I started this blog in August of 2008 and I’m surprised by how fast it has grown. I have met some great blogger friends and have acquired new readers each month. For those of you who have not followed Mocha Dad from the beginning, I would like to share a list of my most popular posts so you can get an idea of my writing style and perspectives on fatherhood.
Barack Obama is the President-Elect of our country. All I can say is, “Wow!” An African-American will be the leader of the free world.
I’m glad that Obama won the way that he did. Not only did he win by a landslide, but he won in traditionally Republican states. Now no one can say that he is the African-American president or the Democratic president. This mandate gives him the authority to say the he is the president for all Americans.
As I mentioned in an earlier post, I was ambivalent about Obama and his policies, but I fully understood the significance of his candidacy. What his nomination taught us is that the nation has changed in ways that would have been unthinkable a few years ago. In 1978, when I was in third grade, I was bussed to a predominantly white magnet school. I was one this first African-American students to attend the school. When we arrived, we were greeted by protesters who made it clear that they didn’t want us there. What a difference 30 years make.
My wife and children have been utterly obsessed with Obama and his family. My wife bought bumper stickers, built slide-shows to send to her associates, and spent countless hours reading blogs and news reports. One night she came into the bedroom boiling with anger. She had just read a letter from Dr. James Dobson’s organization Focus on the Family. The letter was filled with fear-mongering, hate and misinformation. Reading this letter hurt my wife deeply because she respected Dr. Dobson and his dedication to preserving family values. She wrote her own letter in defense of Obama and sent it to Dr. Dobson to express her displeasure at his inflammatory comments. After the election results were in, she was so happy that she was close to tears.
My daughter, who has followed the campaign from the start, came home very upset one day because one of her second grade classmates called her weird because she said she was voting for Obama. She also told my wife and me that the class gasped in horror when another little girl stood up and voiced her support for Obama. Today, they will be vindicated.
Even my five year old has been proclaiming his support for Obama. He was a bit disappointed when my wife informed him that he could not actually vote because he wasn’t old enough. He said that he would vote for Obama when he turns eighteen. I didn’t have the heart to dash his dreams.
A world of possibilities has opened up for my children. Now they can aspire to be anything they want to be including president of the United States. I love the following quote because it speaks so much truth: Rosa Parks walked so Martin Luther King could walk. Martin Luther King walked so Barack Obama could run. Barack Obama ran so our children could fly.
America is the greatest country in the world. I am overjoyed that Americans were able to place their racial differences aside and usher in a new era of change. Regardless of political affiliation, every American should be proud. I know I am. God Bless America!
Stay Strong,
Mocha Dad
P.S. - My daughter, Nee, never wants to get up when my wife, K, wakes her up for school. K thought for sure that the news of Obama’s victory would cause Nee to jump out of bed.
“Wake up,” K said. “Barack Obama won. He is president.”
Nee rolled over the in bed as said, “That’s not going to make me want to get out of the bed. If you told me that you had a new doll for me, that would make me want to get out of the bed.”
I guess Obama trails Barbie among 7-year old girls.
I grew up poor. That fact became quite obvious to me when I started attending gifted schools in the wealthier areas of town. While all of the other kids had the latest fashions and the newest Atari video game systems, I had to settle for the clothes and toys that my mother could afford.
My mother was intent on breaking this cycle of poverty by making sure that I took advantage of every educational opportunity available. She could always find extra money for me to go on a field trip, attend art classes, or participate in computer camp. Her sacrifices enabled me to earn a college degree and obtain a career that allows me to live a comfortable life. Unfortunately, there aren’t enough African American parents who realize the correlation between education and poverty.
The percentage of African Americans living in poverty increased from 2000 to 2006 by an average of 0.82% per year, after having declined by an average of 1.25% per year in the 1990s. In 2006, 24% of African Americans were in poverty compared to 8% of whites.
Poverty rates were highest for families headed by single women, particularly if they were black or Hispanic. In 2004, both black and Hispanic female-headed households had poverty rates just under 40 percent.
These high poverty rates are unacceptable and should not occur in a country as wealthy as the United States. It is imperative that parents teach their children to value education and to take advantage of every opportunity to learn. It is well documented that people with a college education earn more money over their lifetime than people who do not. Education is truly the key to ending the cycle of poverty.
