“I Don’t Trust White People”:
A child’s truth is not a threat. It’s a warning, and an invitation.
We are so quick to celebrate the bloom.
The breakthrough. The rising.
But liberation doesn’t begin with the light.
It begins in the dark.
In the hidden, inherited knowing.
In the silence before the yes.
Today, I was called into my child’s school.
He had refused to transition with a staff member for testing, part of his 504 Plan accommodations.
When I arrived, calm and curious, I asked what was wrong.
Without flinching, he said:
“I don’t trust white people.”
My first instinct, shaped by years of programming, was to say:
“But you have white family. White friends.”
And he, rooted in the simplicity of embodied wisdom, replied:
“I know them. I love them. I don’t know her.”
And just like that, the conversation changed.
The Moment We Usually Miss
We are conditioned to shut that moment down.
“That’s not nice.”
“That’s not kind.”
“That’s racist.”
But is it?
Or is it a child naming a truth he feels in his bones?
Is it generations of warnings, carried in the nervous system?
Is it his own discernment?
Is it his awareness—as a young Black boy—of the historic, violent pattern between white women and Black masculinity?
He wasn’t being mean.
He was being honest.
And his honesty is a compass—if we’re brave enough to follow it.
This isn’t about hatred.
It’s about history.
So I didn’t punish him.
I didn’t scold him into softness.
I held him.
I reminded him he is safe, and that I am here.
And then a Black man staff member stayed with him until he felt okay enough to transition.
That is what love looks like in real time.
That is community.
That is repair.
And Yes—I Can Hold Her Humanity Too
Let me be clear:
I can hold space for the white staff member’s feelings.
It likely didn’t feel good to be rejected.
To be associated with a history she may not feel connected to.
To experience the discomfort of being seen not as an individual—but as part of a collective.
And that discomfort?
It’s real.
It deserves reflection.
But it is not more urgent than my son’s safety. (perceived or real)
You don’t have to be a white supremacist to carry the weight of white supremacy.
That’s how systems work.
You don’t have to intend harm to be shaped by it.
So no—I’m not blaming her for a system she didn’t invent.
But I am holding her accountable for how she shows up inside of it, and the awareness it takes to navigate shared spaces.
Because whiteness travels with you, whether you acknowledge it or not.
This is not about guilt.
It’s about honesty.
And honesty is where healing begins.
To White Readers: This Is Your Reckoning Too
If you're white and this makes you uncomfortable, good.
Let it. Trust it. Interrogate it.
Because this isn’t about attacking you.
It’s about inviting you to see what we see.
To feel what we have always felt.
To live, for just a moment, in the space of being distrusted because of a legacy your people built. It is an opportunity to get curious and activate your empathy.
Ask yourself:
Why does a Black child’s boundary feel like a threat to you?
Why is your discomfort louder than our lived experience?
Why do you expect immediate trust when your people have yet to repair the harm?
You can love Black people and still benefit from a system that devalues us.
You can feel sad and still be complicit.
This is the tension.
This is the work.
To stay in the room even when the mirror is heavy.
To ask not, “How do I make this stop hurting?”
But instead, “What do I need to confront so I no longer cause harm?”
That Mirror Is a Warning—and an Invitation
That is a mirror.
And a warning.
And if you’re paying attention—it’s also an invitation.
To reckon. To repair. To relate differently.
Because our children are not just reacting to the world—they’re calling us to reshape it.
On What Repair Actually Looks Like
If you are white and want to do something meaningful—start with repair.
Not performance. Not guilt. Not proximity.
Repair means:
Naming the systems you benefit from—even when no one’s watching.
Disrupting harm in the room, not just behind closed doors.
Teaching your children not to fear being distrusted—but to earn trust through accountability and action.
Listening when you’re uncomfortable.
Building relationships where you don’t require applause, access, or affection in return.
Repair is a lifetime practice—not a one-time apology.
To My Fellow Black Parents: The Lineage of Silence Ends Here
We have been taught to hush our children for their own survival.
Taught that politeness might be their protection.
That stillness might mean they get to come home.
That if we teach them to shrink, they’ll be safer.
But survival isn’t the same as liberation.
And I want more than survival for my child.
I want him to thrive—unapologetically, expansively, and whole.
So I’m breaking the lineage of silence.
I am not raising him to make whiteness feel good.
I am raising him to make himself feel free.
And that may mean he is feared. Misunderstood.
But he will never be betrayed by his own mother.
Practice Your Praxis: For Everyone Reading
For Self (especially Black caregivers):
What inherited messages about white people live in your body?
How do you navigate teaching your child discernment while living in a white-dominant society?
Where do you feel pressure to over-explain or apologize for your boundaries?
For Home:
What conversations are (or are not) happening about trust, race, and safety?
Are your children allowed to name discomfort without being silenced or shamed?
How do you model holding nuance without erasing accountability?
For Work and School Settings:
Are your staff trained in cultural humility and trauma-informed care—not just compliance-based “diversity”?
How are you addressing collective harm and personal defensiveness in real time?
What systems are in place to support—not punish—children who are responding to the reality around them?
Reflection Questions for White Readers
When have you expected trust without building relationship?
How do you respond when your presence is met with skepticism instead of praise?
What work are you doing to understand how whiteness operates through you, not just around you?
Have you mistaken being kind for being anti-racist?
What do you believe you’re entitled to in Black and Brown spaces—and why?
Closing: Let This Be the Start, Not the End
This isn’t about one moment in one school.
This is about what we’ve been asked to swallow in the name of civility.
About what our children already know.
About what we refuse to pass down.
I will not teach my son to be silent to make white people feel safe.
I will teach him to trust his body, his voice, and his boundaries.
And when he says,
“I don’t trust white people,”
I will listen.
Because maybe it’s not about whether it’s nice.
Maybe it’s about whether it’s true.
And whether you are willing to receive it—not as an attack, but as what it is:
A warning.
And an invitation.
In solidarity and liberation,
Desireé B. Stephens, CPS-P
Educator | Counselor | Community Builder
Founder, Make Shi(f)t Happen
New Agreements, New Systems, Deeper Connections
Writer of Liberation Education
Where Reflection Meets Transformation
What I find most striking here is that they were able to assert this boundary, or even to know it. This speaks volumes about how well you have raised your children to know their truth, and how they have internalized the message. Well done, to everyone
Thank you. While I understand the importance of building trust with my students, I do not always understand my students' challenges to building that trust. Thank you for making me uncomfortable so that I may continue to grow and hopefully be a more aware and better human.