These are my four sons. Paul Jr. Joseph, David, and Noah.
They are cute funny and brilliant.
I love them. I birthed them, I nursed them. Sometimes they call me Mama.
One day they will be dark, tall, and strong men.
Will you still admire those precious eyes and smile or will you decide that it’s time to fear them?
And now we weep for George Floyd who died cuffed and unarmed on the street. And I wept as I listened to his cries for his mama.
A man who resembles my father was so helpless and hopeless that he called for the first place of safety he’d ever known. His mama.
He cried out for the one who saw him take his first breath—just as that very breath was robbed from him. “MAMA!”
We are not raising our boys to die on the streets because of hate and fear. We are raising them to be noble God-fearing men who achieve their dreams, love their wives, love their children grandchildren and even great-grandchildren. But will you let them? Or will you have them crying out for me instead? MAMA!
But Mama is not just me . . .
Mama is justice.
Mama is boldness.
Mama is safety.
Mama is relentless protection.
Mama is where you can breathe.
Mama is love.
Mama is you.
Who’s gonna be Mama?
Black Mama we see you,
White Mama we need you.
Where are you? There’s crying.
Can you hear it?
MAMA! Say something. Do something.