Far Better Men than I: My Vision for My Sons

I apologize for waiting so late to post today; however, it appears that someone has officially declared today “Let’s Pile on Max Day.” Some are trying hard to shake me from my usual aplomb, but all they have succeeded in doing is wasting my time and theirs. Days like this only make me stronger. Sometimes people are so miserable themselves that for someone to be so audacious as to be happy and content in their presence makes them even more miserable.

But I didn’t get to compose anything new, so I will just leave this piece that appeared as a guest post on the site Womanist Musings. And please, love yourself today and be a blessing to somebody.

I have been composing this narrative in my head for several weeks now. However, I always push it to the rear, lowering it in priority, until I look into the face of my fourteen year old son or until the phone rings and I see my oldest son’s number on the caller ID.
But I am lost for a way in; I simply do not know where to begin. But so that I might see this project through to completion, I’ll just jump in by positing this question: “What does it mean to be a man?”

Most of what I learned about being a man, I learned from the women in my life, ironically often in those spaces often relegated to women.

As I sat next to my grandmother watching her sew, she would lovingly question me and advise me. She would tell me what was expected of me. She would tell me how I should conduct myself.
As I helped my aunts clean by moving this piece or that piece of furniture so they could sweep or vacuum behind it, they would compliment me on my spirit. They told me I had a good spirit, a gentle spirit, a giving spirit. They warned me that people would want me to change. But they admonished me not to change. My aunts ensured me that the world needed more men with just those attributes.

And it was my mother who gave me the gift of reading and writing. I am not sure when I began to read, but from my earliest cognizance, books were there, and later she encouraged me to write despite my father insisting that I play outside with the other boys, despite my father insisting that all this “work and no play” would cause me to grow up weak and effeminate.

But she would gently rebuke him, and explain to him that what the world needed was more men who could think, who could reason; the world was populated with too many men who valued brawn over brains. And often he would respond with the question of what kind of man would I end up being if I stayed in the house under women all the time. But he would acquiesce nevertheless.

And watching him, listening to him, all the while the question hung in the back of my mind, “Just what does it mean to be a man?”

I am not saying that the men in my life did not have a huge influence over the person I have become, but while the lessons taught by the women in my life were more explicit, were more like a dialogue, the lessons taught by the men were more one-sided and sometimes contradictory. Often what they said was accompanied by a nod and a wink. Often I was confused when what they said conflicted with their actions. Perhaps, I was confused because their method of instruction left more questions than answers.

No experience is more demonstrative of this than that when I left home at the age of seventeen to enter the military.

I had finished high school, but because of my age, my parents had to sign for me which much to my surprise, they did. I am not certain why I made this decision; I had numerous other opportunities, to include a full ride college scholarship, I could have pursued. But I felt I had to do this. I felt I had to leave home to find myself as a man.

And on the eve of my departure, the male elders of my family—my surviving grandfather, my father, and a host of uncles—assembled to advise me and send me off. As they stood in a semi-circle with me sitting in a chair at the center, one by one they gave me advice, sought to inspire me, and bade me goodbye.

Before that moment when the first speaker spoke, I was unaware of the gravity of my decision. And by the time my favorite uncle, my mother’s youngest brother, rose to give the closing speech, tears of apprehension were streaming down my face. He closed his speech with the charge—I still remember it know as if it were yesterday—“In every and all things, be a man. Always be a man.”

Through tears I asked him, “What does it mean to be a man?” He looked to the faces in the crowd for an answer who all looked at my grandfather, the elder male present. My grandfather stood thoughtfully, pulled on his hat and told me that this was my journey; it was up to me to determine what it meant to be a man.

And with that piece of sage like wisdom the men filed pass me, each pausing to look me in my eyes, give me a firm handshake, a pat on the back. I returned the gesture, but what I really wanted, what I really needed was for one of them, any one of them, to put his arms around me and tell me it would be alright. And with that I set off to answer the question for myself.

