What do you say when it feels like there isn’t much left to say? Well, sometimes you say nothing at all.

If you’ve noticed I haven’t been very vocal online about the present issues our country is facing, this post is for you. It would be extremely easy to assume from the outside that my silent contemplation equates to apathy.

That’s not true at all.

My silence is rooted in sorrow. However, that silence is not an indication of a neutral stance or dismissal of the injustice of George Floyd’s murder. His murder was heinous, abhorrent and heartbreaking. I’m uncompromisingly firm on that.

An issue a little more complicated? My kids. If I’m honest, I just don’t want to confront this with my boys. Before my DMs are flooded with outcries expressing how irresponsible or offensive that might be for some…know that I’m aware it’s a controversial choice. I don’t owe anyone an explanation, but I value the transparency I’ve tried to maintain with my readers, family and friends.

The unveiling of the realities around what happened to Mr. Floyd will undoubtedly strip my sweet little boys of the innocence I would prefer them be allowed to hang onto at least a little while longer. I’m trying desperately to achieve that. Did that get an eye roll out of you? Keep reading.

Every single one of us has had our opinions and views of the world informed by our own experiences, much of which involve our personal upbringing. That said, consider my history: I’m a biracial woman who was transracially adopted by two white parents. My adopted siblings are biracial. I have two black sons. Let all of THAT sink in.

It’s safe to say I have a unique story. And, while it may be hard for many to understand and believe, my first real encounter with racism didn’t happen until I was in my 20s. Shocking, I know. My parents went well out of their way to ensure I experienced minimal adversity from racial issues and matters. I’m not ashamed to tell you that my life was sheltered, and I lived in my safe, shielded bubble until the racial incident I alluded to. It wasn’t that race didn’t exist; it simply wasn’t something that regularly penetrated my bubble. I look at my two little ones, and everything inside of me wants to keep them in a similarly safe place until I absolutely can’t anymore, and I have to burst their bubble.

Everyone’s rage about the murder of George Floyd is valid, warranted and right. I am standing in solidarity with us all, hoping for justice. I want to protect US. I can also, at the very same time, want to protect my boys.

So here I am, so saddened by the loss of that precious human life, the one that called for his mama before taking his last breath. I’m saddened by the hurt and heartbreak that is palpable in the peaceful and not-so-peaceful protests. Call me naive or idyllic, but I long for the “someday” that so many civil rights activists spoke of so long ago. I’m still hoping I’ll see it in this lifetime…or my children’s.

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