Surreality Bites

Something odd happened the other day. Well, a lot of odd things have happened in my life, lately. Below is one of the latest.

Quick background for those that are just tuning in:

My dad and I have no relationship. We've not spoken in about two and a half years and before that short period of communication, it'd been about two years. And so on. And so on. One strangely ironic reason that we have no relationship (i.e. can't even have a 5-minute conversation) is due to my father's insecurity over the fact that he wasn't there for much of my life, for various reasons. At different times over the past several years, he has taken in a couple of young people that he claims as his children (we'll leave it at that). I've met them on and off since they were babies, but we don't really have a relationship, either. One of them, an 18-year-old we'll call "R," lives with my dad, now. I think Pops sees this as his second (/last) chance to be a "real" father.

We now return to our regularly-scheduled program.

So, I was checking something out on the laptop one evening when my phone rang. I looked at the screen and saw the name of my half-step-brother-kinda-sorta, R.

R and I are cool enough with each other. We don't talk often, but we call or text each other once every six months or so. That said, I was shocked as shit to hear from him - especially since I'd been thinking about him and my Pops over the past week or so.

I answered the phone and we did the quick greetings and howyoudoin's when he threw me a curveball in response to my "How're you doing?"

"Not so good."

Shit. A ton of possibilities zipped through my poor brain in the 1.76 seconds following his reply. The one that endured the most was one of my fears - that my Pops would die or something and, because of our lack of a relationship, I wouldn't find out until it was too late.

Luckily, it was nothing so dramatic. R told me that he and my dad hadn't been getting along all that well. (Although, when I say that back to him, he downplays it, as if it's not that bad.)

Anyway, he shocks me some more by more or less telling on himself. He's not saying that my our father is difficult (which Pops most #$T#! DEFINITELY is!). No.

R is saying that the problem is his own behavior. He says he lies and procrastinates and disobeys and he needs to start doing better. He placed zero blame on my our father.

He goes on explaining how he's not doing what he's supposed to do and I have to ask him the obvious, "If you know what you're supposed to do and you want to do it, what's stopping you from doing it?"

He didn't have an answer for that, which left us both in mild fugue state, trying to figure out where to go from there. I recovered first:

"I'm going to tell you an old joke. Now, I'm not trying to make you laugh, so don't think that. I'm just using a joke to illustrate my point:

A man walks into a doctor's office. The doctor says, 'What seems to be the problem?'
The man says, 'Well, Doc, I really need your help. It really hurts whenever I turn my head like this. Ow!'

The doctor replies, 'Well, stop turning your head like that.'

'. . .'

'That'll be fifty bucks.'"

The point of that story as well as much of what I said to him for the next 45 minutes or so, was that his actions, his reputation, and his life are largely in his own hands. I wanted him to know that he has more control than he might think.

"Ultimately, it comes down to what kind of man you want to be," I told him. I told him that to get from point A to point B requires effort and commitment along with the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other. Baby steps, even.

I'm not sure if this made a dent, but I hoped it would at least make him feel better. I had to remind myself of a lesson I've learned and forgotten many times before: Sometimes, it's not what you say so much as the fact that you cared enough to say it.

I asked him what kind of man he didn't want to be and he laid that out pretty well. I told him that most men who possess the negative traits he described, used to be 18-year-olds just like him. (Or is he 17?) And at that age, I'm sure none of them planned to be an undependable, lying, rotten so-and-so... well, not most of'em, anyway. Yet they ended up there regardless.

I asked him a question, "You know the difference between them and you?"

"No."

"The difference is that you've got me... and your dad... and the rest of your family and friends, along with the desire and the ability to do better than you've done before." Or something like that."

Eventually, I gave it a rest because it was hard to know, from his feedback, whether any of it was doing any good. I figured that I'd done about all I could for the evening and I told him to feel free to call me again whenever he liked.

I also recommended talking to other people he trusted, including his pastor - not to mention good old-fashioned prayer. It may not be my thing, but it's his and that means something.

I don't know if I can relate it properly, but this whole thing was insanely Twilight Zone-ish. For a variety of reasons:

1) I don't know why he'd turn to me for advice. He never has before and I don't know why he'd think enough of me to consider me. (Not a put-down of myself but an acknowledgment of our limited interaction.)