Along the way I have made a good many mistakes. Along the way, I have hurt some people, and I have been hurt in return. Along the way, there have been many days when I have cheered in triumph and on others I have lowered my head in defeat. Many days I have sung out loud and with glee, “I shot the sheriff, and on a few others I have found myself singing “Sweet Jesus, please be my friend.”

And I have learned that I cannot define my manhood by my sexual prowess or the number of sexual partners I have. I cannot define my manhood by the power I am able to exert over people. I cannot define my manhood by the amount of money I make, the car I drive, the size of my house, or by what I possess.

But I can define my manhood by the number of lives I have touched, the number of lives I have made better. I can define my manhood by the look of love and respect I see in the eyes of my wife and children. But most of all I can define my manhood for myself and without any outside cultural and societal paradigms.

I am still learning. I am still evolving. However, I think I have the most basic understanding of this thing now. I think that I can finally offer my sons the definition, the vision of manhood that was denied me. But most of all I know that before they leave my house, I will put my arms around them, I will pull them tight to me, and I will let them know that it will all work out in the end; it will be alright. And then hope against all hope that someday they grow to be better men than I.

Seven Web Resources for African American Men Wishing to Make a Difference

I have received more than a few emails from people stating they would like to get involved by mentoring young African American men and/or giving whatever assistance is necessary in the community or they would like to become better acquainted with the issues facing African American men and boys. So to that end, I have put together a list of sites.

1. Being a Black Man

If you don’t follow any other link on this page, you must follow this one. This site has collected a number of different media resources as part of an on-going series featured in The Washington Post and on washingtonpost.com exploring the experience of being a black man in America. The narrative of this experience is told via interviews with both celebrities and average brothers alike as well as articles and written narratives. You can also leave your own thoughts and questions, and better still, space is given for African American women to have a voice in the conversation.

In addition, the articles from The Washington Post featured in the series have been collected in an anthology, Being a Black Man: At the Corner of Progress and Peril. This is one I am definitely purchasing for my library. [Click here to explore site.]

2. Concerned Black Men

Concerned Black Men’s stated philosophy is one of men offering themselves as positive role models to children. The program works to provide mentors and programs in communities so that the care and discipline requisite in the lives of all youth is affirmed. In addition, the program offers opportunities for academic and career enrichment. [Click here to explore site.]

3. Urban Leadership Institute

The Urban Leader Institute is part of an initiative that aspires to give voice to all youth as well as extend to them an opportunity to exercise their innate leadership abilities, collectively affect change, and create a safe environment, thus inspiring a youth movement. [Click here to explore site.]

4. Mybrotha.COM

Mybrotha.com offers information and education content to empower African-American men and Black men worldwide. [Click here to explore site.]

5. Black Men in America

This site offers visitors a forum to exchange information on a variety of subjects and issues concerning African American men. [Click here to explore site.]

6. Future Black Men of America, Inc.

As stated on the site, “Future Black Men of America, Inc. (FBMA) is an organization designed to improve the quality of life for African American males.” [Click here to explore site.]

7. XY Online

XY Online concentrates not only on African American men, but on issues facing all men. For those doing gender related research, this is an invaluable resource. According to the site, “XY is…focused on men, masculinities, and gender politics. XY is a space for the exploration of issues of gender and sexuality, the daily issues of men’s and women’s life, and practical discussion of personal and social change. [Click here to explore site.]

And as always, this site is in no way comprehensive. If you know of any sites or resources I somehow neglected, just leave them in the comments section.

UPDATE:

This was dropped off by DC Dating Adventures:

In you are in the DC area, there is a non-profit called BUILD looking for mentors for high school students. The non-profit teaches kids in under resourced communities hot to start a business. The program also focuses on college admissions and begins in the 9th grade.

Here's the website for more info & their mission statement.

web: www.build.org

Metro dc blog: http://buildmetrodc.blogspot.com

Mission: BUILD is a four-year entrepreneurship-focused college preparation program whose mission is to provide real-world entrepreneurial experience that empowers youth from under-resourced communities to excel in education, lead in their communities, and succeed professionally. By helping students develop and run their own small businesses, BUILD supplements traditional school with real-world business experiences and critical skill-building for the future.