If you want to know what you can do to prevent poverty, start by reading a book to your child. It’s never too early to instill a love of learning.
I read several blogs each day and I’m amazed by the talent that I encounter. I recently came across a blog titled iAMrj.com. I was immediately drawn into the author’s post, “A father’s take on things that matter most.” The piece is insightful and heartfelt. It is the type of post I wish I had written for Mocha Dad. Have a look at it and let me know what you think.
Periodically, I will feature a Mocha Dad who epitomizes what it is to be a real African American father. The first father in this series is my uncle, Mose Alexander.
Uncle Mose has been one the role models in my life. As a kid, I always looked forward to his visits. I loved to listen to his stories and he loved to tell them. He earned a Purple Heart as a Marine serving in Vietnam and has visited several countries around the world. He was also a police officer which I thought was so cool.
But his greatest achievement has been raising his four children as a single father. According to the U.S. Census Bureau figures, approximately 239,000 Black families with children under the age of 18 are headed by single-parent fathers. The number of single-dads remains small when compared to those single-parent families headed by Black women, which the census puts at over 3 million.
I could write on and on about Uncle Mose’s fathering skills and the challenges that he has faced as a single father, but I don’t have to because it’s already been done.
On Mother’s Day in 1993, church elders asked Uncle Mose’s daughter, Hazel to bless the congregation with a tribute to mothers. Since there was no mother in the house, Uncle Mose was unsure about what she would say. Eleven-year-old Cousin Hazel was not. Here is the tribute that she delivered that day:
My Mom Dad
Even though you may not be a mom, you are like a mom dad to me. You do everything a mom would like. You cook for us. You even know how to do hair. You are very special in many ways - one is that you are raising Jimmy and me up in the church. That’s very important. You even take time out to do stuff with us like help me with my softball. Many fathers wouldn’t even be a mom dad like you that also makes you very special. I might not say it all the time but I really appreciate what you do for me and Jimmy. That’s why I love you very much.
Uncle Mose is currently campaigning to be the next sheriff of Brevard Country Florida because he wants to make a difference in his community. If he does half the job as sheriff as he has done raising his kids, Brevard County will be a much better place.
I am not a murderer. I have never killed anyone, nor do I intend to. But a little boy made me feel as if I should, if I am to be a real man.
I met him at a basketball court where several young ballers came to play. Running up and down the court to the rhythm of rap tracks, the men dunked and dazzled. Their intensity was high, their competitiveness fierce. No one dared step foot on the court while these playground gladiators did battle; no one except a little boy and his three friends.
The little boys scurried onto the court and began to play as if the older, bigger, stronger guys weren’t even there.
“Whose kids are these,” asked a sculpted, dunking machine who had been dominating the court. No one answered. He told the kids to move, and they did, for about a minute.
When the players ran back to the other side of the court, the rowdy pack reconvened underneath the basket. Clearly upset, the dunk master demanded that someone remove the kids. Since my team played next, I volunteered to corral them. As I gathered the kids, the dunk master glared at me as if to say, “Don’t let those kids back on the court, or else.” He returned to his game and immediately punctuated his threat with a rim-shaking tomahawk dunk. I ignored his posturing and focused on the kids who were clamoring around to interrogate me.
Their first few questions such as, “What’s your name?” and “How old are you?” were typical of children with curious minds. These questions were easy. The ones from that one particular boy, however, were much tougher.
His first question was, “Are you a man?”
“Yes,” I proudly proclaimed. “I am a man.”
The little boy’s demeanor turned serious as he gazed into my eyes and asked, “Have you ever killed anyone?” I hesitated for a second to process what I had just heard. Was he serious? What would make him ask such an unusual question? Surely I did not look like a killer, at least I hope not.
Finally regaining my composure, I answered, “No, I’ve never killed anyone.”
“Then how can you be a man if you’ve never killed anyone?” My heart dropped. I tried to respond, but my voice failed me. I stood frozen staring into his innocent-looking brown eyes searching for an answer to his dark question. What must he have seen in his short life that made him equate manhood with murder?
The little boy did not wait for my answer; instead, he darted off to play on the swings with his playmates. I watched that little boy swing until my vision became blurry. If not for my teammate hitting me on the calf with the basketball I would still be standing there.
“What’s wrong with you?” my friend asked. “It’s our turn to play.”