2) My Pops can be sneaky. I've long suspected that he's told R to call me, but to pretend that he did it on his own, so that my dad could find out something about me or promote interaction between the young man and me.

3) I've never known a young person to come to someone saying he's a problem and wants to stop doing bad things - especially when those bad things have nothing to do with anything big like crime, drugs, or sexuality.

The delivery and content seemed so artificial (and similar to my Pops' past comments) that I had a hard time believing they were genuine. At the same time, I realized that I could be wrong. That's why I treated him like he was dead serious.

Besides, he may not have been telling me the whole story. That's why I threw in some stuff about sex and drugs and crime in there. Just in case.


If this is all rather hard to swallow, imagine a co-worker of yours - one that you're not all that close to, but you've met his/her family at various time throughout your tenure. Now imagine that co-worker's kid, whom you've only met a handful of times, calls you up asking for advice about what kind of detergent to use on his clothes.

This isn't quite that, but it's a good example of how out-of-the-blue and .... just surreal... the whole thing was, for me.

♪ "La Di Da Di, We Gots t'Potty" ♫

"African-American Dad's" recent post, "FORGET RAPPERS, LET’S GO AFTER PUBLIC BATHROOM DESIGNERS!," reminded me of an experience from 10+ years, ago.

We were having a family reunion at a park in Pensacola, Florida and folks came in from across the country. This was one of those reunions where you find yourself meeting family members for the first time.

Well, my cousin was having a conversation with someone (probably one of the "new" family members) when her son said he needed to hit the park restroom. To give her a break, I stepped in and said I'd take him.

It wasn't until we got into the restroom that I thought to ask just how... involved I'd need to be in the process... and which "process" he had in-mind. Luckily, it was just a #1.

To avoid any unnecessarily awkward moments, I asked him, "Can you do it by yourself?"
"Uh-huh."

Cool!

Unfortunately, his business end wasn't high enough to reach the toilet, so, after dropping trow, he needed me to hold him in the air while he relieved himself. This took both of my hands, so it was a good thing he could handle the rest by himself, right? RIGHT?!

*sigh*

I held him up in the air and that boy started pissin' EVERYwhere.

"Aim it! Point it at the toilet!"

No dice.

I was NOT prepared to try to "aim" him in any way except using his entire body. We had limited success with that approach, but at least his clothing stayed dry.

I think I may have told him to "shake it"* before pulling up his clothes and beating feet outta there before someone found the mess.

So, yeah. I think "AAD" may be onto something.






* - For those that don't know (like a young mother I knew back when), males do/should "shake" their goodies, maybe even going so far as to squeeze it like a tube of toothpaste. Why? Well, have you ever finished using a garden hose, then picked it up only to have water unexpectedly pour or drizzle out of it and onto you? Okay, imagine that garden hose is a man-hose and imagine that water is piss. Better to make sure it's completely empty or you'll have the pissiest drawers in town.

Not a nigger after all.

The other day, I remembered something from when I was young enough that someone else combed my hair. Not a HUGE moment, I just felt like sharing it.

My aunt was combing my hair and I guess it wasn't cooperating. She said something in-frustration, which lead to the following exchange:

"This hair is actin' so niggerish!"

"I guess it has to since it belongs to one.”

“Your hair belongs to what?”

“Me. A nigger.”

“No, baby. You’re not a nigger.”

That was news to me.


I guess that's one of the side-effects of Black families casually tossing that word around.

Young Blue Eyes

Long-time readers know I loves me some babies.

By way of Xiasuko: Linky.

Childhood Vows

In a way, when I was a child, adults were the enemy.

They were often brutish dictators, barking orders and administering punishment born of mood and whim, as opposed to justice or reason.

I observed a lot of this in silence, serving "yes, ma'am's" and "no, sir's" almost religiously. Yet, I kept mental notes of the many mean or unjust (from my perspective) things that "the grown-ups" did and vowing that *I* would never, ever be one of *them*.

As far as I was concerned, adults were traitors who, allegedly, USED to be children. Yet, somehow, they seemed to have forgotten or ignored the many difficulties of being younger, smaller, weaker, and meeker. The way I saw it, IF it was true that adults really DID used to be children, then they probably suffered under similarly tyrannical rule... yet somehow they didn't choose to make things better, for the rest of us. Instead, they converted and left the rest of us to fend for ourselves.