Thank you, DCDA.

Is the 110% Rule Still Valid as a Means to Success for Black Men?

When I was a young man, my grandfather, my father, and my uncles all at some time or another pulled me aside and informed me of the secret of success as a black man. Perhaps, my mother’s youngest brother, my Uncle Teddie, put it most succinctly. He simply told me that if I planned to be successful, whatever setting I found myself in, I should find the white boy out front, and then perform as well as he did plus ten. He called it the 110% rule; if a black man was to be successful, he had to give 110%. Any thing less was not sufficient.

And he went on: If it was a foot race, I should finish at least ten paces in front just to assure my victory. If it was in the classroom, long after the white boy went to bed, I should remain up studying just to assure I got a better mark. In anything and everything, as a black man, I would have to work that much harder, I would need do at least ten percent better, if I was to succeed.

They repeated it often enough and emphatically enough that I had no choice but to believe and internalize this dictum. And its effects were both good and bad. For one, it indelibly shaped my work ethic. I knew going into any given situation, any new setting, what I was in for, what was expected of me. I knew that there was no margin for error and excuses were not acceptable; I had to give my very best and then some. I was always driven to succeed, to finish out front, in everything I did.

However, on the downside, there were some negative consequences as well. First of all, to believe you are carrying the weight of a race on your back, to believe that the future of a race is somehow dependent on your success or failure, is a terrible onus indeed. And I abused my body badly. Often I pushed myself well past exhaustion, as I sometime do to this day. There have been times when sickness or injury should have logically forced me to slow down or, at the very least, stop for a minute to allow my body to heal; however, I did not.

And much of my life I have had problems sleeping through the night; I always seem to remember something I left undone or unfinished and sleep will not come until I am either too tired to carry on, or the task is close enough to completion to assuage my conscience.

But looking back, I agree with those men in my life who taught me the 110% rule. Implicit in that rule is the notion that to succeed at anything, you must give your very best. I thank them whole-heartedly for taking the time out to impart that kernel of wisdom. However, is that rule still valid? And if so, is it still even being taught?

I have spoken to a number of men who have told me that they were taught differing versions of the same rule. If fact, it seems that at one time this rule was generally understood within the black community. However, when I go out into inner city communities now, the governing rule, the guiding mentality, seems to be to do as little as possible in expectation of as big a payoff as possible.

Ironically, I have witnessed individuals seemingly work twice as hard simply trying to keep from doing anything at all. I have witnessed individuals devise absolutely brilliant schemes to make a little money illegally when if those schemes and energy were directed toward a more legitimate end, the individual would perhaps end up richer than their wildest dreams.

But this seemingly has become ethos of the inner city; the hustla’ lifestyle is celebrated in deed and song, but the what strikes me as strange is that it appears from where I am sitting that it takes more time and energy and frustration getting out of work, than it would to simply put your nose to the grindstone and push forward.

However, I do understand that escaping the inner city is not easy feat. I do understand that there are numerous obstacles and roadblocks strewn along the pathway out. And I do realize that sometimes despite all the effort in the world, you can still fall short of your goals, but if you are trying, if you are giving your all then some, even if you fall short of your goal, you’ll still find yourself in the end way out front.

Now if we can only find enough men willing to go into the inner city and sit with one or two young men and pass this lesson along, repeating it often enough and emphatically enough that the hearer has not choice but to believe it and internalize it.

Whose Responsibility Is It Anyway?: On the Brutal & Inexplicable Death of Derrion Albert

Earlier this week, I awoke to find my wife standing directly in front of the television with a look of abject terror on her face. Both her hands were clasped to either side of her face, and in the dimness of the room, I could make out her slowly mouthing, “Oh, my God!,” drawing out and extending the pronunciation of each word.

