The False Praise of Black Fatherhood

An Amazing Black Father 

Facebook never did much for me except for expand my over thinking into what I saw as people’s otherwise already irrational, simple behavior. Now, I’m in the mood to delete every Black male father on my timeline in an effort to excuse myself from the idiotic phrases of their mainly female fan base that goes a little something like this:

“I’m so proud of you. You are such a good father.”

Which elicits something like:

“Thanks______. I have to do for mines.”

UGH.

In full disclosure, not only do I have a Black father but I live with a Black father. We share a bed, rent payments, and our hearts for a pretty consistent basis now. And people, without knowing if he is a child abuser, emotional manipulator, or a poor role model, continue to sing unsolicited praises for him in the comments section of his social media accounts. Why?

I don’t see this celebrity treatment spread across the races. What instead I am forced to witness is the presence of Black male bodies in children’s lives being equated to good fatherhood. Just the mere presence. Without taking away from amazing displays of black fatherhood, can we be critical of how we treat black fathers because of this fascinating premise that they are somehow extinct. See, when you make something extinct in pop culture, the mere presence of it begins to take on a supernatural, mythological encounter.  It becomes fascinating. It becomes…good.

But often times, what I’m seeing from a few (by no means all or a lot) Black fathers is a piss poor display of personhood let alone a complete, stellar father hood performance. When I see some of these men, I am forced to witness an inability to be emotionally supportive without being physically abusive.  I am forced to witness men who don’t understand that their every move with be imitated and internalized whether their children are allowed to be fully expressive of that or not.  I am forced to witness some fathers who find it an extension of their manhood to behave in a patriarchal and oppressive manner to women who they deem worthy of verbal harassment, misogyny, adultery, and abuse.  What I am forced to witness is the display of bags of Nike shoes and Ralph Lauren coats as shows of affection rather than too many hugs, too many kisses, and infinite time reading, going to the zoo, and going on vacations. I witness an inability to teach boys how to be productive citizens, energetic, and creative without calling them names like ‘bad.’ What I am witnessing is an inability to teach girls how to also be productive citizens, energetic, and creative without filling their head with stereotypes on what girls should and shouldn’t do.

The reality is, is that the ability to purchase designer clothes, fancy jackets, and making weekend trips to visit children while they are playing violent video games has been the benchmark for success of Black fatherhood. This has got to end. It is not helpful to anyone.

The very best of Black fatherhood is something that I get to witness all the time and I am proud that this is the norm and not the exception. I am happy that I get to see Black men who are consistently in their children’s lives providing as much or at times more support mentally and emotionally to their children’s well being than anyone else. I am happy that I know wonderfully well adjusted Black children who get to see dedicated Black fathers who wash dishes, do laundry, go to work, read them stories at night, and pick them up when they fall regardless of their age and their gender. I am proud that I get to see Black men who are deeply invested in the quality of the children’s school and are sitting up at night thinking about what college their children will get in to. I am proud that I get to hear Black men speak to their children fair and diplomatically. I am equally as excited to see Black men teaching their children how to have a sense of agency as I am  to see them teach their children patience. I am glad I get to see Black men who let their children see them vulnerable, and in loving, healthy relationship and do not subscribe to this substandard of Black fatherhood.

What I believe will be praised in Black fatherhood is that which should be praised in humanity. Good will and deep commitment to that which is seen and not seen. We have to do more than give the gold to anybody. We have to give the gold to those who finish the race, compelled to be the very best whose ever done it.

Birth of a Trayvon Generation

Me in my Justice for Trayvon pen

Trayvon Martin was born today. His mother and father welcomed him into the world with as many hopes, dreams, and aspirations for their child as any other. Google didn’t change their landing page in honor of him. There is no TIME cover story of ‘How Trayvon Would Look Now.” There is no great investigative report spilling from the New York Times of how his death has changed millennials. There’s no statues in his honor, no schools, no federal holidays, no commemorative ceremonies.

What we are left with is our memory of the pain of injustice. Of laws. And yet we are a nation of laws. Laws that are deeply rooted in injustice with liberty for some and threat, death, danger, and inadequacy for others. Of laws, you know those things that imprisoned Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., those things that sanctioned terrorism and apartheid against the Bantu people of South Africa, those things that sentenced Nelson Mandela to life imprisonment, those things that allowed Nazi Germany to bestow atrocities against its fellow man, those things that denied African Americans the right to vote, to own land, and to a sound education. Yes, those were all laws. And it was the law, the court system, the justice that we so readily hold high as our social superiority in the world, that in fact sanctioned the death of Trayvon Martin. 

