A Solution Was Always Easier when the Questions Were Posed in Terms of Black and White

It seemed so much easier when I had absolutely nothing and race was the only issue I had to deal with. Then the choices seemed much clearer. Then I knew exactly which side of the line I stood on, what I fought for and against.

But then enters the specter of class and suddenly the clarity of my vision becomes obfuscated by questions of practicality, of good judgment, of the actual meaning of progress. Theory holds that in order for change to take place, something must necessarily be lost; to build or improve a structure, the old must be destroyed in part or in whole to make way for the new.

Some time ago I composed a post about my two children. Their path through life has been much different than mine. I grew up in the black community, surrounded by black folk, immersed in black culture. They, however, have spent the whole of their lives in a mostly white environment, surrounded by white people, immersed in the mainstream culture.

This has not been a problem for my son. He is confident in himself and his abilities, perhaps overly confident, even to the point of being arrogant. He moves fluidly and easily between cultures. And as he does so, he wears his blackness like a badge, daring anyone to challenge him, to impugn his authenticity.

However, my daughter is much more timid, much shier, more taciturn. She is fragile and breaks easy. Her contact with African American culture has been fraught with peril, with pain. She has been made fun of for being different. She has been ridiculed for being intelligent, for enjoying reading, for “talking proper,” for not liking rap music.

And for a while she withdrew into a shell. She began to avoid contact with other little black girls her own age, and before long every poster of the many glaring down from her wall contained a white face. Naturally I began to worry about her; I became confused.

But then she started to gather her strength. She began to gain confidence. She began to assert herself. And just in time because next year she enters high school.

Recently we began to receive pamphlets from various high schools around the city, all competing for her. Three of the schools are the top college prep high schools in the city, one being judged as one of the top ten in the nation. One pamphlet came from the city arts school, again one that has been judged one of the best of its kind in the region.

And then one pamphlet came from an all-black high school on the other side of the city. For the past decade or so this school has been in a steady state of decline and has been deemed a failing institution. In fact, recently the state threatened to close the doors of the school if student achievement did not improve.

So to prevent this from occurring, about a year or so ago, school and community leaders were able to secure a grant which allowed the school to start its own college prep program. In this way, school and community leaders hoped to attract some of the better students who were being siphoned off to other, higher achieving institutions. This nascent program sent the pamphlet to my daughter with hopes that she would choose to attend.

But anyway, I gathered all the pamphlets together and called my daughter into the room. Proudly I presented all the pamphlets to her and instructed her to take them with her, read through them, and when she was ready to make a decision, come back and we would talk about it.

However, she didn’t go anywhere. With confidence and conviction, she plucked the pamphlet from the black school from my hand and held it out toward me.

“This one. This is the school I want to go to she said.” She didn’t even blink.

“Wait a minute. This one?,” I said. “Why don’t you go ahead, take them all, and think about it for a few days.”

I tried to muster my most persuasive style to cover the shock. But she would not be moved.

“I already thought about it. And I choose this one.” She still held the pamphlet up for me to see.

I tried to search for a credible argument. “But that school… That school is… Um… Why?”

“Why not?”

My son chimed in with his own flippant comment. “Because it’s a black school. Right Uncle Ruckus?”

Before I knew it I had yelled at my son, and he slinked from the room hurt. But he could not have been as hurt as I; I don’t think I deserved to be called Uncle Ruckus. I didn’t oppose the school because it was a black school, but I opposed the school because of a plethora of other practical reasons. Or did I?

But there are a lot of things about the school my daughter does not know, could not have know from that pamphlet. She has never been to the school so she could not know that the school is surrounded by a fence complete with razor wire at the top and to even enter the school’s parking lot, you must first be cleared by a city police officer situated at the entrance.

She could not know that to enter the school you must first walk through a metal detector and then have your bags searched by yet another police officer. She could not know about the high violence rate at the school, the number of weapons confiscated from students within the past year, the shootings right across the street from the campus.

And I have it from a reliable source that the school’s college prep program is all but failing. The program could not attract enough qualified students, so in desperation, they just accepted anyone. Not only that, of the twenty-eight instructors selected and trained for the program, only eight remain. Most classes are now being taught by long-term subs. But she could not know this.

These are the reasons I oppose her attending the school, aren’t they? After all, I spent five years in grad school studying African American literature and culture, getting to know my people intimately, so there is no way I could harbor prejudices against my own people, is it?

And do you know how much time I spend volunteering in the African American community? How much I contribute each year to various causes? I do that out of the goodness of my heart. Or is it guilt?

