1.29.2004
Father to Son...
Some get a little and some get none | Some catch a bad one and some leave the job half done | I was one who never had and always mad | Never knew my dad, mother fuck the fag...~Naughty By Nature, Everything's Gonna Be Alright
An interesting conversation took place on the road home from Atlanta. The conversation was about black men and their fathers. Sdot started the convo…
“Do you know anything about Glen Bernie in Maryland?”
The Pub thinks for a minute. “Yeah. I know that area, why?"
“My father lives there.” Sdot answers.
“Really?”
“Yeah. We’ve never met though. A few years ago a friend of mine did a search and located him for me. I’ve reached out to him twice in the last year or so, but, nothing...”
A familiar sadness filled his voice. The same exact sadness I've heard every time he's brought up his father. Clearly, he wants to know the man. But the question is: Does the man want to know him? A tough question but one Sdot is determined to find out.
As the weight of loss begins to grip the car The Pub begins describing the first time he met his pop. He describes the scene in detail, right down to the look on his father’s face, his wife’s face; and the surprised expressions his newly found siblings wore, as each took critical inventory of who looked like who. Moments later with emotions running amuck, hugs began to fill a shattered room; a lost son has been found.
As I listen to The Pub break down the scene I get to thinking, what’s up with black men and their fathers? And why are these fathers abandoning their sons?
I grew up with my father. I met my father at birth. Or, at least that’s what they told me because still to this day I do not know him. He and my moms have been married for 50 years, and yet still, I do not know him. I know the way he looks. The way I’ll probably look when I reach his age; and yes, I know how much he absolutely loves spankin’ brand new wheels, but do I know him -know him?
Sadly, the answer is no.
Throughout my childhood my father was a provider. He paid bills, and kept a roof over my head, but that is where the love ends. Only once do I remember him attending a parents-teachers conference, and that was because my moms made him go. Never do I remember him attending anything else as a way of interest or support for his last born child. And for years, I resented him for it. I wanted him to invest in me, his son, his off-spring, his future. But I got nothing, nadda, zilch. And though I tried for many years to convince myself he was uncapable of giving me the things I needed because he did not know his father, and therefore did not know how to give to a son, I knew that if he but tried to love, he could do anything. Even, nuture me.
There are no set rules to being a parent, just as there are no set rules to being a child—but something’s should be mandated: Parents should parent their children, and fathers should be there to help.
Black women are raising our black men. Black women are teaching black men why and how they should wear a condom. Black women are at the schools, in the church, and on the ball-fields teaching, motivating, and raising a whole slew of black men to be responsible law-abiding individuals. Black women, (damn I wish I could scream this) not black men. It hurts my heart to know my brothers, a group capable of any and everything imaginable have not yet realized our sons are in dire need of lessons of which only another black man can teach.
At the tender age of thirteen I vowed never to be like my father, a promise I'm sure I alone did not make. And it is a promise to this day I plan to keep. If I should ever father a child I will make it my duty to be a father—even if it hurts me to open up and share that part of me men aren’t supposed to share. That part that says, embrace your children and show them that you care. That part that says, admit your mistakes, because everyone knows a man can be wrong. That part that begs you to admit, I love my son, and today I will tell him so.
When I finish processing my thoughts and return to my present environment, the car is silent. Sdot sits lost in thought, while The Pub drives solemnly ahead. As I whip out my laptop, I think: What will it take for us to really meet our fathers…
What are your thoughts?
An interesting conversation took place on the road home from Atlanta. The conversation was about black men and their fathers. Sdot started the convo…“Do you know anything about Glen Bernie in Maryland?”
The Pub thinks for a minute. “Yeah. I know that area, why?"
“My father lives there.” Sdot answers.
“Really?”
“Yeah. We’ve never met though. A few years ago a friend of mine did a search and located him for me. I’ve reached out to him twice in the last year or so, but, nothing...”
A familiar sadness filled his voice. The same exact sadness I've heard every time he's brought up his father. Clearly, he wants to know the man. But the question is: Does the man want to know him? A tough question but one Sdot is determined to find out.
As the weight of loss begins to grip the car The Pub begins describing the first time he met his pop. He describes the scene in detail, right down to the look on his father’s face, his wife’s face; and the surprised expressions his newly found siblings wore, as each took critical inventory of who looked like who. Moments later with emotions running amuck, hugs began to fill a shattered room; a lost son has been found.
As I listen to The Pub break down the scene I get to thinking, what’s up with black men and their fathers? And why are these fathers abandoning their sons?
I grew up with my father. I met my father at birth. Or, at least that’s what they told me because still to this day I do not know him. He and my moms have been married for 50 years, and yet still, I do not know him. I know the way he looks. The way I’ll probably look when I reach his age; and yes, I know how much he absolutely loves spankin’ brand new wheels, but do I know him -know him?
Sadly, the answer is no.
Throughout my childhood my father was a provider. He paid bills, and kept a roof over my head, but that is where the love ends. Only once do I remember him attending a parents-teachers conference, and that was because my moms made him go. Never do I remember him attending anything else as a way of interest or support for his last born child. And for years, I resented him for it. I wanted him to invest in me, his son, his off-spring, his future. But I got nothing, nadda, zilch. And though I tried for many years to convince myself he was uncapable of giving me the things I needed because he did not know his father, and therefore did not know how to give to a son, I knew that if he but tried to love, he could do anything. Even, nuture me.
There are no set rules to being a parent, just as there are no set rules to being a child—but something’s should be mandated: Parents should parent their children, and fathers should be there to help.
Black women are raising our black men. Black women are teaching black men why and how they should wear a condom. Black women are at the schools, in the church, and on the ball-fields teaching, motivating, and raising a whole slew of black men to be responsible law-abiding individuals. Black women, (damn I wish I could scream this) not black men. It hurts my heart to know my brothers, a group capable of any and everything imaginable have not yet realized our sons are in dire need of lessons of which only another black man can teach.
At the tender age of thirteen I vowed never to be like my father, a promise I'm sure I alone did not make. And it is a promise to this day I plan to keep. If I should ever father a child I will make it my duty to be a father—even if it hurts me to open up and share that part of me men aren’t supposed to share. That part that says, embrace your children and show them that you care. That part that says, admit your mistakes, because everyone knows a man can be wrong. That part that begs you to admit, I love my son, and today I will tell him so.
When I finish processing my thoughts and return to my present environment, the car is silent. Sdot sits lost in thought, while The Pub drives solemnly ahead. As I whip out my laptop, I think: What will it take for us to really meet our fathers…
What are your thoughts?
