When my blond, blue-eyed, light-skinned, six-foot-one son was a teenager, I worried a little every time he left the house. Would the old Bronco he was driving break down and leave him stranded? Would he have a wreck on a rain-slick street? Would he commit some act of youthful stupidity that would result in an encounter with law enforcement? Mothers of only children can think of lots of things to worry about, even when the son in question is an intelligent, level-headed kid with little or no interest in slipping to the dark side.

What I never had to worry about was that his physical appearance would immediately mark him as trouble waiting to happen; that some people would become so fearful they might behave irrationally and even violently. If he went into a department store, no one followed him around. If he went in to prepay his gas at a convenience store, and he was wearing a hoodie, the clerk wouldn’t reach under the counter to make sure the pistol was ready. If he was stopped for a traffic violation, the officer was not going to pull his weapon if Steve had trouble working his wallet out of his back pocket.

In those days I could say to my son, “Got your house key? Have fun, but don’t stay out too late. I love you!” And I could know with almost total certainty that when I went in to wake him up in the morning, he would be there, safe and asleep.

I realize now that my job as a mother was made so much easier just because of white privilege. I am deeply angry that the parents of black sons can’t send them out for an evening with a simple “Have fun!” I am angry that parents have to school their boys on how not to get killed while doing absolutely nothing wrong. How can we stop this?