Many brown boys have faced the same death as Trayvon since his passing. Many have marched. Many have sat in fear, in shock, and in disdain of the events that have passed. Many scrutinized the online rage as only being short term and committed those who didn’t march to some hell for piss poor progressives. Many thought we would forget….

So we are forced to remember Trayvon much less than how his parents would, as a strong reminder of how even our worse nightmares linger over with very little progress.  I am reminded today of how very fearful I continue to feel for my nephews. Of how very inhumane I suspect people see me, and my body, and the bodies of people whom share my skin. I am reminded today of how isolating, how devastating of a task it is to take on that burden. I am reminded of the outrage and the lack of progress that has followed.

I hope that not only will people take today to remember a young boy who died a few weeks from today 17 years ago, but to also remember what both his life and death means to the trajectory of our progress. I hope people take today to remember Trayvon as not only a household face for racial violence, but also a simple young man owning his carefree stroll to his very right to be alive. I hope people take today to remember that this could have been any of our sons and will continue to be if we don’t stand in deep and long-term solidarity for racial justice through a series of laws and judicial revisions. I hope people take today not only to wear their hoodies and imagine Trayvon’s life as a college student, but to also think critically and objectively of how the media has continued to frame this as a singular, rare story worthy of a singular, rare amount of rage. I hope that people take today to be

It is my deep hope that people will not take today to be drug down a Don Lemon respectability politics rabbit hole of what we should wear, should say, should achieve in an effort to not face imminent threat and untimely death.

It is my hope that people reflect and conclude that we continue to hold Trayvon up as an example, just one of many, in which justice has failed up. It is my hope that we decide that we will rise and seek our destinies of justice together. We are inextricably linked.

It is my hope that we give birth to a Trayvon generation. One that understands collectively that if we don’t rise at the sight of this call to action, we will continue to meet our fate of injustice together. 

Guns Kill People

Picture from DragArt.com

I don’t even remember the first time I was affected by gun violence but I do remember the most striking. I was young. Perhaps 8 or so. My parents were on the side of a rented duplex where many of my relatives lay celebrating in the summer months. My 90-something year old great, great grandmother was baking in the kitchen, her ears bad but spirits high. Many of my cousins were fairly young then as well, running around, tired and ready for bed. My parents, who had a tumultuous relationship back then, were on the porch engaged in yet another argument about God knows what. It was hot. A car full of young men arrived at the duplex in search of a rival gang member. My uncle, who misheard the young man’s request upon arrival, was struck several times at point blank by a sea of bullets. It devastated my family and it changed my father.

From that day on, my life was constantly disrupted in personal ways by guns. I saw a young man die on a sidewalk in Flint, Michigan. I’ve had community members cancel meetings after a sudden death of a brother, friend, cousin who was taken away by a gun shot in the summer’s night. I’ve had cousins subject to multiple gun shot wounds. I’ve had a female cousin get shot in the face within an inch of her life. I’ve had cousins imprisoned for gun possessions. I’ve had playground fun interrupted by gun battles. I’ve snuck out of basketball games early to avoid the inevitable gun fight that would follow. I’ve been in movie theaters where we were let out the side door, my father clinching tightly to my hand, eyes moving swiftly to scope out any threats.

I’ve lived with guns my whole life yet I had never seen one up close and personal until it was pressed against my brother’s face on a street sidewalk in the thick of summer. The perpetrator was a policeman.

I’ve always known that guns killed people. They killed children who would never remember their fathers. They killed spirits that never got to make it to 30 years old. They killed their victims, of course, but they killed communities. They killed scared boys hoping to become men. They killed the young. In fact, I learned that the old died of diabetes, amputated and gray and the young died from guns. Everyone else went to jail. Because of guns.

The guns that occupy my memory never killed squirrels.

I don’t hunt. I’ve never lived in an area where hunting was a necessity or owning a gun was a sport. Every urban center I’ve called home has seen guns as an immediate threat to humanity. Every place I’ve called home has seen what the destruction of guns can do. Every city I’ve called home has only seen guns in ‘the wrong hands.’ The neighborhoods I grew up in, the urban centers I later moved to, and the mostly minority communities I work in, have led me to the conclusion that guns are not only bad but have no place in the hands of human beings.