Anyway, the shouting and slamming of doors and stamping about has all ended now. I am a few days removed from the incident, but the rift between me and my daughter has yet to heal. I was hoping she would change her mind but she hasn’t.

However, my son and I have made up. He’s sitting in a chair in the corner of my home office. I am sitting at my desk. The form I must sign indicating which school she will attend is on the desk in front of me. I must sign it and get it in the mail before Friday.

Finally, I sign the form, but I don’t check the necessary box. Instead, I just sit and stare for a moment. Sensing my continued indecisiveness, my son asks me, “Well?”.

I push the paperwork aside and put off the decision for another day. Maybe I can talk her out of it tomorrow. Or should I?

When something like this happens, you must ask yourself, "Where were the adults?"

Psychologists have long observed and commented on a phenomenon in which an individual caught up in a large group of people absorbs the ethos of that group. If I might explain it further for the purposes of clarification, the excitement, the emotion, the raw electricity of the moment engulfs a crowd of people like a tidal wave, and an individual caught up in that crowd, no matter how meek or mild that individual might be, gets swept along right along with the crowd and often commits acts far outside the character and personality of the individual that he or she later regrets and cannot even offer explanation.

I mention this phenomenon because it has been the explanation most offered up to as a reason for the atrocity that occurred in Richmond, California*, this past weekend. In Richmond, for two hours on Saturday night following a school homecoming dance, a fifteen year old child was beaten, robbed and repeatedly raped by several suspects over a two hour period.

These details alone should be enough to make one pause for a moment in an effort to catch their breath even as their heart pounds within their chest in outrage. This should be enough to cause one to shake their head rapidly and violently to and fro in utter disbelief, but the story only worsens from here because this atrocity took place in front of an audience.

As the girl lay semi-conscious on a bench, on-lookers and passerby looked on without offering help or assistance or even reporting it. In fact, some laughed, some took pictures, and some even took the time to strip her of her jewelry. [Click here for original report.]

But the notion of the mob mentality is in no way sufficient as an explanation because implicit in that explanation is the notion that somehow those involved just got caught up in the moment and could not control themselves, and not only that, this explanation does not account for those who watched or who might have passed by without attempting to intervene or even get help.

However, I believe what is most telling in this incident is the fact that those who have been arrested or have been identified as involved thus far all range in age from 15 to 19. In other words, this is a case of young people victimizing young people. It seems as if those most threatening the safety of young people are not adults but young people themselves. And before we begin to make the old charge that young people today have lost their minds, I must ask you, “Where were the adults in all this?”

Maybe, just maybe, my childlike imagination gets the best of me sometimes, and maybe the images conjured up by my subconscious tend to sometimes be overly fantastical, but the image that comes most readily to mind is that image from the movie Dawn of the Dead in which the zombies roam the street in hordes, moving slowly and decidedly toward their next victim.

There used to be commercial that ran each night that posed the question, “It is ten o’clock. Do you know where your children are?” I suspect more and more the answer for a lot of parents would be no.

And I know this is being to sound like every other thing that I have written, but the point I continue to attempt to drive home is our responsibility as responsible adults for our kids, not just our biological children but all children. Any society or any culture or, better still, community is measured first and foremost by the condition of its children or by how well it cares for its young. And it follows from this incident that we are doing really poorly protecting our young people from themselves.

How can someone so young commit an act so heinous? How can someone so young be so callous as to stand and watch and/or even participate in a crime of this magnitude? Where were all the adults when this crime occured, and where were all the adults when their hearts began to harden?

I do not offer any apologies for the young men involved, and my heart goes out to the young girl and her family. However, allow me please just to make this point. This crime was committed by young people who were entrusted to the care of adults. But somewhere the process of childrearing fell through. Somewhere, perhaps, someone failed in their duties. But if we remain a community, it becomes incumbent on us to put into place the necessary measures to see that all our children, all our young people are cared for, even those that do not bear our name.

And perhaps you are doing as you are supposed to do. Perhaps you are loving and raising your children just as you have been charged to do. But what of those in our community raising themselves? What of those in our community not receiving the requisite nurturing or training? These are the ones who most constitute a direct threat to your own. These are the ones in which the mob mentality is a constant state of mind. And where are you in all this?

* When I originally made this post, a reader pointed out that erroneously reported the city as Oakland when it is in actuality Richmond, California; however, in my recall of the Bay Area, I mistakenly conflated the two areas.

Also of interest:

“Violence Against Women: A Spectator Event” by Beautiful Curare of Methodological Madness

Web-based Resources for the Parents and Educators of Young Black Males

In an effort to provide additional information and resources to those raising young black males, I have put together a list of web resources that I hope you will find useful in that regards. This list is in no ways comprehensive; I am sure there are more than a few I may have missed. So, if you know of any additional links, please leave them in the comments section.