“I don’t feel like playing,” I said still staring at the little boy, who was now running down the street.
This event occurred over a decade ago; however, it still haunts me, especially now that I have boys of my own. What are we teaching our children about black manhood? Is being a criminal the only thing little African American boys have to look forward to?
The answer is obviously “no,” but it will take a concerted effort by African American fathers across the country if we are to change perceptions about black men and demonstrate true manhood to our children. Our young men are coming of age in an increasingly violent society, but instead of shunning the violence, they seem to embrace it. This is why it is critical for young black males to have positive role models whom they can emulate and respect so they can learn to express themselves and solve conflicts without violence. Dads have to be those role models.
Raising boys is hard work, but well worth the effort. I look forward to the day when someone asks my sons if they are men, and they can answer, “Yes I am a man! Just like my daddy.”
I have not seen that little boy since that fateful day, but I wish I could so I could tell him that he doesn’t have to be a murderer to be a man. I pray it’s not too late.
I promised that I would not write about Barack Obama unless he won the election. My daughter made me break my promise. She is only seven, but she is obsessed with Obama. She constantly asks about him, former presidents, and the U.S. election process.
Her obsession began last year when my wife bought her the book, Barack Obama: An American Story. When she first received the book, she could hardly pronounce his name. Now she laments the fact that she cannot vote for Obama because she is too young.
A few days ago, I brought home the September 2008 issue of Essence Magazine for my wife, but my daughter intercepted it and began tearing through the pages until she reached the Obama article. She spends countless hours pouring over the pictures and words. Obama’s daughters, Malia and Sasha, are her role models. She especially loves Sasha because they are the same age, are missing the same teeth and likes the same activities.
“Look how fancy they are,” she said marveling at the girls’ dresses. “I wonder if they are always that fancy?
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Do you think Sasha goes to school?” she asked.
“Of course they do,” I replied.
“She’s probably in second grade just like me,” she said.
“Probably,” I said.
“If Obama wins, they will live in the White House,” she said. “I wonder what’s it’s like to live in a mansion?” Her eyes glazed over in starry-eyed amazement.
She goes on and on like this all the time. She is fascinated by the fact that these girls, who look like her, could possibly live in the White House, but more importantly that their daddy could be president.
Before I go any further, I must disclose that I am not a gung-ho Obama supporter. I have some fundamental problems with his policies and his tendency to flip-flop on issues. He started out as a ray of hope, but has turned into another politician. Regardless of how I feel about him personally, I cannot deny the impact that his presidency could have on the African American community.
It has often been said that, in America, the land of opportunity, any child could grow up to be president. But children of color had a hard time believing this statement when they saw the faces of previous U.S. presidents. Now, maybe for the first time, they have reason to believe it. Obama has inspired young African Americans to succeed and to become involved in the political process. I must admit that it is good to see an African American role model who is not a rapper or an athlete.
So on Thursday night (the anniversary of Dr. Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech), I watched Obama’s historic acceptance speech with my family. Eighty thousand people showed up to see a black man who was scoring a touchdown or dunking a basketball. They came to see a black man who could possibly be the leader of the free world. Wow!
Despite my political leaning, I was impressed and inspired by Obama’s speech. My children needed to see him deliver such a strong message. He has enhanced their pride and given them a new realm of possibilities.
He has also encouraged me by actively demonstrating black fatherhood on a national stage. Like me, Obama grew up without his father, and he made it, just like I did. Because of this experience, we have both chosen to be actively engaged in our children’s lives.
On Father’s Day, Obama told a church of God in Chicago that “we need fathers to realize that responsibility doesn’t just end at conception.” He went on, “That does not make you a father. What makes you a man is not the ability to have a child. Any fool can have a child. It’s the courage to raise a child that makes you a father.”
Obama has renewed my courage, and even if I chose to not vote for him in November, his candidacy has made a difference in my life. But more importantly, he has inspired hope in African American children and voters across the country. And isn’t that the mark of a true leader?
I read that Olympic swimmer Michael Phelps eats an estimated 12,000 calories per day. Even with this large consumption of food, Phelps has a hard time gaining weight because of his intense training schedule and super metabolism.
