Sam came home from the overnighter visibly crushed. He curled around his hurt as though he'd been punched in the gut, and he refused to say what had happened. My husband and I fought panic as all the horrible things that might happen to a 14-year-old away from home pounded through our brains. We cajoled and interrogated as he tried to disappear into the living room sofa, until finally, enough of the story emerged to reassure us that our oldest son hadn't been physically injured. But his suffering was still real.
His friends had asked him why he didn't act black.
"...People think I should be able to rap or something," he said. "Like they see in movies and crap." Strong words from our almost silent son. "They want me to act like something I'm not."
Read a mother's story in the Washington Post.
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