He could be my son: the oval face; the close-set dark eyes; the curly black hair; tall and lanky. My son was born in 1993, same as the Boston Bomber suspect. As a mother of a swarthy young man, I’m always vigilant about the similarities in appearance of a terrorism suspect, so that when I see virulent Facebook posts that call for an eye for an eye from people in my hometown, my heart aches. An extra layer is always added to the horror of the initial incident.

Along with the gut-wrenching pictures — of the precious eight-year-old Martin, ironically clutching his neatly drawn sign, “no more hurting people” (my son made a similar sign when he was that age); the beaming face of Krystle Campbell, who left her grieving family behind; Sean Collier, a young newly-sworn member of the MIT police force; or any of the other wounded still suffering in Boston area hospitals — I can’t help but stare at the picture of the 19-year-old alleged bomber’s face. Who drops a bomb at a finish line — like a parade route, the scene of euphoric celebration?

I sink at the descriptions: friendly, funny, intelligent. I would have fainted if they added, Yu-Gi-Oh champion (a description of my own son). We’re not Muslim. Does it matter? He’s a teen boy. I’ve never shared with my son that I worry every time he flies all over the West to compete in tournaments, I text him “I love you,” and the thought relentlessly crosses my mind that he might be misperceived. As hard as I try to push the visual away, I picture scenarios of mistaken identity or a profiling. But that is just me. I wonder what it is like being him, growing up in the stolen innocence of a post 9/11 world.

On top of the trauma of the initial incident, mothers like me live with the fear of the backlash. I didn’t think about any of this much until I gave birth to a beautiful brown boy 19 years ago. The first time he and I were ever alone in the hospital room, he was propped on a pillow, I marveled at his long fingers and ancient gestures, his delicate nails and milky sweet smell, his bell shaped mouth. I grew up in a family of five girls, and even more girl cousins, so he and I would learn together the mystery of what it meant to raise a boy.

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