As we settled into summer break, we were excited to have a Mommy & Son outing at our local bowling alley on a fine Wednesday. After we played a couple of games, it was time to return our bowling shoes and balls. As we were putting the shoes onto the counter, I heard a voice behind us — just loud enough for me to hear, and just low enough not to be overheard by the people in our peripheral.
Are they letting
anyone in here now?
I chuckled as I turned around, assuming it was light banter about us amateurs wandering into the realm of serious league bowlers. But when my eyes met his — an older Caucasian man, clean‑cut, dressed in full bowling gear, glasses perched neatly on his nose — his expression didn’t match the joke I thought he was making. His gaze stayed steely, his face stern. There was a flicker of confusion, maybe because I didn’t react the way he expected.
As we walked past the bowlers’ hall of fame wall toward the exit, it hit me: he wasn’t joking.
There was no warmth, no hint of dry humor. Just a pointed comment meant to remind us we didn’t belong. A shudder ran through me as his words echoed in my mind.
Outside, the warm afternoon sun wrapped around us. My son swung my hand, happily recounting his near‑strike, completely unaware of the shift inside me. And that’s when the familiar tightness settled in my chest — that unwelcome feeling that creeps in when something ugly brushes up against an otherwise beautiful moment. A reminder that even in the most ordinary places, even on the gentlest days, we’re not always seen the way we see ourselves.
I glanced down at my son, his small hand swinging in mine, blissfully unaware.
And in that moment, I felt the duality of motherhood so sharply. The instinct to protect his innocence and the weight of knowing that one day, he’ll hear comments like that too. Maybe not in a bowling alley and maybe not from a stranger in bowling shoes; but somewhere, somehow.
Growing up in North America, I’ve experienced my fair share of cultural appropriation, ignorance, and even straight-up verbal assault. The man’s words weren’t the worst thing I’ve heard. Not by a long shot. It’s the casualness that stings. The ease with which it slipped out. As if people like us are still newcomers in a place we’ve lived our whole lives.
As if belonging is conditional, and someone can revoke it with a single sentence.
My mind drifted to a few summers ago, when an unkempt man in his 20s raised his fist not once, but twice, in an attempt to attack me in broad daylight on Fisherman’s Wharf. I remember the raised fist, the sudden rush of fear, the disbelief that something so violent could erupt with tourists eating clam chowder just feet away. I remember how my body froze before it moved, how my heart pounded long after I was safe. Trauma has a way of settling into your bones, resurfacing when you least expect it.
And yet… here I was, holding my son’s hand after a simple Wednesday outing, feeling that same echo. Not as loud, not as dangerous, but familiar enough to remind me that these moments accumulate. They shape us.
These moments shape how we move through the world, how we teach our children to move through it too.
But here’s the part I hold onto: that man’s voice was not the only one in that bowling alley. There were families laughing, kids cheering each other on, staff members who greeted us with warmth. There was my son, beaming with pride over knocking down nine pins. There was joy — real, uncomplicated joy — in the moments before and after that comment.
That’s what I want him to remember.
Not because the hurt isn’t real. Not because the ignorance doesn’t matter. But because my son deserves to remember this day for what it was: a Mommy & Son adventure, full of giggles and the kind of memories that make summer feel endless.
I can’t control the world he’ll grow up in, but I can show him how to stand tall in it and how to recognize unkindness without absorbing it. How to root himself in love, identity, and belonging so deeply that no stranger’s words can shake it loose.
Maybe that’s how we break the cycle. One summer afternoon at a time.