I remember those days when I could eat anything and not gain a pound. I didn’t gain my freshman 15 until I was out of college and only because I started lifting weights heavily. But when I reached my 30s, the fairytale was over. Work, family and other commitments kept me from the gym and years of office work and expense account meals helped to expand my waistband. Today if I were to eat as many calories as Michael Phelps does, I would have to have my own zip code.
I was in denial about the amount of weight I was gaining. Sure, I had to go up one pant size, but I chalked it up designer’s cutting their clothes differently. Of course, I got the snide remarks from family members about how fat I was getting (ya gotta love family), but I ignored them by rationalizing that they were just used to seeing me very thin.
I had gotten so lethargic that I wouldn’t even play with the kids in the backyard no matter how much they begged. It took two events to make me do something about my personal fitness and weight.
The first was when I ran into a colleague, whom I had not seen in over a decade. I said hello and he stared at me blankly. When my face finally registered, he said that he didn’t recognize me because I had gained so much weight. I was shocked. The next motivator was my 20-Year high school class reunion. In high school, I weighed 125 lbs soaking wet. I had to look my best when I walked in the door.
To start the weight loss process, I stepped on the scale with much fear and trepidation. When I looked down, it read 188 lbs. I couldn’t believe it. I convinced myself that the scale was wrong. A subsequent weigh-in at the YMCA proved that it was right.
I immediately changed the way I ate, no more fried foods or sodas, and kept an online food journal. I know that the journal sounds a little anal retentive (my wife calls me the food Nazi), but it kept me on track by keeping me informed on where my calories were coming from. I also started exercising again. It was painful at first and I hated every bit of it. After a few weeks, the workouts became easier and I looked forward to them.
So far, I have lost, and kept off, 20 lbs. I won’t burden you with my before and after photos (although, I am really tempted to take off my shirt and show off my new bod). Suffice it to say that I am fitter and stronger than I have been in a long time. The BMI chart says that I should lose about 15 more pounds. That’s not gonna happen. As long as I can remain between 165-170 lbs, I’m good.
I’m pleased that Dr. Ian along with Allstate started the 50 Million Pound Challenge in order to tackle obesity in our community. It’s a serious problem that is causing African Americans to suffer from high blood pressure, heart disease, and diabetes at alarming rates.
If you’ve been considering losing weight, I encourage you to go for it. Let me warn you that it won’t be easy. There will be several occasions when you’ll be tempted to revert to your old ways; however, when you start to see the numbers on the scale go backwards, you will feel more energized and committed. And when you finally reach your target, you will wonder why you didn’t do it sooner. I certainly did.
Now instead of sitting on the couch with the remote in my hand, I spend evenings practicing soccer with my son, jumping rope with my daughter, or playing “Tag” with the both of them. No begging necessary.
After watching the Dark Knight (best Batman movie ever), I felt compelled to Google Morgan Freeman. When the results came up, I was pleasantly surprised to see some videos of his character, “Easy Reader” from “The Electric Company.” For those of you too young to remember “The Electric Company,” it was an educational television show on PBS. I thought of it as an edgier version of Sesame Street.
I couldn’t wait to see “The Electric Company” each day after school. The Easy Reader and Spider-Man segments were always my favorites. I loved Spider-Man because I am a comic book geek. Easy reader appealed to me because he reminded me of myself - a black male who loved words and reading. His soul brother persona was a bit over the top, but I didn’t mind at the time. It was the seventies after all.
So check out Easy Reader struttin’ his stuff. “Easy Reader, that’s his name, umm umm-umm! Readin’ Readin’, that’s his game, umm, umm-umm!”
As I mentioned in the previous post, we celebrated X’s birthday with cupcakes. Well, the next day, we decided to have the rest of the cupcakes for desert. My daughter, Nee, got a cupcake out of the container, but dropped it on the floor on the way to the table. I told her to throw it away and get another (the 5-second rule is a myth according to Food Detectives).
When everyone was served and finished eating their cupcake, we proceeded into the living room where I placed X on the floor and myself on the couch. X loves to walk into the kitchen and push the trash can around the island. As expected, he latched on to the can and began his trek around the kitchen. Let me state for the record that I do not condone this activity, but sometimes it’s easier to allow him to do it than it is to get up off the couch.
