The young apprentice

By Robert E. Pierre

updated 6:29 a.m. ET June 9, 2006

WASHINGTON - Marcus Yarboro had told his parents that he didn't want to play, that the game scared him, but there he was, weeks shy of his ninth birthday, standing in the lobby of Laser Quest Potomac Mills.

"Why do I have to do it?" protested the third-grader, who is small for his age and knows it. "I'm afraid of the dark, and it looks like a jungle in there."

His father leaned down and wrapped his arm around Marcus's shoulder.

"I'll be right there with you, buddy," Mark Yarboro said, his words easy, his voice even. His wife, Kim, was right. He and Marcus needed to get this done. Marcus had sidelined himself at too many birthday parties where other kids ran around shrieking and shooting light beams at each other.

These Saturday outings, to basketball games, the ski slopes and the mall, had become more precious in the year since Mark separated from his wife of nine years and moved out. As the light between husband and wife has dimmed, they've learned to swallow their own hurts and focus on their only child.

These are seasons of change for Marcus, and his parents are determined to hold him steady.

The Yarboros are both 45 and college educated with professional jobs, and they are filled with hope and with worry. They see a world of possibilities for Marcus -- maybe he will grow up to be a doctor or a scientist. And they see a world that, despite its progress, can be hostile and unforgiving to black boys.

They are among the upwardly mobile black families rearing a generation of privileged children in the suburbs and beyond. Increasingly, boys such as Marcus are growing up in places like Stafford County, where many of their experiences mirror those of other children with similar economic status -- from private music lessons to annual ski trips.

And yet, for the Yarboros it means a dual consciousness, in which they encourage Marcus to dream big while steeling him for the times when his skin color may be all that others see.

In that reality, laser tag isn't just a game. It's another chance to show Marcus that he must not be afraid to try new things, face new challenges. He will have to be better to outrun those who will expect less of him, his parents believe.

After the game, Marcus thrust his fist in the air and cheered when he heard the name he had selected -- "Dragonmaster" -- over the loudspeaker. He'd won third place, beating out bigger and older boys, a boost to his self-confidence and another small victory for his mom and his dad.

* * *

A simple strategy

The Yarboros make a good living. Kim is a systems engineer for the Marine Corps, Mark a contracting specialist for the Army. Together, their salaries approach $200,000 a year.

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They move freely between neighborhoods and jobs. When the public schools didn't suit Marcus, his mother found a private one that did. They've read the research showing that black children -- especially boys, no matter their family income -- receive less attention, harsher punishment and lower marks in school than their white counterparts, from kindergarten through college. The Yale University Child Study Center, for instance, found in a national survey last year that black boys are expelled at three times the rate of white children -- in pre-kindergarten.

The Yarboros' strategy to overcome those odds is simple: Expose Marcus to everything. That means black history, apple picking, Spanish, professional hockey, horseback riding and, yes, laser tag.

Yet, they know that the cocoon of comfort they have wrapped Marcus in is not airtight.

In the fall, he will transfer schools to start fourth grade, a pivotal academic year when many boys, but especially black ones, start to spiral downward.

And there is his parents' separation, the possibility of divorce always playing like a musical bass line in their lives. Either circumstance could send a kid into a tailspin.

Marcus's life plays out on a quiet cul-de-sac in Stafford, a mostly white suburban enclave about 45 miles south of Washington.

He has a round, dark-brown face and a quick wit. He's obsessed with video games and turtles, which have, according to Marcus, "an excellent defense system." He has good friends, a mountain of toys and, thanks to his mother's meticulous planning, a calendar that won't quit.

There's the church choir, basketball, guitar practice, a quarterly book club that Kim co-founded. Between the book club and school, he's read hundreds of books, about Captain Underpants, Walter the Farting Dog, magic trees and crocodiles.

This year, there's also been a youth financial planning seminar, the Little Miss Crimson and Cream Ball that required a tuxedo, and an etiquette workshop for boys that his mom organized at their home and then got Mark and other fathers to lead.

The kitchen is always stocked with Marcus's favorite foods, and his friends rave about the "10 o'clock" snack they're assured before bed when they sleep over.

His best friends are Logan, 9, and Rodrick, 10. Separately or together, they are frequent visitors, getting lost for hours in Marcus's basement, playing air hockey, pinball and video games. The three are "like brothers," Marcus said. Rodrick is black. Logan is white, like most of his classmates -- a fact that means little to Marcus.

"There are kids who are white. There are kids who are black," he said. "There's no difference."

* * *

'They'll Want Marcus'

Kim Yarboro grew up in Columbus, Ohio, attending Catholic schools and making friends easily across racial lines. Unlike her husband, who is more guarded, Kim shares her concerns about Marcus with her mostly white colleagues at work, where she is a manager for a new Marine Corps amphibious vehicle. She doesn't want Marcus to dwell on racism. She certainly doesn't.

Fat people, skinny people, poor people -- everyone has a social hurdle to clear, Kim said. She is concerned that Marcus not view himself as a victim or project that image.

"I want people to see Marcus and see that he's a well-rounded citizen in the United States," Kim said. "Not some castaway, you know, 'Let's put him to the side.' People may try to do that, but he will have the equipment that won't allow them to. They'll want Marcus."

But her husband wonders whether the blurring of racial lines is a cruel ruse. He's had his share of unwarranted police stops, Mark said, like the time an officer told him that his new sports car "drew a lot of attention."

"Mine wasn't the only one on the road," he said.

"My fear," he said of his son, "is that no matter how qualified he is, how smart . . . that he can't move in society as well as his education level, his skill level should allow him. I have read too much, seen too much. It's not hard for me to believe that a young black person could get jacked up and not do anything wrong."

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