Because A Black Boy Calls Me Mama: Part Two

That there is a part two to this blog post is saddening to me. Sometimes, I'm dangerously close to being disheartened, but the truth that God is bigger and mightier than all, including things like racism, prejudice, agism, classism, poverty, and so on and so on rings clear in my mind and on my heart. My words will not end these things. Truthfully, I think until our broken world is made new by our risen Savior, no sin will end.
At the start of this post, two more black males have died at the hands of white police officers. I know little facts about either case. I can make no judgment and won't. I can speak to the emotions that these stories evoke in me. Being a black boy's mama requires that I lean upon Jesus daily. I have NO idea what it's like growing up black in America where blacks and other minorities have been systematically oppressed. I find everyday that there are things I don't even consider that black mothers do consider when raising their young sons.
For example, I bought my boys cap guns yesterday. I thought nothing of it except that my brother and I had cap guns when we were growing up and we had great fun with them. They were over the moon about them and opened them immediately when we returned home. It wasn't until I saw them chasing each other around our large back yard, firing their cap guns at each other, that I thought, "Is this a good idea?" We teach our children gun safety from a young age and keep our guns locked away, but they have always been allowed to play with toy guns---usually nerf guns or water pistols. These cap guns look nothing like real guns really. They are big and fat and made from clear plastic, but something inside my heart quaked a little. The question: "Would this cost James his life one day?" Would my allowing them the freedom to imagine and pretend that they were police officers ("the good guys") chasing down criminals, one day mean that my son is thought a criminal?
Truthfully, I dismissed my thoughts as silly and said, "No. I don't think this will happen to us." And that's where I'm separate from black mothers. It's never happened in my family. I have no personal experience from which to draw. This is my white privilege.
I've thought a lot about James 1:19 these past few days. "Know this, my beloved brothers: let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger." I've realized in my meditating on this verse that maybe African Americans don't need another white person defining their experience or trying to explain their situation. Maybe they need to be allowed a voice, a chance to speak for themselves to people who are willing to really hear them.
I am left to wonder though, have their voices been muted too long, have their cries fallen on deaf ears too long? I sincerely hope not. I'm here to hear, to listen, to offer only my ear and my prayer.