"If this happened with their generation, it might happen to mine," I reasoned.

Maybe so, but it wouldn't happen to me.

I decided I wouldn't ignore children or tell them to shut up or deny them the right to ask "why" (within reason) or be mean or be so quick to spank or participate in so many other ways that adults abused their power.

Now, I'm beyond the "young adult" stage in which many claim to be "grown," but aren't quite sure they've earned the title. (Actually, putting it like that makes me want to back-peddle.) So, I wonder if I've kept my promise to the little boy I used to be.

I wonder if I've allowed or even provided children with the voice that had, historically, been denied them.

I haven't had any kids of my own, so, in some ways, it's too soon to tell. Judging by my interaction with other people's children (my cousins, etc.), I've honored the spirit of my childhood promise, if not the letter.

• I try to listen to children, even when it's sometimes inconvenient.
• I try to treat youth as people with a sense of dignity.
• I try to acknowledge the possibility that kids know more we assume.
  

If I'm going to exhibit that Michael May level of honesty, though, I have to admit that I've broken some of the promises I made to that little boy.

• I occasionally curse in front of (but not at) my mom.
• Sometimes, I do wish that children would just zip it.
• I believe in spanking a bit more than I ever thought I would.

I'm still resolving much of this, but I'm glad that I, at least, still acknowledge west3boy and the "discussions" we've had about leaving this world better than we found it - especially when it comes to the children of the world.


What about you?
Did you make any "childhood vows?" How have you done with trying to keep those promises?

Teaching Respect

On a December 8th episode of NPR's "News and Notes" program discussed so-called "Respect laws" that require "students to address teachers as 'ma'am' or 'sir.'"

Apparently, these laws are in response to the disrespectful manner in which so many young people address their elders, these days. In the case of teachers, some of these youths may be less-inclined to show the proper respect because, after all, "You ain't my Mama!"

To be fair, there are a number of very respectful, very courteous young people in this country. Unfortunately, it only takes a few bad apples to spoil the whole bunch. In this case, I'd say we're well past "a few."

In the broadcast, the commentators mentioned the fact that, as children, they weren't allowed to address their elders by their first names. Doing so had memorably unfavorable consequences.

The same was true of me. In fact, I still call many of my mother's friends "Miss" this or that.

I'm sure there's a cultural element, as well, though. After all, I don't know of too many Black families where the children can curse at their parents or call them and their friends by their first names. I can't say the same of our White friends and associates.

I don't know if this law is overkill, but I think it's well past time that we backed our education professionals up so they can effectively perform one of the most challenging jobs I can think of.

We need to work harder at teaching respect to our students so they'll work harder at respecting their teachers... and themselves.

What do you think?

To Breed or Not to Breed...

It's touchy.

When a man says he wants to have kids (outside of adoption), we're effectively saying, "I want you to go through nine months of pain and discomfort, topped off by what sounds like the most painful experience any human being can ever have."

Damn.

As a man, on the one hand, I want to have children so badly it hurts. On the other hand, I don't want my lady to have to endure or experience any of the horror stories many of us have heard, over the years.

How does one resolve these two things? Again, outside of adoption, there doesn't seem to be a way. The best we can hope for is a mate who already knows she wants to have children (badly enough to spend the better part of a year trekking through an emotional, chemical, and biological minefield.

That seems like a lot of pressure, to me.

As a girl or woman, I'd imagine you one day wake up and realize that almost everyone around you has these incredible expectations for you to live up to... or fall short of.

"Girl, I want some grandkids."
"Honey, I want a son."
"Mommy, I want a baby brother to play with."

Sheesh.

Ultimately, the decision has to be made BY the woman, FOR the woman. Like so many other decisions in life, I believe this is one that, if made for others, is likely to lead to resentment.

That is, of course, assuming she is even capable of bearing children.

Talk about a world of anxiety.

It's really strange knowing that you're one of the causes of that anxiety - because you choose to be.


And it is a choice. I don't want to adopt. Well, I might not mind adopting, but I DEFINITELY want a son or daughter of my blood, as well as of my heart.

Kinda reminds me of those nature shows where wild animals hurt each other, not out of any true sense of malice, but because it is in their nature. It is how they endure.