One of the most damaging narratives that has proven to be false is that Black men are disproportionately uninvolved in their children’s lives. My own life is a testimony of Black men’s capacity to love and pour into the next generation. From my grandfathers, my dad, and my uncles, I have not faced any lack of Black men showing love in the unique ways that Black men show love to boys on the journey to manhood. This form of love is often rougher than the form we receive from women caregivers, but it is the type of love that is instructive and preparatory.
Right now, my recollections of the love and wisdom that my father figures have blessed me with is shadowed by a deep sense of loss. I can no longer pick up the phone and hear many of their voices. Too many have passed on to the next realm, veiled from the senses that we use in this realm. You don’t think you’ll miss the numerous voicemails, the sports arguments, the attempts to put in your place when you’re a grown ass man, but, you will.
Deep grief is the other side of deep love, there is no way around it. And time does this thing to relationships between men and their father figures that is too intricate and deep to explain here, but the feel of it is an abiding understanding of this world as it is and the sense that not much needs to be said. It can feel funny on the outside looking in, but those that are in it, get it. Despite feeling how I feel in this period of loss, I feel a renewed responsibility to pour into those younger than myself in the same way that my OGs poured into me.
The present moment seems to be an especially critical time for Black men to keep the love flowing to the boys and young men who have yet to see what we’ve seen or experience what we have experienced. Love is not about perfection, it is simply about caring enough to make an effort. Little by little, day by day, I plan to step it up as a way of honoring the men I dearly miss. As I gain momentum on this front, hopefully, some of this hurt will fade.