Little Black Boys

Having been a little black boy, I somehow always thought it'd be second nature to understand one entrusted to my care.

I was wrong.

The little black boy in the picture is Mercer, my son.

Until now, I've made a point of keeping him out of the spotlight. Welcome to life as the son of a journalist/blogger, son.

Let's start with a few obvious truths that need to be on the table.

I am absolutely in love with my little boy. I adore many things about him; the way he thinks and forces me to join him, the way he learns new things and tries immediately to apply them, the way he reminds me of myself in his actions and idiosyncrasies, and the way I can comprehend some of what's happening in his mind without him having to say a word--a byproduct of his having my DNA swimming through his every molecule.

But there is a part of him that hearkens Mr. Gibran's words to my frontal lobe:

"Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you."


There are aspects of this particular little black boy that completely and utterly confound me. Primarily they are related to his startling ability and willingness to sniff out uncertainty, fear, or indecisiveness.

He views these as flaws to be ruthlessly and mercilessly punished with an explosive rage that catches most people completely off guard, and causes him to be endlessly punished in return. At five years old, he's been suspended, expelled, grounded, time-outed to to futility, and even spanked.

The trouble is that I've never witnessed the bad behavior.

With Dad, he's a polite, curious, energetic, completely likable four-year old.

Which isn't to say that I disbelieve the growing cadre of teachers, counselors, and relatives who've found themselves on his bad side.

It's hard to doubt the 19 year old day camp counselor who lasted less than a morning before making the frantic call to have my little black boy picked up. Harder still when confronted with her armful of scratches and bruises that my four-year old admits causing.

Its hard to question the veteran Kindergarten teacher who insists that his disruptive behavior makes it impossible to teach the rest of a class, and wants to make notes on his "permanent record." As if anything that a four-year old does should be considered eternal.

And it would be hardest to question his mother--who is at wits end with coming up on the short stick of his blowups.

In keeping with my tradition of not pretending to be the good guy, I admit to a host of mistakes and imperfections with respect to how I've handled the situation.

I've been far from perfect.

I'm part of that 75% crowd in my generation. We who have children out of wedlock to varying degrees of disaster.

While I'm not as convinced as some that marriage is the ideal solution to every (or even most) problems ... I don't have a better idea ready to put on the table.

I'm also not willing to get married just for its own (or HIS) sake.

I AM willing to apply my best fatherhood efforts to the problem. I'm not absent, I pay my ridiculous child support payments on time, and throw as much money at the ever-present unexpecteds as I can afford.

But that's not even the tip of the iceberg.

It shows up when I start to wonder about the outcome of my little black boy's rage.

While Merc is no statistic, there are enough of those to make me concerned.

I am aware that by the numbers, the odds are significant that my little black boy is VERY likely to be arrested, indicted, prosecuted, convicted, and incarcerated at some point during the course of his life.

His numbers go UP when I throw other kids in the mix.

If the numbers can be believed, he is likely to be surrounded by poverty, a share of illiteracy, crime, drug abuse, and more likely to die at the hands of violence than natural causes.

And that's WITH my guidance and help.

My career, interests, and experiences have sent me to many of the places where little black boys statistically end up. When I find myself talking to these men, I'm usually left with more questions than answers.

As little black boys, did their daddies ever answer their questions about car engines?

Were there any daddies around to even hear the questions?

Did they have library cards? Make trips to the local fire station to pepper the volunteers with questions about the job? Have a conversation with a police officer where THEY got to ask the questions?

Inevitably, I'm left with more questions than answers. In a newspaper column, or sitcom, I'd have my answer in half an hour.

But this is my life.

And if I can't find the source of the rage, or a solution that allows me some modicum of comfort when I leave my little black boy in a room without me, my answer may take a bit longer to find.

Peace,

--Stew.