The Reason I Am So Sore this Morning (One Day I Will Really Miss This)

Right now I am so sore that I can hardly move, plus I have an incredible crick in my neck that is causing me to walk around with my held tilted to one side. You cannot believe how incredibly difficult this makes drinking coffee. And I must have my morning coffee. But I’m not complaining. In fact, I am reveling in the moment. In a few years when my children have left home, I’ll probably long for moments like this.

You see, late last night my wife and I lay in bed watching a little television and laughing and talking and enjoying a little solitude at the day’s end. Moments like this are rare; when you have children, solitude usually goes out the window. Usually, the children are always underfoot, so you have to make your own moments. But his moment happened completely spontaneously, and we find ourselves alone laughing and talking.

I was reaching for the remote to the CD player where I had that old school slow jams CD in cue when the bedroom door swings open. It’s the baby girl. Well, she’s not so much of a baby anymore. She’s now thirteen. But I call her my baby girl anyway. Anyway, she’s rubbing her eyes, and whining about something. I guess she might have been having a bad dream.

She wants to know if she can sleep with us tonight. So, of course, my wife says sure, and I, too, acquiesce, and she climbs in between the two of us. I put the remote back on the night stand. The old school slow jams CD will not be needed tonight. And the three of us settle in.

However, a few minutes later the door swings open again. This time it is my fourteen year old son. I guess at some point he realized that he was the only one on the opposite end of the house, so he set out to find everyone.

So, he takes a look at the three of us lying there, and he gets this puppy dog look on his face. I guess my wife reads his mind because she points to the foot of the bed and invites him in: “You can just lay across the foot.” But of course, where my son goes the family rat terrier follows, so much to my chagrin, the whole family minus the two older children plus the family pet is crowded onto one bed now.

Then the jockeying for position starts:

“I can’t stretch out my legs. Who invited you anyway?”

“Well, who invited you?”

“Move!”

“You move!”

“Somebody’s foot is in my chest!”

“Daddy, you are on my hair!”

“Is there an extra pillow?”

“Ruff. Ruff. Grrr!”

And when it all ends, I am the biggest person in the bed with the least amount of real estate. I find myself curled up in a corner.

And then very early this morning, I finally awake from a fitful, uncomfortable night of sleep, and so as not to disturb anyone, I literally roll out of the bed onto the floor. I go into my office and wait for my muse to come so that I might get some writing done. Then to my pleasant surprise, my wife joins me. She slips up silently behind me and plants a kiss on the very top of my bald head. I turn to look at her and smile. I have Sade already cued up in the office. You have to be prepared.

But just then two little heads pop in the doorway:

“Hey, what are you two doing in here?”

“Is someone going to run to Dunkin’ Donuts”

“You don’t need any donuts, fool. You need oatmeal!”

“How you know what I need?”

“Ruff. Ruff. Grrr!”

“Somebody needs to let the dog out!”

“Why can’t you do it?”

And then on top of it all, out of nowhere someone breaks into impromptu rendition of the negro national anthem, “Life Every Voice and Sing.” Where did that come from? In the back of my mind, I imagine my muse sprinting for the front door.

Yeah, someday I will miss mornings like this. But right now I just wish that day would hurry up and come.

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

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.