There are some things I never had to think about until I got to that decision point. Like noting today that if I was in the US, I would likely choose a Black doctor for Austin. Female or male, doesn’t matter but I would choose someone who looked like him. Not taking any shine away from all the other incredible doctors from other races, ethnicities, cultural backgrounds…but I would want him to see his own face reflected back at him.

When I was growing up, our family doctor was an older African doc – granted, we were in Kenya but we had a lot of Indian doctors and, as I recall, I never really saw another Kenyan doctor. After living in the US for almost two decades, I grew into this holder of a double consciousness – being Kenyan (African) and being Black. When I had my son in the US, he was not Kenyan or African, but he was African-American. I recognized, based on my years on the West coast, in the South and a few experiences on the East coast, that he would almost always be judged by his name (I selected a strong sounding name – Austin), or his skin color (God controlled that) so what I can control in this set-up is putting heroes, warriors, role models in front of him that look like him. That he can look up to and say woah, there’s someone who looks like me, someone who looks like my mama, working on the vaccination for COVID19, doing medicine in communities that need it, fighting for policy changes that affect me and my family…

I was dating a mzungu guy for some time towards the end of grad school and one of the things that popped up for me was whether this particular person was mature enough, open enough, sensitive enough to realize that race and ethnicity, for me – for our future kids who would be considered Black – would always be an ever present shadow. I don’t let my shadows lurk. I talk about them, I discuss things that they bring up, I try to slice and dice them, and I try to help others who are open to learning to understand how and why these shadows follow me everywhere that I go, even in Africa. I didn’t think that mzungu guy would have been able to understand any of that, for me or for his kids. I walked away. The night I found that I could not tell him that some white kids in a white sedan on Frenchman St had yelled the ‘N’ word out at me was the night I realized I could not have a future with this man.

I was checking out this #dontrushchallenge on Instagram, a version with some medical doctors – Black doctors – and it just hit me, I would totally pick a doctor for Austin based on a number of factors (referral, strength of doctor’s group, insurance approved listing, affiliated hospitals, research paper authorship etc) but I would add ethnicity and race there as well. I would want to be able to talk to this doctor openly about any issues with my son, without worrying about getting dismissed since I am a ‘first time mom’; I would want to be able to talk about the things I worry about for my Black son and to know that this doctor may be able to empathize and see where I am coming from.

Like Issa Rae said, I am rooting for everyone Black. It does not mean I am not championing everyone else who does not look like me or my son. It simply means that in this tapestry of life, some threads get the short end of the stick. For us to sit there and see the ones who moved ahead in the tapestry despite this allows us to also believe we can also make it…that we can be heard…that we can be seen…that we can succeed and the system won’t get us. I want my son to see that he can make it…that being black, being African is not an automatic fail. Every mother, regardless of race, background, literacy levels, socioeconomic status, wants to see their child do their best and thrive. Being able to show my child that here is someone who looks or sounds like you, with a long last name like yours who is making it allows me to believe that I am showing him how to use the light from those that have led the way, that have thrived and are trailblazing in fields not expected…using their light to chase away those shadows that lurk and invite halos of thrivehood into his life.

I am rooting for my son.