They Accused My Black Son Of Lying About His Age In Basketball When He’s Just A Tall 11-Year-Old

Last Saturday, at an Amateur Athletic Union basketball tournament in Miami, I found myself doing something no mother should have to do: defending my child against an adult.

My son is 11 years old. In the span of six months, he shot up from 4 feet, 11 inches to 5 feet, 6 inches. But he is still very much a child — curious, playful, learning how to regulate his emotions, and growing into himself one awkward inch at a time. The world, however, no longer seems interested in seeing him that way.

After his sixth-grade team won their game, a coach from the opposing team approached my son’s coach and said, “You cheated.” Gesturing to my son, who was standing near enough to hear the whole exchange, he said, “You’ve got older kids like this one playing on a sixth-grade team. He must have been reclassed.”

As a mother, my instinct to defend him kicked in immediately. But before I could step in, my son spoke up for himself: “Hey, I’m only 11. I’m actually the youngest sixth-grader on my team.”

This moment wasn’t an anomaly. It was a reflection of a larger, well-documented problem: Black children are routinely perceived as older than they actually are.

This phenomenon has a name: adultification bias. Research published by the American Psychological Association found that Black boys as young as 10 are perceived as significantly older and less innocent than their white peers of the same age. And as the National Black Child Development Institute warns, adultification bias “robs Black children of the presumption of childhood,” exposing them to harsher treatment, diminished empathy and adult consequences long before they are developmentally appropriate. 

In other words, my son’s experience on that basketball court wasn’t about basketball. It was about perception fueled by racial bias.

As a mom, I see this play out far beyond sports. My son is spoken to with more authority, more expectation and less grace than a white 11-year-old would be. He is expected to “know better,” to be more composed, to take on more responsibility — not because of his age, but because of his race. 

At a recent Christmas party hosted by one of my closest friends, my son was the only one who was asked to carry tables from the house to the yard, despite being surrounded by adults and non-Black children who were older. He wasn’t there as help; he was there as a guest — and a child. Yet the responsibility landed on him.

I have seen this dynamic repeat at my workplace. When my son attends events with me, he does so as my child. And yet he is often asked to carry boxes or assist with setup and breakdown — even when adult staff members are present. 

These moments are rarely malicious. They are casual, comfortable. And that is precisely the problem. The expectation that Black children should shoulder adult responsibilities — and be held to adult standards their white peers are not — is deeply rooted and widely normalized. 

I know this because I lived it myself.

As a Black girl attending schools in Miami Beach composed of predominantly non-Black students, I was always expected to be older, to know better and to do what was “right.” When I made mistakes, the response was heavier.

Once, a group of us stayed for a second lunch period to socialize with friends, arriving late to class as a result. We were all given detention. But when detention ended, my classmates’ parents picked them up and took them home. 

When my mother arrived, she made me sit in the back of a school resource officer’s car — not as punishment, but as preparation. To show me what could happen.