My son, Avery, is the color of caramel. He is 15 years old, stands nearly 6 feet 2 inches tall and weighs almost 200 pounds. He is a Big. Black. Boy. Because Avery is a big black boy, when we moved a couple of years ago, one of my first tasks was to parade him around our new neighborhood. Smile and wave, I told him, so they know you belong here.

Because Avery is a big black boy, the answer was no when he asked if he could go trick-or-treating Halloween before last with two even bigger black boys. And when he begged—oh please Mom, you don’t let me have any fun—and told me the plan was for them to be in costume as professional basketball players, it was all I could do to not change my verbal response to, Oh HELL no!

I work very hard to make sure Avery is where he is supposed to be, doing what he is supposed to be doing. But despite all my efforts, I know he remains very much at risk for being on the receiving end of shit happening for no other reason than being a big black boy. What recently happened to New York Times Op-Ed Columnist Charles Blow’s son is yet another reminder. In his son’s case, being a big black boy led to staring down the barrel of a policeman’s gun first and being asked questions later—outside a Yale library.

Last night I asked Avery to read Mr. Blow’s column and discussed it with him. But because among the worst things that happen to me as a black woman are (a) being followed around in a department store and (b) being the object of some dude’s brown sugar fantasy, I told him he should ask his stepfather and his father to talk about things that have happened to them, so he can better understand his world's reality. I know they have plenty of stories—they are both Big. Black. Men.