After one loop, he usually makes his way into the living room, but this time he did not. In fact, he stopped pushing the can and got quiet. Parents know that bad things are happening when children are too quiet. As I prepared to investigate, I heard Nee yell, “No, X!” When I arrived in the kitchen, Nee was wrestling her discarded cupcake out of X’s hand. This task proved to be more difficult than Nee realized. X would not be denied and tightened his grip on the tasty treat. He was able to stuff a few more sweet morsels into his frosting covered mouth before his sister could overpower him and retrieve the cupcake.
X let out an ear-piercing cry and made one last attempt at the cupcake. I swooped in and carried him to the bathroom where I could clean his face, hands, hair, clothes and feet. It was important that I removed all evidence of “The Cupcake Incident” before my wife returned home from swimming lessons. I felt like Jules and Vincent from Pulp Fiction and really need The Wolf’s assistance.
The problem I had was Nee. I knew that she would not be a complicit accomplice. Telling her something is like pouring water in a sieve. But it was late and I figured that she would be too tired to tell her mommy about what happened.
Boy was I wrong!
K could hardly get inside the door before Nee gave me up. I tried to keep her quiet, but this time she was the one who would not be denied.
“X ate a cupcake out of the garbage,” she said with a smirk on her face.
“He did what?” K asked as she shot me a look.
“You know how he is about cupcakes,” I replied. “He didn’t want it to go to waste.” K just shook her head and smiled. Maybe I didn’t need The Wolf after all.
I just celebrated my son’s first Birthday. We commemorated the occasion with party hats and cupcakes. I watched with fatherly pride as he two-fisted his cupcake into his mouth as icing covered nearly every part of his body. All I could think was “my baby is growing up.”
My wife, K, and I never really expected to have a third child. We had one daughter and one son. We were good on kids. But God has a way of making the best laid plans of mice and men go awry.
K and a few friends were chatting one day when the subject of having more children came up. She and another woman were quite vocal in their assertion that they would never have any more children. Absolutely not! No Way! I know God had to be laughing as the words spewed from their mouths. Three months later, they both had to confess to their group that they were in the family way.
When K first informed me of the pregnancy, I felt joy and apprehension. As I smiled and embraced my wife, I also calculated college costs for three children in my head. Two kids are expensive, but three? Yikes! A friend of mine once told me that going from one child to two children is difficult. Going from two children to three, however, is much easier. I took his words to heart and started to prepare myself mentally and emotionally for baby number three.
Like most dads, I was quite pleased when I found out that we were having another son. Now I could easily put together a team for a three-on-three hoop match. On the other hand, I was a bit nervous because I would have the difficult task of guiding two African-American boys to manhood. But God knew what He was doing when he placed them in my care. With His help and guidance, I know that I’ll be up to the task.
X has brought so much joy to my life in the year that I have known him. His smile can brighten a room and I’m constantly amazed by his ingenuity. He simply will not by denied and will continue working on a task until he has it mastered. Just today, he demonstrated his skill with the remote control. I was impressed by his behind the back channel changing technique.
And even when he’s crying, waking at odd hours, or breaking my external hard drive, he can make everything alright by just saying “da da” in his cute, little baby voice.
Happy Birthday, X. I hope you have many more. Daddy loves you!
I just witnessed my son’s taking his first steps. He stumbled and fell on the first few attempts. Then suddenly, he stood, balanced himself, and managed to wobble across the floor. As he walked and giggled, my heart filled with joy and trepidation.
My son will take many more steps in his life. I will get to witness some of them such as when he walks across the stage for graduations or when he walks down the aisle at his wedding. However, many of the steps that he takes will be on his own. And quite frankly that frightens me.
The roads of life can be quite perilous for an African-American male. There are many detours and side paths that can lead to destruction. The path to righteousness is narrow and sometimes difficult to navigate. But I take comfort in the fact, that I made it. And if I can make it, I can surely guide my son on his journey.
One of the books that I love is Alice in Wonderland, and the following quote from the story is one of my favorites:
Alice came to a fork in the road. “Which road do I take?” she asked.
“Where do you want to go?” responded the Cheshire cat.
“I don’t know,” Alice answered.
“Then,” said the cat, “it doesn’t matter.”
Too many American-American males are stumbling through life with no direction or purpose. When they reach crucial decision points, they often choose the wrong road. Through my teaching and example, I plan to prepare my son for the moments when he reaches those forks in the road so he will confidently know where he wants to go.
