Nolan Wells Reminded Black Parents Why We've Always Said 'No'

Eighteen-year-old Nolan Wells should still be here. His family should be planning college visits, celebrating milestones, and watching him step into adulthood, not mourning. Not waiting for answers about his final moments. Investigators should not be working to determine what happened after Nolan disappeared during a boating trip with friends this past Fourth of July weekend. We should not be demanding a full, transparent investigation, and the truth. Why? Because he should be here.

Instead, Nolan’s story has opened the door to another important conversation that is more specific to Black people than any other race. This conversation has existed around Black kitchen tables and in the living rooms of Black households for generations. It is the conversation about what happens when Black children leave home, especially while in the company of white people.

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The truth is, not every predominantly white space is dangerous. I’m not saying every interracial friendship should be viewed with suspicion. But we— Black folks—have always understood that our children navigate in the world carrying certain realities. These realities are ones that none of their peers have to consider or worry about.

Since Nolan’s death, social media has become something of a collective testimony. Black men and women who grew up attending predominantly white schools, living in predominantly white neighborhoods, or spending time in predominantly white social circles have begun sharing stories they hadn’t thought about in years. Many are thanking their parents for every time they heard the word “NO.”

Atlanta native Brandon Hall was one of those people. Reflecting on his experience attending a predominantly white prep school, Hall publicly thanked his parents for refusing to let him attend unsupervised ski trips, kids-only Spring Break vacations, or  Saturday night study sessions at white female classmates’ homes. As a teenager, he admitted he didn’t understand their decisions. As a grown Black man, he now credits those “stern rejections” with protecting him from situations he wasn’t mature enough to fully understand or evaluate.

His words resonated because they echoed what so many Black parents know. Sometimes, “no” is an act of love. As someone who grew up in rural Georgia, I know the dangers of trusting others or dwelling in spaces where I was the only Black person. We oftentimes witnessed the hate and ideas of white supremacy publicly, so there was no denying its existence. Today, as the mother of both a Black son and a Black daughter, I understand exactly what Brandon’s parents, my mother, and so many others, myself included, considered when we said, “NO!”

It’s the fear of how this world greets and treats my children that has lived in my head and my heart since the day they were born. That fear is especially attached to my son. Since birth, I have been telling my son, “You are a Black man, not a nigger!” And he has always shown up in the world as a Black male committed to being his best self. He is one of the gentlest, kindest, most respectful young men I know. He leads with compassion. He’s thoughtful. He’s soft-spoken. But the world doesn’t always get the privilege of meeting his heart first. Instead, they see a tall Black man. They see broad shoulders. They see long locs. They see rich chocolate skin. And as his mother, I’ve always known that before someone discovers his kindness, they may make assumptions based on his physical presence.

That’s a terrifying reality to parent through. I have always been intentional about who my children spent time with, whose homes they entered, whose parents I trusted, and where they were going. My children weren’t often in situations where they were the only Black children in the room, but that never erased my concern. Because safety isn’t simply about numbers. It’s about environment. It’s about accountability. It’s about whether the people surrounding your children recognize their humanity the way you do.

The truth is, there is a unique burden that comes with raising Black children. We spend years preparing them for situations we pray they never encounter. We teach them to share their location. To call us when plans change. To trust their instincts. To leave when something feels off. To understand that getting home safely will always matter more than fitting in. Those lessons aren’t rooted in fear. They are rooted in history. They are rooted in experience. They are rooted in love.

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I don’t know exactly what happened to Nolan Wells. Neither do you. And until investigators complete their work, we shouldn’t pretend otherwise. Honestly, following the investigation, we may still be clueless about what happened to Nolan because we all know that oftentimes the justice system fails to protect us or offer truthful answers.

What I know is this: Nolan’s story has reminded many Black parents why we’ve always asked one more question, made one more phone call, or said one more uncomfortable “NO.”

Not because we wanted to keep our children from living. Because we wanted to make sure they made it home alive. Nolan Wells deserved that opportunity, too. Every Black child does.

I also think there’s one line from Tabitha Brown that could become the emotional heartbeat of this piece:

“Black parents will never have never had the luxury of parenting from a place of peace. Black parents will never have the pleasure of parenting only for our children’s joy and progress. We must also parent for their survival.”

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