I Didn’t Have A Voice. My Son Has A Microphone.

I was raised to stay in a child’s place. I’m raising my son to speak up—and learning that giving a child a voice means teaching him how to use it.

I’ve been told I’m playing a dangerous game with my son.

Apparently, I let Cristian have too much of a say.

I let him tell me when he doesn’t want to go somewhere. I let him tell me when he’s ready to go home. He can tell me he doesn’t want to eat something. He can ask me why he has to do something. He can disagree with me.

And Lord knows this child will disagree with me.

Cristian will question me to death.

If I tell him to do something and he doesn’t understand why, we’re not just moving on with our lives.

Oh, no.

There will be questions.

There will be follow-up questions.

There will be rebuttals.

There may be a closing argument.

And God forbid I try to end the conversation before he’s gotten his entire point out. It’s like the words start building pressure inside of him and if he doesn’t finish the sentence, he may actually explode.

Sometimes I just want to look at him and say:

Boy. Please. Shut. Up.

But I also know exactly why I created this problem.

Because when I was a child, I didn’t have a voice at all.

A Child Stays in a Child’s Place

Little Crystal wasn’t questioning shit.

I wasn’t given the space to say I was uncomfortable.

I wasn’t telling an adult I didn’t want to go somewhere.

I wasn’t saying I didn’t want to be around somebody.

I wasn’t disagreeing with an adult.

And I damn sure wasn’t asking why after I’d already been told to do something.

I was a child.

And children stayed in a child’s place.

What I wanted didn’t matter.

What I thought didn’t matter.

How I felt didn’t matter.

And even on the rare occasion when an adult asked for my opinion, I learned pretty quickly that there was usually a correct answer.

They weren’t necessarily asking because they genuinely wanted to know what little Crystal thought.

Sometimes they wanted validation.

They wanted me to give them the answer they were already looking for.

And I knew what that answer was.

So even if it wasn’t what I actually thought, that was the answer I gave.

Because telling the truth could mean getting yelled at.

Being sent to my room.

Or worse, somebody might swing on me.

So I learned to read the room.

I learned to keep certain thoughts to myself.

I learned that being a “good” child sometimes meant being a quiet one.

And when I became a mother, I knew I didn’t want that for my son.

Maybe I overcorrected a little.

Okay.

I definitely overcorrected.

Because Cristian has a voice.

And the mic is always on. 

Having a Voice Doesn’t Mean You Get Your Way

Here’s where I think people misunderstand the way I parent him.

Giving Cristian a voice does not mean Cristian runs my house.

He is allowed to question me.

I am also allowed to tell him no.

He’s allowed to disagree with me.

I am also allowed to hear his disagreement, consider it, and make the exact same decision I made before he started talking.

But sometimes?

He changes my mind.

Cristian is nine now, and one of his least favorite things in the world is running errands with me.

If I say I’m going to a bunch of stores, this child is not excited about spending quality time with his mother.

He wants to be home.

TV.

iPad.

His stuff.

His peace.

For a long time, I didn’t care.

I’m going to the store. You’re coming with me. Get your shoes.

But as he’s gotten older, he’s continued telling me he doesn’t want to come every single time.

And eventually, I started listening.

He’s shown me that he’s responsible enough to stay home for a short period of time. I have cameras. I can check on him. I can pop in and see exactly what he’s doing.

So if I’m making a quick run to the store?

Sometimes he stays home.

He advocated for more independence.

And then he showed me he could handle it.

That’s not my child running my household.

That’s my child growing up.

Sometimes the Kid Has a Point

There was another period when I had to pick Cristian up from school around 2:30 and bring him back to work with me until six.

Every day.

I’d pick him up after he’d already spent the entire day at school, and then he’d have to come sit at my job for another three and a half hours.

One day he told me:

“Mom, I don’t want to sit at work with you today. I don’t want to go to your job. Can we go home?”

My first reaction was basically:

No.

I have to work.

You’re coming with me.

Because that’s life, right?

I had responsibilities.

But then I actually thought about what he was saying.

He had already been at work.

His work was school.

He’d gotten up that morning, gotten ready, spent hours listening, learning, transitioning, following directions and doing everything that was expected of him.

Now I was asking him to finish his entire day and then come sit quietly at my workplace until six because I still had work to do.

I’m an adult.

I’m built for long days.

He’s a kid.

And I realized:

You know what? He has a point.

So on some of those days, we went home and I finished my workday there.

My authority as his mother didn’t disappear because my nine-year-old made a good argument.

The house didn’t fall apart.

He didn’t suddenly become the boss of me.

I just listened.

And sometimes listening to your child means admitting that the child is right.

Unfortunately, teaching Cristian that he is allowed to question things has had some…

side effects.

Sir, You Are Not the Teacher

School has been an adjustment lately.

Because Cristian doesn’t reserve his opinions for me.

Oh, no.

The public gets to enjoy them too.

Cristian has developed this unfortunate belief that sometimes he knows better than his teacher how her classroom should operate.

If he believes it’s supposed to be his turn to be line leader and his name isn’t called?

We have a case.

If everybody has been told to sit along the wall but he sees another perfectly acceptable place to sit?