I could not see the video, but from the bed, I could plainly hear the audio. Even after pulling the covers over my head as if to hide from the sound, I could hear the audio. Long after the television was turned off and I was in my car headed to work, I could hear the audio.

Maybe it’s the sound of a group of teenagers beating another teenager to death that has affected me so deeply. Perhaps it was the shrieks of on-lookers, the shouts of encouragement from both instigators and participants, the blare of car horns trying to shock the teenagers back to their senses, I just don’t know.

But I wasn’t going to say anything. I wasn’t going to write about it all. However, over the last day or so, this post has been writing and re-writing itself in my head. Each time I mentally disposed of a draft, it would soon return, subconsciously revised and edited and awaiting publication.

And the question that keeps returning to my mind is “Whose responsibility is this?”. Let me rephrase this question. Those teenagers, those children, running amok in the street seemingly intoxicated by the violence taking place around them, seemingly under the spell of an inexplicable bloodlust, “Whose responsibility are they?”.

I posed this question before I number of friends and colleagues, and the answer was almost invariably the same. The answer usually began with “Those people…” and was framed in term of “Them [you supply the racial epithet].” But rarely did I hear the answer framed in terms of “we” or “us.” And these were all African Americans—black folk.

For some time now, I have been cognizant of the wide and ever growing chasm between classes within the African American community; the lower socio-economic class seems to devalue all those things the other class deems worthwhile and necessary, while the middle to upper socio-economic class seems to devalue them because of it. But, while you can take umbrage at adult foolishness, children are a completely different story.

Keep in mind, those were our children out there in that street whether we want to admit it or not. Though we may not know them, though we may not be able to claim a sanguineous kinship, a blood relationship, I believe that they still belong to us.

But I ask you again for your opinion: “Whose responsibility are they?”

And I keep hearing people say, “Those folk need to raise their children” or “Black folk need to raise their kids,” and I do not disagree with this one bit. But, in the same instance, in some segments of the African American community, you have a generation of parents, who were never raised themselves, attempting to raise another generation. You have a generation of parents who were never taught how to conduct themselves, how to think critically and rationally, passing on what they know about conducting themselves and thinking critically and rationally.

But in reality, what do they have to offer the younger generation? They need remedial instruction themselves. And more often than not, just merely providing the daily necessities--food, clothing, shelter--takes them outside the home so often and for so long, they have little time to offer their children. Who will teach this younger generation how to conduct themselves, how to use their minds and talents to their greatest advantage?

Whose responsibility is this?

You have whole families stuck in a perpetual cycle, a never ending narrative, of poverty and ignorance for whom the chaos and privation and struggle of the inner city ghetto are the driving plot elements; this is their reality, and they know no other.

I sure many want to do better, many hope to do better, but simply know of no way out. But who will offer them a counter-narrative, a glimpse at an alternate reality? Who will be the one to step up and offer hope to the hopeless, enlightenment to the unenlightened?

Whose responsibility is this?

Previously, I have mentioned Henry Louis Gates’ conjecture that perhaps crisis was desirable because only when we are faced with crisis do we make the difficult decisions necessary. Only crisis will force the necessary players out of the darkness into the light. Only crisis will force the timid to summon the courage to take a stand. A teenager has been beaten to death in the street; if this is not crisis, what is?

Or maybe we should just wait until the violence spreads out of the inner city into the suburbs. Maybe we should wait until one of my children or one of your children is senselessly beaten to death in the street before we finally declare a crisis and take action.

However, we seem to be stuck trying to decide, just whose responsibility it is.

My blog brother RiPPa of The Intersection of Madness and Reality has also chosen today to turn a critical and discerning eye on the this incident and its root causes. [Click here to read his post, "Understanding the Culture of Violence in America."]

Just Gathering My Strength (Calling on the Ancestors)

On Sunday I alluded to those men who have gone before me who have contributed, either directly or indirectly, to the man I have become. My maternal grandfather, Linzie “Sam” Butler, was one of those men.