Because of who I am and what my skin color convenes to the rest of the world, I don’t feel safe walking around this country knowing that others are armed. We have seen time and time again, the reckless judgment of officers and everyday citizens who have killed their fellow man on behalf of some perceived fear. I’m often left with the lingering question: What if they were not armed? What if getting a gun was not as easy as getting a pack of cigarettes? What if gun ownership were not these highly and hotly debated topics for evening news’ partisan participants? What if we could honestly say that we wouldn’t have wanted to be in that movie theater, or school, or mall in any town across America? What if we could publicly acknowledge that there are people in urban centers all across the country who own guns, legally and illegally for the expressed intention of killing another human being? And that should not be subject to debate. And that people in Mackinac County, Michigan should not be weighing in on how we restrict gun access to people who’ve never even seen a deer let alone packed up an RV for a boys trip in search of some rabbits.

What if progressives could just come right out and say that we want a completely unarmed society? I don’t want to turn on the news and see another headline ripped out of a Law & Order scene of some 22 year old cop who was so sure this young, black boy coming from his 3rd day of 9th grade had a gun. When in fact he just happened to be 6 feet tall with peach fuzz and daydreaming in the middle of Bedford Stuyvesant. And respectability politics aside, we have become so engulfed with defending the Cosby kids and suburban schoolchildren against guns that we’ve forgotten how guns have a lasting effect on all of us. Whether we are employed or unemployed, whether we’ve been a perpetrator or a victim. Guns are not good for us. There should not be a gun under a pillow on the 12th floor of a studio apartment in Chelsea legally owned by a person popping meds for bipolar no more than there should be one pointed at a room full of kindergarteners in Greenwich, Connecticut. There should not be a gun riding on the A train with me. There should not be a gun visibly holstered on an officer at the supermarket with me. There should not be a gun at the scene of a robbery for tennis shoes. There should not be guns in urban centers where there are more people than animals to shoot.

Let’s get real about what’s happening here. Guns are killing people. They absolutely are. They are destroying our happiness. They destroy our communities. And there isn’t a gun alive that can protect me from feeling helpless every time I am destroyed by the news of another gun crime. 

Brownstone Stalker

Brownstone in Bed Stuy 

I wish brownstones could be as easy to get as sexually transmitted diseases.

I am, one of many, desperately seeking an affordable multi-level brownstone in an affordable Central Brooklyn neighborhood. Emphasis on affordable.

The truth is, I live in a brownstone now. That’s right. I live in a brownstone with 3 bedrooms. That sounds luxurious and I should be grateful that I am not stuck 10 blocks away from a train station in a 5 story walkup with 17 roommates. But the multi-family, mixed use brownstone I live in now is nothing like I imagined it would be.

Growing up in the 1980s and 90s in a low income community, television was an inexpensive way of seeing the world. Though pop culture can be criticized heavily for its unrealistic cultural contributions, there were times when it gave me aspiration. Like other brown kids, the Cosby Show was the pop culture symbol that changed my idea of who and what I could accomplish economically in this world. Because Clair Huxtable was so charming, I was drawn almost exclusively to her lifestyle. I knew I wanted to go to an HBCU, I knew I wanted to get married, I knew I wanted to be as witty as she was, I knew I wanted to be in love with jazz music, and I knew-even from very early on, that I wanted to live in Brooklyn in an iconic brownstone.

Brownstones are multistory townhouses that are made of stones that are brown. Brownstones to Brooklyn transplants are essential status symbols. They represent everything you move to Brooklyn for-space, a patch of green, a bit of quietness, and to be slightly closer to authenticity. They conjure up feelings of summer time nostalgia. They force you into conversations about neighborhood events, gentrification, community happenings, so forth and so on. They are charming. They represent memories of romantic nostalgia. Brownstones breath life into your otherwise tiny, cramped up existence. Brownstones are everything.

Me near some brownstones

Brownstones today are expensive. Brownstones in Park Slope, Cobble Hill, or Downtown Brooklyn can start at well into the $1 million range for a 3 story single family. Brownstones in Bedford Stuyvesant and Crown Heights are slightly more affordable starting at $600,000 going well into the millions for fully renovated properties. Buying an affordable brownstone at $400,000 is also a gamble, with many of them requiring significant renovations.

I always wonder how people got into these amazing brownstones? Don’t you love the stories of how the city sold vacant brownstones to people for $1 during the height of the crack epidemic? Don’t you love the stories of your coworkers who inherited their brownstone from their great grandmother who paid $12,000 for it in 1942? Don’t you love how people talk about how cheap they got their brownstone for in an ‘up and coming neighborhood’ and now they use it as rental property?

I think the days of brownstone affordability may be over. I’m searching almost daily for my Brooklyn brownstone so if you see her...et me know.

