I had planted the seed not so long ago, but I let others water it.

My son didn’t even remember the day we walked to the park and casually, but quickly left when the Baker brood arrived. He remembered my face, wrinkled in disgust as I handed back the filthy truck one of the dark skinned boys had shared with my boy. He didn’t remember asking me why he couldn’t play with them, nor accepting my answer.

As I listen to the news, looking at the garden instead, being watered by the late spring rains, I hear the story about the rioting, the burning crosses, and the beatings. I know he’s there, my son, a police officer, enforcing the laws. I know he has his club out, is yelling at the defenseless black men and women.

I could see now that they were people, human, with feelings like any white person. I was ashamed. It took strength for a young seedling to stand in the rain. Through my tears, I knew I had done the right thing by shunning my son. I would stand by my decision.

The seed I planted in my son was a weed.