He passed on very early in my life. In fact, I suddenly realize that when he passed, he was just about the same age I am now. And of all of his grandchildren, I have the singular distinction of having met him, having sat with him, having talked with him, having been blessed by him. He is who I measure myself against. And I always stop to ask myself, will I ever be as great a man as he?

It’s funny how a child’s perception works. When I was a child, I could have sworn that he was well over six feet tall. I could have sworn he was a giant. However, just last evening while I was going through some papers, I found that he was not much taller than I am now.

But he worked hard, very hard all his life, much harder and under conditions that I could not imagine having to endure. Perhaps he worked so hard then so that I would not have to work so hard now.

And with the little he had, he managed to do great things. He began as a sharecropper, but he managed to finally own his own farm, his own piece of land, his own home. He also managed to raise six children and see to it that all six went to college, and four even went on to receive advanced degrees.

How did he manage to do so much with so little, at least far less than I have right now?

Toward the end of his life, when his death was imminent, no one told me. Perhaps as a child, I would not have understood. Perhaps, I would not have believed it, or maybe I would have been overcome by just the thought. But I know now when the life began to leave him. I know now when the struggle became too great.

He was a man who was perpetually in motion. Very seldom did he just sit still. He slowed down only so I might catch up to him; he shortened his stride only so that I might keep up with him, so that I might walk at his side. But suddenly I would find him around the house, in the yard, just sitting, staring into space trying to catch his breath.

And I would playfully smile at him, and ask him, “Granddaddy, whatcha’ doin’?”

And he would smile back at me. I still remember that smile. He had one tooth missing right there in front. The gleam would momentarily return to his eye, and with what strength he had left, he would lift me unto his lap and hug me and say to me, “Nothing, son. Just sitting here for spell gathering my strength is all. Just sitting here gathering my strength.”

So, I may be tired, perhaps as tired as he was then. And sometimes I feel like just giving it up, throwing in the towel, just living quietly here with my wife and children and take life as it comes, as it’s given to me. But I feel I owe it to my grandfather to be that much better. I owe it to my grandfather to go just that much farther. I think I owe it to my grandfather to leave a proud legacy to my children just as he left to me so that they might pass that legacy to their children, so that they might pass to their children and so on.

So, at this very moment I am tired. Very tired. I wonder if my grandfather was ever this tired, as tired as I am now, or everyday of his life he may have been this tired, this beat.

But I am going to say to my children, to those that look up to me, those that depend on me, those looking to me for guidance and inspiration, just let me just sit here a spell and gather my strength. Just give me a moment to catch my breath, and shortly, I’ll be alright and prepared to move onward and upward with you walking beside me, matching me stride for stride.

39 lessons for boys [Guest post by Kenn Bivins]

Guest blogger Kenn Bivins spends some quality time with his two sons.

This first appeared on Kenn Bivins’ eponymous blog, kenn bivins. I have always admired Kenn's work because the absolute love of affection he has for his sons seems to color everything he does.

Additionally, Kenn has the singular distinction of being the very first reader to leave a comment on my blog when I started back in March of this year. I still have that comment saved in my email. Thanks for your support, Kenn!

The legacy of a father is what he leaves in his stead for his children. I love my sons (and nephews) and at age 39, the following are 39 lessons or observations I hope to teach (or have taught) them. This is, by no means, a comprehensive list.

1. manhood is earned, not inherited

2. there is a God

3. you are not Him

4. but God did make you special

5. give more than you take

6. don’t run with the crowd, unless you’re the leader

7. make your life, your work

8. never make work, your life

9. failure is a sign that you’re trying

10. never never never give up

11. no one owes you anything

12. true education starts after school ends

13. money is not equal to success

14. never lose self-control (unless you want to)

