I don’t know if all parents have “the talk” with their children. But I know Black parents do.
And I am not talking about the birds and the bees.
I am talking about the conversation Black parents have with their children—particularly their sons—about how to survive encounters and situations in a world where race can change how an innocent action is interpreted.
I thought about “the talk” recently as memorials and conversations revisited the murder of Emmett Till, the 14-year-old Chicago boy who traveled to Mississippi in 1955 and entered a racial culture he did not fully understand. Whatever he did or did not do, nothing justified what happened to him. He was kidnapped, tortured, and murdered.
His death became one of America’s most horrific lessons about race.
And now, in private conversations surrounding the mysterious death of 18-year-old Nolan Xavier Wells in Mississippi waters, I find myself thinking again about “the talk.”
Different young man. Different time. Different circumstances. We do not yet know all the facts surrounding Wells’ death, and we should not pretend that we do.
But the questions surrounding his death awaken an old anxiety in Black America.
And the conversation inevitably returns to THE TALK.
We were moving into White spaces—schools, workplaces, neighborhoods, churches and social settings that had previously been closed to us. Our parents wanted us to succeed. They wanted us to take advantage of opportunities they had been denied.
But they also warned us.
Go—but be careful.
Participate—but pay attention.
Integrate—but don’t forget where you are or who you are.
One warning was especially clear: Don’t be alone.
If you were going somewhere with White friends, keep a Black friend with you. Stay together. Watch out for each other.
It wasn’t necessarily about disliking White people. It was about protection.
There was a fear in the air—or perhaps a deep skepticism born from history.
Our parents knew something we were only beginning to understand: if something went wrong, your version of events might not be the version that was believed.
A White person might be believed before you.
A police officer might see you as the threat.
An accusation might become your guilt before you had an opportunity to explain yourself.
So our parents taught us how to enter the integrated world without becoming too comfortable in it.
Go into the room. But know the room.
Then came another version of “the talk” when we learned to drive and possibly stopped by the police.
Keep your hands visible and on the steering wheel.
Don’t make sudden movements.
Don’t reach into the glove compartment without telling the officer what you are doing.
Don’t reach into your pocket for your license.
Say “Yes, sir” and “No, sir.”
If you’re asked to get out of the car, get out.
Do what the officer asks.
Don’t argue on the side of the road.
Better to swallow an insult and come home alive than prove you were right and never make it home.
That was the lesson.
It was not a lesson in cowardice.
It was a lesson in survival.
I began asking friends of my generation whether they remembered having “the talk.” Nearly everyone did. The details differed, but the message was remarkably similar.
Then I asked the more important question:
Are Black parents still having “the talk” today?
The answer was overwhelmingly yes.
And that troubles me.
After Brown v. Board of Education. After the Civil Rights Act. After the Voting Rights Act. After Affirmative Action. After Black mayors, governors, police chiefs, CEOs, judges and a Black President of the United States, Black parents are still sitting their children down and explaining how to navigate race in America.
For Black boys, the conversation can be especially serious.
Their parents worry about physical confrontations. They worry about police encounters. They worry about accusations. They worry about what happens when their sons are the only Black person in a room, at a party, on a team or traveling with friends.
For young Black male athletes, there can be another layer. Athletic success can open doors to schools, teams, communities and social circles their parents may not know. Their mothers are proud of those opportunities, but pride can coexist with fear.
Where are you going?
Who will be there?
Who are you riding with?
Who is coming home with you?
Call me when you get there.
Text me when you’re leaving.
Don’t go off by yourself.
Stay with your friends.
Those questions may sound overprotective to some people.
To many Black parents, they sound like parenting.
And perhaps that is the tragedy of “the talk.”
It has become a ritual, almost a rite of passage from childhood into the American world. It is knowledge handed from one generation to the next—not because parents want their children to be afraid of White people, but because history has taught them not to ignore race.
Emmett Till‘s mother had to confront that reality in 1955.
Black mothers and fathers are still wrestling with versions of it in 2026.
That does not mean every unexplained tragedy involving a Black person and White people is racial. We must resist making accusations before facts are established. Nolan Xavier Wells deserves truth, not speculation.
But we should also understand why certain circumstances trigger something deep within Black America’s collective memory.
History teaches.
Parents remember.
Communities remember.
And Black America remembers.
“The talk” is really about that memory.
It says: I want you to experience the whole world, but I need you to understand the world you are entering.
It says: Have White friends. Go to integrated schools. Work wherever your talent takes you. Travel. Compete. Explore. Live fully. But remain aware.
Most of all, it says:
Come home.
Perhaps the real measure of racial progress in America will not be how many Black people enter White spaces, attend elite schools, become executives or win elections.
Perhaps progress will arrive when Black parents no longer feel compelled to teach their children special rules for surviving those spaces.
When a Black mother can hand her teenage son the car keys without also handing him instructions for surviving a police stop.
When parents don’t feel the need to tell their children, “Don’t be the only Black person there.”
When a young Black man can simply be young—without his parents wondering whether one mistake, one accusation, one misunderstanding or one encounter could change his life forever.
Until then, “the talk” continues.
Generation to generation.
Parent to child.
Mother to sons especially.
Not because we want our children to live in fear.
Because we want them to live. The talk is still very much a part of good parenting and Black reality.
