Occasionally, something happens to make me jerk my neck around, turn to my husband, and say, “Their parents should have taught them better than that.”

It’s not because the acts are always particularly egregious or out of step for adolescents testing the limitations of invincibility and coming of age. Instead, it’s because as a black person and a black parent I realize that the stakes are higher for our children and the potential fallout more disastrous when they make a macro-misstep or a micro-misstep. I mean, it’s why you seldom see our kids flailing the middle of a store aisle, talking back to momma and being a disruptive embarrassment in size 2T clothes.

Successfully and effectively raising black children into the respectable black adults of tomorrow requires an attentiveness and sensitivity that, I believe, is distinct from rearing children of the majority look and culture. There is an often unspoken awareness that they will be judged more harshly, rated more sharply, engaged more tenuously and, perhaps, all-out treated with more doubt than benefit by outsiders who might be reluctant to understand and appreciate the beauty and brilliance of who they may be.

As a parent, I now debate just how far I should go in protecting my Little Ladies but simultaneously preparing them for a world that still largely operates according to color and (presumed) caste. I now spend moments thinking about how I was raised and when the specter of race became a mainstay in my life. My recollections seem to mount in a series of incidents that, in retrospect, seem a bit silly, yet remain salient even today.

I remember asking why people were called “white when they were peach and black when they were brown” during a car ride with my mother when I was three or four. I also recall being the only black child in my school’s entire Kindergarten and being so happy when an Indian girl joined the class. I grabbed her arm and said, “She’s black!” Another girl grabbed her other arm and declared, “No, she’s white! She’s white.” A few seconds later, the brown-skinned, dark-haired girl who was caught in our tug of war exclaimed, “NO! I am Indian.” There was even a white girl in my second-grade class who told me, as I wore a purplish/lavender outfit, that I shouldn’t since “nothing matches brown and every color matches white.”

I don’t think I ever told my parents about that one.

We hold our Little Ladies to high standards already. Why? We know they’re intelligent – gifted in their own ways, even – and should be proud of the blessings they so possess. We also know that others may not credit their smarts or acknowledge them or will attribute them to other things, like luck or a good guess. We’ve already had to fight, personally lobby and advocate for Little Lady #1 to access opportunities and be exposed to avenues in which she may be objectively judged. How many times have we seen looks of disbelief or envy when we’ve explained to educators or others that our five-year-old can read books without pictures and multi-syllabic words?

Being a black parent who’s conscious of colorism, racism and prejudice in society and raising well-adjusted black children who are not super-sensitive yet braced to face whatever may come is a delicate balance. I don’t want my children walking around with what might be perceived as institutional and historical chips on their shoulders, yet I want them to know on whose shoulders (generationally and ancestrally) they stand, and be proud, motivated and conscious as a result. I don’t want my children to be weary of white people and to judge anyone else by anything other than who they show themselves to be; however, I need them to know that others will likely do it to them, and it’s not because of anything they’ve done wrong; it’s not their fault. I want my babies to have fun and be free, but I also need them to realize that the codes might be more strictly enforced, the rules altered and the standards uneven when they tow the line or violate laws, policies and procedures.

When a black teenager dates a white girl and gets falsely accused of rape, should those black parents have intervened and prevented the relationship from happening in the first place, under the lens of history, lynchings and false reports, with Emmett Till’s botched face in our minds? When a black child speaks in slang and can be judged as a thug, illiterate or criminal, while her white friend with a hickish accent is deemed endearing or quaint, should we allow dialectical speak in our households at all?

It gets deep. And I don’t know all the answers right now, and probably never will.

Do you believe black parenting has a set of norms and considerations unique to our culture and functioning in this society? Do we have to brief and debrief our children on matters removed from the consideration of kids of other cultures? Do we take ourselves too seriously and need to take a chill pill? Should we broach topics of race and racism from the outset or wait until our child experiences some slight, some reminder, some metaphorical kick, punch or slap that puts them back in their sanctioned place?

BlackCommentator.com Columnist K. Danielle Edwards is a Nashville-based poet, writer, blogger, adjunct professor and communications professional, has had works featured in or on National Public Radio, The Root, The Washington Post, Mythium Literary Journal, Black Magnolias Literary Journal, MotherVerse Literary Journal, ParentingExpress, Mamazine, Mamaphonic, The Black World Today, Africana.com and more. She has authored a novella-memoir, Stacey Jones: Memoirs of Girl & Woman, Body & Spirit, Life & Death (2005). Click here to contact Ms. Edwards.