting from these restrictive viewpoints increases dominance over children and can lead to engaging in abusive parenting practices, such as utilizing power and control, punitive tactics, and harsh physical, verbal, and emotional punishment. In my home, I found myself clamping down on my son, saying no more than saying yes, and raising my voice. I realized that I was not living out my values of equity, joy, love, and freedom in my home because I was parenting from a place of fear. I was parenting to protect, but protection did not allow my child to be free. I was putting boundaries and restrictions on my child’s humanity, and I was blocking him from being his freest self because I was afraid. I realized I wanted and needed a shift. I wanted to unlearn and heal from my fear and replace it with liberation and freedom.

In making this shift, I did an assessment of the resources and tools available for parents who are raising Black children to be free. I found online resources to engage children in conversations about race. I also found a few books and readings written by parents of color such as Revolutionary Mothering: Love on the Front Lines, an anthology edited by Alexis Pauline Gumbs, China Martens, and Mai’a Williams, that focuses on placing mothers of color at the center of movement building and social change, and My Brown Baby: On the Joys and Challenges of Raising African American Children by Denene Millner, and Letters to My Black Sons: Raising Boys in a Post-Racial America by Dr. Karsonya Wise Whitehead.

While I did find some resources to equip me and other parents with the necessary skills to practice liberated parenting, I yearned for more resources that spoke directly to the unique experiences of parenting while Black. I began to reach out to my elders and peers in the social justice community to engage in dialogue about their struggles and how they made and are making the shift from fear to liberation in their own parenting practices. In my early conversations, I realized that there is a gap to be filled for myself and for other Black parents. There is a need for both resources and tools, and to be connected to each other. There is a need for parents to be in community with one another, having conversations about the day-to-day pains, struggles, joys, and hopes of raising Black children to be their freest selves.

After realizing this critical gap in resources and community for Black parents who are intentionally practicing liberation in their parenting, I created Parenting for Liberation based on my belief in the power of parents to conceive, birth, and nurture liberation for the future. Launched in 2016 as a virtual platform featuring blogs and podcasts to connect, inspire, and uplift Black parents as they navigate and negotiate raising Black children within the social and political context of the United States, Parenting for Liberation is rooted in an Afrofuturist vision of a world where Black parents are in community with each other to raise Black children without fear and instead parent for liberation. Our mission is to cultivate resilient and joyful Black families that are doing the healing work to interrupt historical traumas, dismantle harmful narratives about Black families, and create community that amplifies Black girl magic and Black boy joy.

Since Parenting for Liberation’s inception, I have created space to learn with and from other Black parents about what it takes to be liberated parents. Some of the engagement strategies that have grounded my work for the past couple of years have ranged from one-on-one conversations with Black parents, to large group workshops with parents and children, and sharing my learnings via writing both online and in print. I’ve been in conversation with over thirty Black parents and recorded those dialogues in podcasts. I’ve engaged Black parents online through my blog and social media. I’ve had the pleasure of gathering groups of Black parents in Los Angeles, San Diego, Detroit, Chicago, Boise, and St. Helena, holding space for Black parents who are freedom fighting for their collective liberation, to engage with one another, and share how they operationalize liberation in their homes. Knowing that parenting is a collective effort, I have had incredible collaborators such as Move to End Violence, Mothering Justice, CADRE, A Long Walk Home, Black Activist Mothering, and Chicana M(other)work, with whom I have led parenting workshops in women’s prisons in California and for whom I wrote a chapter in their anthology.

Through Parenting for Liberation, I work in deep partnership with Black parents to name, interrupt, and transform trauma responses as a strategy to cultivate liberated parents that are ready to challenge institutional violence and racism on behalf of their children and community.

My core belief? Centering Black parents is key to unlocking the multiple barriers to disrupting the cycles of oppression that are perpetrated against Black communities. Parenting is a political act, after all. Audre Lorde, Black queer feminist poet and scholar, described her parenting as a revolutionary act that had the ability to liberate and free not only her own children but also engage her children as agents of social change.

What is becoming clearer is the need to identify ways to shift from fear to liberation before we can activate Black parents to challenge institutional oppression. The work has evolved from focusing on ways of parenting our children to engaging with Black parents to do their own healing and transformative work and supporting Black parents to understand intergenerational trauma rooted in slavery. Based on research by Dr. Joy DeGruy, there are many chains that need to be broken to heal Black parents from the impact of post-traumatic slave syndrome, such as punitive parenting styles, that are rooted in fear from slavery.

Rather than vilifying Black parents, Parenting for Liberation is working to unearth and connect to these deep-seated historical traumas and provide liberatory and healing practices for Black parents. When parents can access their own liberation and healing, they are equipped to advocate and support their children and community. Imagine Black parents with multiple seats at decision-making tables. The decisions and solutions conjured up in those spaces would be inherently radical, centering the most impacted and laying the foundation for equity for ourselves, in our homes, and in community.

Now, when Terrence is outside playing, he is no longer required to check in, declaring that he’s alive. Instead he plays in community with other children whose parents and grandparents I’ve built relationships with. I have the security of knowing that I don’t have to parent alone, and that there is a village of folks who are keeping an eye on him.