Hebru Brantley is a Chicago-born, Los Angeles–based artist whose work is steeped in street culture and Afrofuturism. He imagines narratives that place Black people as heroic figures— particularly his most prolific character, Fly Boy—in a heightened universe that is vibrant and whimsical. Still, the struggle that he and his community face daily is not lost on him, not in the least. And the murders of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and George Floyd, and the resurgence of the Black Lives Matter movement, which has seen the world calling for an end to institutional racism, have only amplified his exasperation. Brantley is a parent of two children (a five-year-old daughter, Hero, and 17-year-old son, Jayden) who, along with dealing with his own frustration, is figuring out how best to rear them during this racial uprising and the coronavirus pandemic . Ahead, he expresses to BAZAAR.com the steps he is taking to inform and protect his kids, and why he believes real change won’t happen in his lifetime.

As a Black man raising Black children, it’s been difficult. One of my kids is at an age when you have to put a lot of thought and be extremely careful in terms of how you explain the situation. I took my daughter on a family march in Encino this weekend with a bunch of other families and children, and it was difficult to explain that level of hate, that level of abuse, that level of violence to a kid, and still feel as if you’re doing your job as a parent to inform. But then also have to protect them. It’s tough. I’m trying to figure it out. I’m trying to navigate the balance. It’s not an easy time for anyone.

It’s not about having one conversation. It’s multiple conversations. She first had to process the idea that before all of this, she couldn’t go to school and couldn’t engage with her friends, because we’re in a pandemic. Beyond that, I have to explain to her that before she was born, this is how people of color are viewed. How do you explain that level of fear and hate to a five-year-old and make it palatable enough for them to understand it? I don’t think there is really a way that makes it fully attainable for them other than thrusting them into this shit. As a parent, you do the best you can and find as many opportunities as possible to engage and continue the conversation with them so that, slowly but surely, they start to understand.

She’s five and can’t fully grasp 400 years of racism and injustice.

My daughter went to a predominantly white preschool. She was the only Black face there. How do I explain that certain people of other ethnicities in her school don’t seem to have an issue with people who look like us, but others outside it do? That’s her world; that’s all she really knows. It’s been a tremendous struggle. Not just that, but I also had to think about parenting through a pandemic. This is a crucial moment for her, because she is going into kindergarten. She’s not going to get that normal send-off. The transition can be jarring for some kids, going from a preschool, day care atmosphere with naps to a structure where there are no more naps in a new space, a new building, with new kids, and new teachers. I’m taking all this one day at a time. There’s a lot to unpack; there’s a lot to discuss. I’m just trying to take on a little bit each day.

We talked a little bit about it before we went on the march. She saw me one day when I was really sad and she asked me why. I told her in a very simple way what I was sad about. She’s affected, because I’m affected. She’s five and can’t fully grasp 400 years of racism and injustice.

My son, on the other hand, grew up in Atlanta, Georgia, and Marietta, Georgia, and his mom and I would have conversations with him from a very early age. He grasped what is going on a lot faster and a lot sooner, because he was thrust into it. In Marietta, there are primarily white Republican families. He got called a [N-word] when he was a little kid. He saw discrimination firsthand from some of his teachers in the classroom.

One of those kids who is very quiet, he’s the last kid who would be in trouble or be on the list of, say, suspects. He had a teacher early on who went out of her way to make things difficult for him. And it got to the point where there were no more excuses that we could reach toward. We had to be dead-ass honest with him. We told him that this is the situation that you’re in, son. It’s unfortunate, but this is how you sort of have to deal with those people and that level of ignorance. Since then, he’s faced it a dozen times more, and he knows how to deal with it accordingly. He knows who to be around, who to avoid, and so forth.

My son is 17 and will be 18 this year. He totally understands what’s going on at this moment. We talk about it all the time. He’s known that he’s had a target on his back for his whole life, and it will continue to be that way. He understands the harsh reality that we have to move differently than other races and other cultures. It’s a reality you have to accept as a young Black male. What’s going on right now is old hat. It’s nothing new.

