I have a son, his name is Trey. Trey is actually his nickname, his formal name is Frederick. Frederick Martin Fulcher III to be exact. He is the third generation of young men to carry this name. His middle name, Martin was chosen by his great grandmother for her son his grandfather. His father, my son’s great grandfather, was a security officer for Martin Luther King Jr. and worked closely with him during the civil rights movement. A time my son knows very little about except in pictures, and movies, and stories.
My son is 7, we live in the middle of suburbia, he goes to school and lives the very dream his great grandfather protected. The dream the man whose name he carries wanted so much for him, that one day people wouldn’t see him for the color of his skin but the content of his character. When he walks down the hallway at his school, I pray this is true, when he comes home to the neighborhood where he lives with so many who don’t look like him, I hope this is true, but there is so much in recent findings that have said this is untruth.
I know because my heart has been broken as I have watched women who look just like me agonize over the pain and loss of their sons. They lived in suburbia and bought into the dream that one day our little boys would be seen for the beauty of who they are and not be judged by how they look. Their color versus content, but it has not been so for them, as I watch with my heart on edge I wonder what will become of my son.
As a nation, we have to continue to fight for that dream, we have to create laws and systems that protect that dream. We have to vote and enact the very rights that bought us to this place.
We have to be proactive and not reactive, engaging and not enduring. The time has come for us to shift from acceptance to pursuit, because we haven’t won. There are still so many people who look at my son, our sons, and say they are not the same. They judge their color and never know their content.
There are no walks, no speeches, no anger, no status updates that will take the place of our vote, our right to vote. The right that was given to us and has yet to be taken away. You see my son may never experience content versus color, but what mothers like me can experience is justice. Justice comes from one place, a judicial system, and systems are made up of interrelated relationships, and relationships always lead back to people. People are the rhyme and reason for all that we do, so let’s put them at the heart of our vote. Not money, not having more than our neighbor but people who will be grossly affected or neglected based on our x marks the spot on a form that can decide the fate of a killer, robbing the life of a deceased young man who looks just like my sweet, handsome, intelligent little boy.
I have a son…..his name is Trey….Frederick Martin Fulcher III…..he has a dream, you have a right, we have a cause. Let’s not live a lie anymore, don’t be lulled to sleep by the comfort of big homes and corporate checks drowning out the cries of a nation that still nurtures a dysfunctional racist past and a systematically racist present. There are no differences except laws, systems, relationships, forms, and changes. Its not that simple, but its not that complicated either. Together in numbers we can and should make a difference.
I have a son, his name is Trey.
Tiffany
