“I’m Not One of Your Little Friends.”

I remember hearing it clear as day growing up. “I’m not one of your little friends.”

If you’re Black, you probably recognize that line instantly. It was the boundary line. The reminder. The reset. It usually came when you got a little too grown, talked back, or started treating your mama like she was one of your neighborhood homies instead of the Queen and Authority that she was.

And I felt it. I remember thinking: “And I wouldn’t want to be your friend anyway.” I felt wounded, angry, and dismissed.

Now I call my mama and say: “Guess what, girl?” Now we sit on the phone chatting like teenage besties. The joke is on her. Now she is one of my little friends. Because she raised me right, that hard boundary created a soft landing.

Now I’m a mother too. And let me tell you, I’ve caught myself, hand on hip, saying the same exact thing to my oldest son. “I’m not one of your little friends.”

And I mean it… for now. I’m raising him to respect me, yes. But I’m also raising him to love me. To trust me. To feel safe growing with me. One day, I hope he can call me just to laugh. To say “Guess what?” To share his dreams. To know that I’m not just the one who gave him rules, but the one who’ll hold his stories.

To me, that is womanist parenting.

Womanist thought teaches us to love in layers. We are the mother and the mentor. We correct and connect. We guide and we grow.

Black mothering is a sacred act of protection and possibility. It’s not about being perfect, it’s about being present. It’s about raising children who can see you not just as a disciplinarian, but as a full human being, flawed and loving, strong and soft, worthy of respect and a relationship.

As Alice Walker wrote, “A womanist loves herself. Regardless.” I would add: “A womanist mama raises children who can love her too.”

Not just as Mama the Enforcer, but Mama the healer. The anchor. The friend.

So yes, I said what I said. I’m not one of your little friends… yet. But baby, I hope one day I am.