15. healthy relationships are built on communication which leads to trust

16. physical confrontation with a girl/woman = lose/lose odds

17. credit card debt is a brutal master

18. if you can’t afford it with cash, save for it or pass it by

19. learning starts with leaving your comfort zone

20. invest in teaching others what you learn

21. love yourself before you expect a girl/woman to love you

22. never point a gun that you’re not prepared to shoot

23. some fights are best won by walking away

24. don’t judge others just because they are different from you

25. learn from the mistakes of others

26. save more than you spend

27. girls/women think completely different from you

28. celebrate the differences

29. give respect to others

30. let your presence command respect from all

31. give thanks daily for what you have

32. it’s okay to cry

33. smile more than you frown

34. stand up straight

35. (almost always) tell the truth

36. look people in the eyes when you talk to them

37. self-discipline comes from you and only you

38. always consider the consequence

39. seek God always

I Have Two Sons

I have two sons.

Perhaps, this comes as unexpected. Perhaps, it seems to come out of the blue even. But this morning I would like to take the time to clarify a bit of confusion I may have caused. But I stand ready to remedy that confusion.

Two recent events prompted this acknowledgement. Recently I had a conversation with a friend, and when I mentioned my oldest son, she seemed genuinely surprised. She stated that I had not mentioned him before. But I am almost sure I have; perhaps she just forgot.

And when on yesterday I was searching through my archives for something, I found frequent and detailed mentions of one son and only infrequent and cursory mentions of the other. But that does not mean that I favor one son over the other. Both sons are on my mind and in my heart continually. I am equally proud of each of them. But the one remains here at home with me. I see him daily, and he is constantly underfoot, so when I reach for material to write on, he often comes to mind.

But I love each son equally, however, for different reasons. Each represents a distinct period in my life, a distinct consciousness.

I fathered my first son when I was yet still very young, still in need of being raised myself. It’s funny how human development works. The human reproductive system often develops far ahead of the capacity to reason.

I marvel at my grandfather. He and my grandmother were married when they were in their early teens; this was not uncommon at the time. And from his early teens on, he was able to play the role of a man. He and my grandmother had six children, three boys and three girls, and with the little they had, they were able t raise six strong productive human beings and send them to college.

I was perhaps the same age as my grandfather when his first son was born when my oldest son was born. Perhaps because times had changed drastically, perhaps because I had the luxury of enjoying an adolescence, I wasn’t ready financially, mentally, maturely, or otherwise to be a father. And my mistakes, my lack of maturity, and my lack of depth of consciousness were repeated by my son. And I accept full responsibility for this.

However, just as I was able to do, he was able to pull it together in the end, and now he is an entrepreneur and business student living in Atlanta.

But my youngest son came at such a time that I had finally found myself. I possessed the financial means, the mental maturity, and the lived experience and consciousness requisite to being a good father. The way has no ways been completely smooth, however. Even know I must rethink my earlier positions and assumptions and relearn new ways of dealing with old problems.

The lesson to be taken away, though, is this: The student cannot progress beyond the knowledge and consciousness of the teacher. If our young men are running amok, if our young men are not living up to our expectations of them, then before we point an accusatory finger at them, we must stop to think and acknowledge our role in their development.

What examples are we setting? Are we actively and proactively seeking to influence their lives, to raise their consciousness, to change their worldview? Or are we content to sit back and point out and write and complain about their shortcomings, smug in our own psudeo-greatness, without offering ourselves up as part of the solution?

Whether they are close in proximity or far away, they are still our sons, and if they are to improve their situation, they must have and deserve our acknowledgement. And furthermore, they deserve our time and attention. What have you done today to improve the lives of our young men whether far away or right in the next room?

And let me remind you so you might now know. I have two sons. Two. And the eternal connection of the lifeblood that flows within is validated by the immense love and respect that flows between.

A Thank You Note to My Father and Black Men Everywhere [Guest post by Charles J.]

I received this post from my good friend Charles J. last week. This post is responsible for me reconsidering my point of view and taking the time to [re]find and refine my voice. Sometimes even an old, stubborn man can learn from a young, wise man.