Milwaukee, NYC and Poverty Deniers

A young me

So somewhere along the line somebody thought it was a good idea to make light of poverty in Milwaukee because of the stereotypes they have of poverty in New York City.

Let's get this straight...

I didn’t just have an ‘aha’ moment. I didn’t seek to drag people into relentless rants about poverty politics one day. I talk about poverty for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I’m not staying up late nights convincing people that my childhood in Milwaukee was so terrible that I can barely go on with my life. That just simply is untrue. It’s not necessarily genius to tell one’s story of poverty. It’s not a new or innovative idea to write about what it means to grow up poor in America.

But it was important to me to elevate and publicize the trauma of poverty in small urban cities like Milwaukee.

My mother, who has lived in Milwaukee most of her life, is convinced that poverty in Milwaukee can’t be bad in comparison to larger cities like New York. Or, even worse, that poverty in Milwaukee can’t be expressed with contempt. But the truth is, I saw those very comments on this blog. Of course criticisms tended to converge on the familiar and limited argument that people should not speak about poverty as anything less than a triumphant experience, especially since it ‘can’t be as bad as New York City’s poverty’.

Oh right, and how exactly do you know?

Milwaukee is not New York City for a whole host of reasons but namely because of its sheer population difference. New York City is 16 times larger than Milwaukee.  It is depicted in movies like New Jack City and Precious. It is rapped about in songs like Hard Knock Life and Hate it or Love It. It is showcased in television shows like New York Undercover and Law and Order. Take any Spike Lee movie and the average American thinks they have a good understanding of New York City poverty. Try to think of songs, movies, and popular culture that depict poverty in smaller urban cities like Milwaukee, Flint, Cleveland, or even St. Louis and you may come up with a handful. But poverty in these cities are equally as important and should remain stories for people to learn about as valid examples of despair.

While I believe the arguments of poverty deniers that ‘poverty in Milwaukee is not that bad’ and is ‘not worse than New York City’ are fundamentally wrong, they tend to resonate with people for several reasons. One, we as Americans tend to be drawn to a culture of resiliency. It doesn’t matter the trauma, we are supposed to be stronger, right? Two, people are convinced through the media that they know more about New York City than they actually do. Finally, people tend to mistake their own personal experience in a city or region for a shared experience. Because you were poor in Milwaukee and feel just fine doesn’t mean that the experience wasn’t deeply damaging to the next person (and vice versa). And since you have never experienced poverty in New York City or Milwaukee or anywhere else, how can you accurately tell me how I felt? And why are you interested in distancing yourself from me by ‘otherizing’ my poverty?

I'm really concerned that there are people who believe that if poverty doesn’t happen in the Marcy Housing Projects of Bedford Stuyvesant as outlined in a Jay Z song then poverty has to be outright denied, tempered down, or seen as some victorious hazing exercise. But I didn’t grow up in Marcy, I grew up in Milwaukee. There were not a lot of rap songs helping me cope with that. And I didn’t feel strong, or proud, or tough, I just felt hurt. I was hurt that I had to see my brother’s face lay bare on the concrete with a police’s gun pressed on his cheek. I was hurt that my mother worked relentless hours and couldn’t make ends meet. I was hurt that I couldn’t afford college application fees. I was hurt when I saw empty refrigerators, broken stoves, broke down cars, and empty food stamp books. 

Comparing Milwaukee to New York City, doesn’t elevate Milwaukee in any way.  Comparing the poverty people face in Milwaukee by using stereotypes of New York City compromises the real, valid, and equally as disastrous conditions people face in Milwaukee each and everyday. Milwaukee doesn’t have to be some fantasy oasis in order for us to actually see poor people walking down North Avenue.  I get it: Reading about poverty doesn’t elicit happy thoughts from people. Hearing that your hometown is not Pleasantville, is probably astonishing to people who are oblivious to it. But we can’t continue to be ashamed to name it.  We can’t continue to deny it exists on a sizable scale.  We can’t continue to think that people in Milwaukee are accidentally and only temporarily poor while people in New York City are institutionally and permanently poor. It’s called denial.

How do we move past polarization and comparison? How do shift the conversation past individual responsibility and geographical uniqueness to collective accountability? How can we all meaningfully contribute to a productive conversation (and then action) about addressing poverty if we are disillusion to poverty in our own backyards? 

 I guess we just say it.

This isn’t the Poverty Olympics. Nobody’s city wins by making another look bad. Poverty is just as merciless in well-known cities as well as in historically underrepresented cities like Milwaukee. Don’t be a poverty denier. It’s time we give a voice to the voiceless.