Raising Him Alone

The is perhaps the most comprehensive site providing resources and support for single mothers raising boys. The site includes empowerment activities, various multi-media resources, parenting resources and strategies, and date and research.

If you are a mother raising a son alone, this is a site you cannot afford to overlook. Also, if you are on Facebook, you can join the site’s Facebook group. [Click here to access site.]

Tied to Greatness

Tied to Greatness is the official site for the Tied to Greatness National Tour that seeks to improve the self-image and esteem of at-risk, inner-city males. The site gives a comprehensive overview of the tour to include a video presentation.

The site also includes a listing of volunteer opportunities as well as links to a number of articles aimed at improving the lives of young black males.

If you work for or are in charge of an institution or organization serving young black males, then you should definitely give this site a look. It might be worth the time and effort to encourage the tour to visit your institution or organization. [Click here to access site.]

The Black Star Project

The Black Star Project was founded for the expressed purpose of improving the quality of life in the black and Latino communities of Chicago and nationwide by eliminating the racial achievement gap.

The site contains a comprehensive overview of the program in addition to a catalogue of means by which you can get involved. [Click here to access site.]

Resources for Parents and Teachers Working with Boys and Young Men

This resource is in the PDF format and includes an extensive list of videos to watch with the young male in your charge, books for boys to have read to them or read themselves. The list was compiled in an effort to drive rich, provocative discussions. [Click here to access PDF.]

junior the Magazine

junior the Magazine is billed as the premier resource guide for engaged parents and educators of boys 9 to 19. junior features resources, feature columns from leading experts, informative articles and product reviews. [Click here to access site.]

Spoiling Our Daughters and Raising Our Sons: How We Are Unconsciously Raising Sexist Children

In the past, my wife has frequently accused me of being a sexist. In fact, she has accused me of being a sexist of the worst kind because others see me as a good father, as a genuinely good individual, and no one dares question or challenge me. They, instead, listen to me and sometimes even try to emulate me. Allow me to reveal the reason behind this accusation.

I have two daughters, two intelligent, absolutely beautiful young women who I dote over. One of them is in college right now, and the other still lives at home. In my eyes, they can do no wrong. And I cannot think of anything I would not do to ensure their happiness, to make them smile.

And they both know this and use it to their greatest advantage. They manipulate me unmercifully. Even when I know I am being manipulated, I lack either the power or the will to say no to them.

On the other hand, I have two sons, two intelligent, charming, handsome young men who I love no less, who I wish the same happiness. However, whereas I am a soft touch with my daughters, I have always been hard on my sons, sometimes painfully hard. Nothing they do gets past me, and they must earn everything they receive. After all, I am raising men not boys, right?

Let me tell you this short anecdote so that I might put everything in perspective. It has to have been about ten years ago because my oldest son was still in high school. I got a call from the school informing me of some infraction or another on the part of my son. In anger, I snatched my keys and cell phone from the counter with the intent of going to the school to straighten him out right then and there.

But my wife stood in the doorway blocking my way. She insisted that I sit down and calm down. She insisted that I not go to the school and embarrass him, that I wait for him to come home. And when he did, she insisted that I hug him, tell him I loved him, and sit down and calmly talk to him just as I would one of my daughters. No yelling, no threatening or stalking about.

And I did what she asked of me on that day, and as we moved forward, I tried to discipline my older son her way, but old habits are hard to break. Sometimes out of frustration and impatience I lapsed into yelling screaming tirades. I threatened him, and I stalked about. After all, this is how my dad raised me, and I turned out all right, right? But in the end, he left my house just as I had left my father’s house, angry and bitter.

I now recognize the fallacy of my ways. And I must begrudgingly admit that there might be some grain of truth in her accusations. I am now actively trying to be more equitable in my treatment of my children. I am now actively trying to raise people—not men or women but people, people who think critically, who act not out of fear but out of rational thought, who are independent and confident in themselves and driven from within.

As my youngest son approaches adulthood, I am really putting forth an effort to be less sexist in my treatment of my children. However, I still have a problem saying no to my daughters, and I often defer the decision to my wife. She doesn’t have any problem saying no.

And my wife often points out how much my oldest son is like me. She points out that indeed he is a strong minded young man and has that entrepreneurial spirit; he now owns his own business in Atlanta. She points out that in discussions he frequently mentions books he has read or is reading, and they are all from all my favorite authors: Baldwin, Williams, Ellison, Morrison, and others.

It seems that despite all my mistakes he happened to pick up a lot of my best traits; I can only hope that he also learned to discard all the worst.