Before I sat down and began to write, I wasn’t sure what to write about. I was going to write about how black men need to step up and be fathers to their children. I was going to talk about the numbers of brothers in jail. I even started along these lines, but before long I bored myself and felt as though I was sounding redundant.

Then I thought about my own childhood. I grew up in a two parent household. My father was there for me and still is here for me now, so instead of writing and downing more black men ala Bill Cosby. I just wanted to say thank you to my father and to the other Black fathers (biological or otherwise).

Too often we hear there are no more good Black men out there, but I disagree. I feel too often we tend to extend our appreciation to those who have been indispensible to us throughout our lives only when they are dead instead of giving them their accolades while still here on earth. So here goes…

First I would like to begin with my own father. Thank you, Dad, for loving me and allowing me to make mistakes. Thank you for trying to teach me how to throw a ball even though I never got really good at it. Thank you for enrolling me in acting classes at the age of ten when you saw that I preferred music and arts better than a bat and ball. Many fathers would have been disappointed at my preference, but you were not. Thank you for being a living example of how to treat my future wife by treating my mother with the utmost love and respect.

When I needed you, you were there. When I cried, you dried my tears and calmed my fears. You taught me manhood is not about what’s between my legs but what’s between my ears. Because of you I walk taller and work harder. You don’t think you hear this enough.

And this message is also for every good black man out there who is doing it right. It seems we hear most often about those who are not acting as men. We hear about those who have selfishly shrugged off their responsibilities. But as a son, nephew, cousin and mentee of many good black men, thank you all for just being you. Keep up the good work.

Charles J

Offering an Alternative Paradigm: Young American American Men and the Prison System

I scheduled this post to run later in the week; however, I thought it would be a logical follow-up to the conversation on yesterday. And thank you to those who happened by and thank you to those who contributed to the conversation.

On Friday, November 27, 1989, the day after Thanksgiving, a police officer from the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office came to my home, and in front of my children and wife, he arrested me in a case of mistaken identity.

Ironically, the white arresting officer recognized it to be a case of mistaken identity, but the African American sergeant who arrived on the scene shortly after simply looked at me, looked at my family, looked at my home and neighborhood, and then with an unmistaken look of contempt on his face, told the white officer to take me in anyway. The white officer protested, but the African American sergeant just sneered and told him we would work it out at the station.

So, I was taken down to the city jail. I was booked. I was fingerprinted. I was photographed. And for the next twelve hours, I sat in a cell awaiting bail to be set.

When my wife picked me up from the station, she was hoarse from having yelled and screamed for twelve hours straight in the face of anyone and everyone at the city jail. But I was calm, too calm for her. So, she demanded to know why I was not angrier, why I was not absolutely infuriated at my treatment. I tried to explain it to her; I tried to articulate my emotions, but she could not be made to understand.

In a word, I felt relieved. Not relieved to have finally made it out of jail, but finally relieved to have made it into jail. You see, by the time I was arrested, I had witnessed so many young black men go to jail, and I had worked with so many young black men who, despite my and others’ greatest efforts, ended up in jail, that I actually began wondering why I was yet to go to jail.

The more I achieved, the more I realized some measure of success, the more apprehensive I got. The more frightened I became. And it all didn’t make sense because when I was growing up, prison, or as my grandmother called it—the pen, was frowned on. It was shameful. If a family member happened to go to “the pen,” then the family lied and said he was in East St. Louis or something. If he was from East St. Louis, then the family lied and said he was down South.

But my point is this: Despite my upbringing, despite my education, despite my achievements, if all that was going on around me, if all I witnessed could work to convince me that going to jail was inevitable as a young black man, what must those young African American men still stuck in inner-city, crime infested neighborhoods, those still under the thumb of poverty, feel. What do they believe their life prospects to be?

It appears to me that incarceration or having family members incarcerated has become an all too familiar part of African American lives. I read somewhere that for young African American males, going to jail has become almost a rite of passage. And remnants of prison culture are creeping into the mainstream culture, for instance the sagging pants and tattoos.