Well, naturally, he would like to discuss why the wall is necessary.

If something on the board indicated one thing and the teacher does another?

Counselor Cristian is prepared to present Exhibit A.

And this is where Mama has to come in and explain:

Sir. You are not co-teaching this class.

You can ask a question.

You can respectfully explain why you’re confused.

You can even disagree.

But eventually, your teacher has answered you.

And now?

Go sit your ass on the wall.

Because having a voice doesn’t mean you have the final say.

Sometimes the Objection Is Overruled

This is the part of parenting him that I’m still figuring out.

Because I don’t want to raise a child who blindly follows every person with authority over him.

But I also don’t want to raise an adult who believes every instruction he doesn’t like is up for negotiation.

Sometimes you’re going to hear no.

Sometimes the rule won’t make sense to you.

Sometimes you’ll think your boss is wrong.

Sometimes you’ll disagree with a teacher.

Sometimes somebody will make a decision you wouldn’t have made.

And sometimes you will explain your position beautifully, passionately, logically…

and the answer will still be no.

That’s life too.

Recently, after Cristian had a particularly rough day at school, I had him outside running.

Now, there’s a little method to my madness here. Cristian is actually a damn good runner. I’ve been wanting to get him more active and eventually involved in sports, and running is something I know he’s capable of doing well.

But on this particular day?

He was not trying to hear none of that shit.

“I’m hot.”

Keep running.

“I’m tired.”

Keep running.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

You can.

“My feet hurt.”

Okay. I hear you.

Keep running.

This child gave me every reason in the book for why this run needed to end immediately.

And I wasn’t going for it.

So eventually, I started running beside him.

Not because his complaints didn’t matter to me. And not because I wanted him to believe he should ignore his body when something is actually wrong.

But I knew my child.

I knew what he was capable of.

And I knew, in that moment, the difference between “I can’t do this” and “I really don’t want to do this anymore.”

Those are not always the same thing.

My message wasn’t:

I don’t care how you feel.

It was:

I hear you. I know this is uncomfortable. And I still know you can finish.

That’s a distinction I want him to understand.

You can be uncomfortable without being unsafe.

You can dislike something without being incapable of doing it.

You can tell me how you feel without those feelings automatically changing what needs to happen.

And you can have a voice without always getting a vote.

I’m Raising the Man, Too

Sometimes when people tell me I’m playing a dangerous game by letting Cristian question me, I understand what they’re saying.

The world is not going to ask his opinion about everything.

He’s going to have bosses.

Rules.

Deadlines.

Responsibilities.

People who don’t care that he doesn’t feel like doing something.

And there will absolutely be times when he needs to understand:

This is not a discussion.

I’m trying to teach him that too.

But I’m not only raising nine-year-old Cristian.

I’m raising the man he’s going to become.

And when I picture 25-year-old Cristian, I don’t want him walking through life believing that authority automatically means somebody is right.

I want him to be able to say:

No. That’s not safe.

No. Something isn’t right here.

No. Someone could get hurt.

I want him to advocate for himself.

If he’s sitting in a doctor’s office one day and knows something is wrong with his body, I don’t want him to walk away simply because somebody in a white coat dismissed him.

If a boss is mistreating him, I don’t want him believing he has to accept it because that person signs his paycheck.

If one day he has a wife who’s pregnant and she’s telling a doctor something is wrong, I want my son beside her saying:

Listen to her.

And I hope he learns to use that voice for people who don’t have one.

I want him to be willing to safely speak up when someone else needs an advocate.

But I also know that Cristian is a Black boy who will become a Black man.

And I’d be lying if I pretended that doesn’t add another layer to everything I’m trying to teach him.

There may be situations—especially with law enforcement—where being right isn’t the only thing that matters.

His safety matters more to me than winning an argument.

So I don’t just want him to know that he has a voice.

I want him to develop the judgment to understand how, when and where to use it.

That’s harder.

Your Voice Is Not a Weapon

There’s one more thing I want him to understand.

Having a voice doesn’t give you permission to hurt people with it.

Not everything you think needs to come out of your mouth.

And Lord knows we’re still working on that one.

Something can be true and still be cruel.

You can notice something about another person and choose not to say it.

You can disagree without humiliating somebody.

You can advocate for yourself without tearing another person down.

I spent part of my childhood learning that my voice didn’t matter.

I don’t want Cristian learning the opposite extreme—that because his voice matters, every thought deserves an audience.

It doesn’t.

I hope the voice I’m giving him becomes something he uses to protect himself.

To protect the people he loves.

To advocate.

To question.

To intervene safely when somebody needs help.

To say no when something isn’t right.

And then, sometimes, to recognize:

I’ve made my point. I’ve been heard. I don’t like the answer, but it’s time to move forward.

I don’t want him to use his voice as a weapon.

I want him to use it to do more good than harm.

So maybe I am ]]]playing a dangerous game by raising a child who knows he’s allowed to question me.

Maybe sometimes I’m creating more work for myself.

Maybe his teachers would appreciate it if I had installed just a little less confidence.

Hell, sometimes I would appreciate it.

But I’d rather spend his childhood teaching him when and how to use his voice than spend his adulthood trying to convince him that he’s allowed to have one.