I’m sure that he will stumble and fall many times during his life. But if I do my job right, his roads will be a lot less bumpy than mine were, and he will have the confidence to keep on walking despite the obstacles. And that’s all any father can hope for.
Like many men, I am colorblind. Therefore, I’m always asking my wife and my daughter the color of things. Tonight, as I was separating the laundry, I asked my daughter if an item of clothing was white. “It’s pink, Daddy,” she replied with exasperation, “You should really learn your colors.” I guess it’s time to pull out my crayons.
Yesterday my wife and I took our daughter to her first day of second grade. She had been looking forward to this day for a long time and was very excited. After negotiating the first day of the car pool line, we managed to get into the school’s parking lot. As we searched for a parking space, my daughter asked, “What are you doing?” My wife responded, “We’re parking so we can take you to your classroom.”
A look of horror came across her face. “No,” she responded. “Just drop me off. I’ll go in by myself.” And with that proclamation, Nee let us know that she was independent. We stopped the van to let her out and watched as she ran to the gym to meet her new teacher and classmates. Of course you know that the story doesn’t end there. I took off work to take her to school, so I was determined to do so. We parked and sneaked to her classroom before the class arrived. When we got there, several other parents were already waiting to greet their little darlings. I was glad to see several other fathers. Our numbers did not come close to the number of mothers, but we made a respectable showing.
When Nia walked into the classroom, she was surprised to see us. I was surprised that there were two other African American girls in her class. As I mentioned before, Nee attends a private school, so I was glad to see that the school is becoming more diverse.
After meeting Nee’s teacher and visiting with a few of the other parents, I took a few pictures to document the day, and gave Nee a pep talk and a kiss good-bye. We walked away happy to see our little girl was settling into her first day of second grade.
Getting to this first day of school was not without drama. All summer, Nee and my wife fretted over which class Nee would be placed in and which of her friends would be in class with her. Each night, Nee prayed that her best friend would be in her class. My wife and I prayed that Nee would be placed with the best teacher for her. Of course, my wife had her own idea of who she thought was the best teacher, but we prayed nonetheless.
The class lists are sent out each year during the first week of August. As you can imagine, anticipation began to swell by the last week of July. My wife was at the mailbox everyday until that letter finally showed up. When she opened it, the look on her face told me that things didn’t work out the way she wanted them to. Nee was not placed in the preferred teacher’s class and to make things worse, Nee’s friend would not be in class with her either.
My wife was crushed and I knew that Nee would be even more devastated. The only thing I thought about was that Nee would believe that God doesn’t answer her prayers. The last time she prayed with such fervency was when my wife was pregnant with our third child. Nee already had a brother and she desperately wanted a little sister. When she found out that we were having a boy, she was inconsolable for at least 10 minutes. She has finally warmed up to her baby brother and loves him to death, but I knew that explaining God’s ways to her would be more difficult this time.
As expected, Nee burst into tears when she saw the list. She tried to throw the paper in the garbage as if that would make things better. The first thing out of her mouth was that God never answers her prayers. I hated to see my little princesses hurting like this and I didn’t know if I could say anything that would make her feel better and not lose her faith in God.
When she had calmed down, I explained to her that God doesn’t always answer her prayers the way the she expects Him to. I told her that there was a reason for God’s placing her and her friend in different classes. Perhaps, God wanted her to make friends with a new girl, or maybe He had a separate plan for her friend. I continued by letting her know that Daddy doesn’t understand why God arranged things the way that He did, but it is important that she has faith that God did the right thing. I could tell that she was still disappointed, but my talk seemed to help a little.
On the day before classes started, the school held an open house for parents and students to see their new classrooms and to meet the teacher. This is where Nee found out that God does indeed work in mysterious ways. This year, the school moved to a team teaching concept for the elementary grades. Therefore, Nee would be taught by the teacher that her mother desired. More importantly, she will be able to spend time with her best friend throughout the school day. Praise God!
Last night before bed, I read Hebrews 11:1 to Nee. It states: Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. Because of here experiences in the past couple of weeks, Nee finally understood the meaning of this simple, yet complex verse.
For me, the start of the school year turned out to be an exercise in faith and sort of an emotional roller coaster. With a start like this, I’m looking forward to the rest of the year.
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