But we all know how ruinous a prison record can be, what an absolutely devastating effect a prison record can have on a young person’s future.

But the challenge then becomes to counter this normalization of deviancy with another paradigm. For all those images of deviancy we must counter with images of success and acheivement. I believe that those of us who have managed to make it out, those of us who have managed to achieve some measure of success, have an unequivocal responsibility to return and serve as role models, as mentors, for those still looking for a way out.

Have you had an experience similar to mine? What do you think can be done to reduce the number of young African American men entering the prison system?

Additional web resource: Genpop.org

Black Men and Boys Week Continues: Can a woman raise a man?

Today is day one of Black Men and Boys week, and the question we will be exploring today is whether or not women can effectively raise men.

I wrote a piece a while back entitled “Spoiling Our Daughters and Raising Our Sons” in which I discussed my propensity to come down hard on my sons while acquiescing to my daughters’ every whim in an effort to raise strong, productive men and without realizing the effect this might be having on my daughters.

I knew when I composed the piece that my experience might be unique to me. In working with young people from the inner-city, most often the case is reversed. I find myself working with young men in need of guidance who are being raised by single mothers. And most often these mothers are simply spoiling these young men rotten much to their detriment.

So, I did anticipate the possibility that a number of readers would speak out of an experience very dissimilar to my own; however, I did not anticipate the sheer number of readers who would do so. As I watched a conversation around the post develop on twitter, some suggested that my experience was not representative of the African American experience at all. Someone even suggested that I had created an alternate reality with me at the center.

But the reality is that the majority of households in the African American community are headed by African American women. In fact, the last reliable statistic I could find approximated that about fifty-four percent of African American households are headed solely by African American women. And implicit in that statement is that within those households there are surely to be young African American men, and there is perhaps no way to determine how many of these young men being raised in woman headed households have little or no contact with their fathers.

I mentioned this fact to a friend, someone who has been my professional mentor for many years, who then launched into a diatribe citing this fact as the major factor in the number of young African American men caught up in the legal system and/or who are poorly equipped to contribute to the community or the culture in a positive way.

Of course I disagreed with him. And in doing so I cited the scores of African American men I knew or had encountered who had been raised solely by women but had managed to become successful, who had managed to break the cycle of poverty. Additionally, I reminded him that in many of these homes, though there was no father present, no man present, surely there were “other fathers.” There were grandfathers and uncles, teachers and coaches, even mentors like myself who could serve as role models for these young men.

I still remember his retort:

“But the home is where the rubber meets the road. What happens within the home is what counts. Max, you could teach these children to walk on water, you could teach them the knowledge of alchemy required to turn water into wine, but keep in mind that you are with them only a few hours a day a couple of days a week. If what you teach them, model for them, try to instill in them is not reinforced in the home, then it goes for naught.”

Then he finished his speech, “You are too naïve, Max. You are too idealistic, Max. Only a woman can raise a woman; only a man can raise a man.”

I respect his point of view, and I value his life experience and wisdom, but I cannot wholly agree with him. Certainly, while I agree that a number of young African American have been spoiled and cuddled to their detriment, I believe this is the exception and not the rule. Furthermore, I believe that perhaps socio-economic factors have a greater impact that anything single mothers may or may not be doing.

When a mother must devote a significant portion of her time to keeping food on the table and a roof over her family’s head, when a mother must devote a significant portion of her time meeting the basic necessities of life, then that is time taken away from time that could be spent going over homework or teaching life lessons or providing the attention and oversight requisite to the rearing of children.

And to my friend and mentor, thank you for everything you have done for me. You have been an invaluable force in my life. You have been wonderful as a mentor, an “other father.” But with me your job was easy. I was already raised when our paths crossed; you just needed to answer the questions to which I had no answer or could not be found in books. Perhaps if you will come with me only a few hours a day, a couple of days a week, then we could really affect change.

Help me with this one. Can a woman effectively raise a man?

And come back later today for other exhibits and artifacts I have in store.