He’s not of age to vote yet, and there is only so much that he can do on this side of race relations in the United States. At the same time, he’s a very conscious young brother. He keeps a circle of other conscious young brothers around him who move in a certain way. They are aware of their potential power, who they are, and what they can do long-term. They move with that intention.

Right now, black is the new black again.

Still, I don’t think there will be a day when a Black father doesn’t need to have these conversations with his son. We are a new country. We are progressive in certain areas and snaillike in others. Until social and economic shifts bear new faces—until these people who hold these office positions, these high-ranking officials, these senators, look like us, really speak for us, and grew up from where we actually came from—then there’s not going to be much change. I have a theory as to why Black people and most people of color don’t watch sci-fi: We’re not represented in those things. In essence, there are no people of color in the future, right? For 30 years, there was one Black guy in Star Wars.

Hebru Brantley’s Flyboys mural is displayed in the Eastern Market in Detroit, Michigan on July 25, 2019

This is why I create things that I want to see in the world. There are very few examples of Black prominence, prowess, and power in these fantasy, science fiction, adventure, and hero-type stories. When I was growing up, attending public school, the only real symbols I had were cookie-cutter: Malcolm X, Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King Jr., and now Barack Obama. There’s nothing wrong with them, but that is it. When my friends and I would play superheroes on the playground, it was a litany of white men to pick from. There were few who looked like me, and those who looked like me were just whack. They were coming through the pen or lens of someone’s interpretation of what I looked, acted, and sounded like. These people didn’t live in our neighborhoods. Most of them didn’t even have a friend of a different color or race. It was a guessing game. It was based on stereotypes. That’s where Fly Boy arrived from. I just wanted to see something cool in the world that resembled who I am.

Right now, we’re just scratching the surface. There’s always room for improvement across all industries, but I don’t think any real change is going to happen. There are a lot of big companies trying to engage with myself and other artists of color, because we’re the hot topic. They believe that if they could get this artist to do a campaign, then that makes them with it, they’re woke, they’re responsible. But all that is so f*cking transparent. I hate to sound bitter, but that’s just the reality. It doesn’t feel like it’s a step in the right direction. Rather, it’s a circle. It’s the same shit: Something happens, people are up in arms and respond to it, and then something else happens, and we forget. We put it on a shelf and dust it off for x amount of years later. Right now, black is the new black again. Right now, many are gathering their token Blacks to speak for their company that probably has five or six Black people in real power, if at all.

I don’t think this change will happen in my lifetime, but I hope it will happen for my kids.

I know that I’m coming across extremely cynical, but I’m beat down and exhausted. There’s a lot to unpack daily. Also, I’m trying to figure out more and more ways to engage, play my part, and put action to an idea instead of throwing money at a problem—because that’s never helped the f*cking problem. For someone like myself, a creative, any political campaign or revolution starts with us. It starts with the visual representation of an idea. So I’m trying to take the skills that I’ve honed for 30-plus years and make good on something that I can lend my voice to push change, real f*ucking change.

I don’t think this change will happen in my lifetime, but I hope it will happen for my kids. It’s about small strides. If you were to ask my parents, God rest their souls, if they would ever see a Black president, I’m sure, at the time, they would have said hell no. I don’t want to say it will never happen. Of course, I would love to bear witness to bigger forms of change and bigger strides toward racial equality and changing a system that is structured in a way that has always been against us, that has always diminished our rights; to be on a leveled playing field. I hope that my kids and their kids continue to be that voice and maybe, one day, see and experience this change.

Barry Samaha is the former style commerce editor at Esquire, where he covered all things fashion and grooming. Previously, he was an editor at Harper’s Bazaar, Surface, and WWD, along with overseeing editorial content at Tod’s Group. He has also written for The Daily Beast, Coveteur, Departures, Paper, Bustle Group, Forbes, and many more. He is based in New York City and can't seem to find enough closet space for all his shoes.