Last week I attended the funeral of my friend Martin’s father, Andrew L. Jefferson Jr. He was the first black state district judge in Texas largest county. His legal career took him from receiving his Law Degree from the University of Texas law school in the 1950s before the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 (he was the only black in his class), to judgeships of local civil and criminal courts, to the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Fifth Circuit in New Orleans.
At the funeral, scores of lawyers, judges, and politicians waxed poetic about Judge Jefferson’s many accomplishments. Every black lawyer in Texas owed a debt to him because he paved the way for them to enjoy the opportunities that they have today. I marveled at how reverently everyone spoke of him. But what surprised me the most was that I didn’t know what a legal giant Judge Jefferson was. To me, he was just Martin’s dad and that is what I admired about him.
I remember going to Martin’s house to watch Mike Tyson fights when we were in high school and college. Judge Jefferson, or Jeff as we called him, would smoke his cigar and relax while the rest of us were hyper over the match. He always had a calm confidence about him and never missed an opportunity to impart some wisdom. He often gave us young men this advice: “If you can’t explain it to your mama, don’t do it.”
After our college graduation ceremony, he took us to one of DC’s top-notch restaurant and bought us a bottle of Dom Pérignon. He did this to teach us that the finer things in life were within our reach as long as we worked hard and persevered.
Despite the demands of his job, he rarely brought work home because he wanted to spend that time totally devoted to his family.
“Everyone around town knows him as one of the great lawyers in the city, but he was my dad,” my friend Martin said in an interview with the Houston Chronicle. “That was what was so important. I loved him very much.”
As much as I was impressed by Judge Jefferson’s professional accomplishments, I was more impressed by his accomplishments as a father.
Stay Strong,
Mocha Dad
Question: Have you known anyone who was “just a dad” despite their fame or accomplishments?
My wife and I always encourage our children to help others. We model the behavior by serving in our church, volunteering at the homeless shelter, or delivering meals to people who cannot leave their homes. We also like introduce them to other people who make service a priority.
One evening, we invited a missionary to our house to talk to the kids about her experiences in China. They were so excited because they had never met a real life missionary before. My five-year-old son, N, was beside himself with anticipation.
The missionary’s name is Christine and she works for Campus Crusade for Christ. As she shared this information with us, N, interrupted.
“May I ask you a question,” he asked.
“Of course,” she answered.
“Did you vote for Barack Obama?”
“No,” she replied with a surprised look on her face. “I voted for John McCain. Did you vote for Obama?”
He looked at her as if she were crazy and said, “Of course not. I’m too young to vote.”
We took a seat in the living room and Christine proceeded to tell the kids about her work. A few minutes into her talk, she pulled out a book to share some photographs. N interjected again.
“Is this the part where we give you money?”
Christine chuckled and continued with her presentation. N kept interrupting her with questions. It really bothered him that some of the pages in the album did not have photographs on them. N told Christine that she needed to fix that. Meanwhile my daughter, Nee, sat as quietly as a church mouse and only opened her mouth to ask Christine what her favorite color was.
When it was time to actually give her money, N, said, “Wait. I’ve got to get my piggy bank.” He ran upstairs and quickly returned. My wife, K, asked him if he wanted to give her a dollar. He said no.
“Two dollars,” she asked. Again he said, “No.”
“Three dollars?” He thought for a moment then replied. “Yeah that sounds about right.”
Christine felt a bit awkward about taking N’s money, but we assured her that he would have been extremely hurt if she refused. N has a heart full of love and wants to share all he has with everyone.
A few days later, we received two cards from Christine. The smaller card was address to K and me. It was a standard “thank you for contribution” card. The bigger card was for the boy. Christine wrote a treatise on how N’s generosity and curiosity touched her spirit and filled her heart with joy. When I read the part about how his donation bought a Bible for a Chinese child, N’s face beamed with pride.
What started out as a lesson on giving for the children, turned into a lesson in love for the adults.
Stay Strong,
Mocha Dad
Question: How do you teach your children to help others?
The barbershop is a great place where men (young and old, white collar or blue collar) can be men. When I say barbershop, I mean a place that has actual barbers - not stylists or manicurists. You simply cannot blow off steam and revel in your manhood while getting your nails done.
I like the camaraderie at the barbershop. Every time someone walks in the door, there is a round of fist bumps and hand slaps. We talk about politics, sports, cars, and of course women. We keep the talk clean because the owner has a strict “No Profanity” policy. There is also a lot of chest thumping, good-natured ribbing and some burping.
The cool thing about my barbershop is that, in addition to getting a haircut, you can purchase various types of merchandise. Want the latest theatrical release? Got it. Need some new Nikes? Those too. What about some Giorgio Armani cologne? Yep. Of course, the entrepreneurs are selling cheap knock-offs and bootlegs, but no one complains. Except for one barber who did complain that the “Nikes” he bought hurt his feet and fell apart within a month.
Because of my hubris, I almost missed the opportunity to share these experiences with sons.
My son, N, was born with a ton of hair on his head. As the months progressed it blossomed into a massive, curly afro. I was champing at the bit to cut his hair, but my wife, K, insisted that I wait until he turned one. On his birthday, I sat the little tyke in his chair and proceeded to get my clippers. K looked troubled as I walked past.
“Aren’t you taking him to the barbershop?” she asked.
“Of course not,” I replied. “I’m not paying $12 for a haircut when I can do it myself.” She didn’t like my answer, but she didn’t interfere with my plans. Things went downhill from there. As soon as I turned on the clippers and pointed them towards N’s head, he started screaming. I attempted to distract him with a toy, but he wasn’t taking the bait. He kept dodging his head and pushing my arm away. Every now and then, I was able to make a clean pass with the clippers. This went on for at least an hour. Finally, I gave up. Defeated by a one-year old.
When the smoke settled, N had a lot less hair on his head. It was not pretty, but it was cut and that was all that mattered to me. K, on the other hand, was mortified when she saw her darling son’s curly locks scattered across the floor.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “It’ll grow back.”
The bad thing about this situation is that I didn’t learn my lesson immediately. When N’s hair finally did grow back, I was ready to cut it again. K put her foot down this time.
“You’re not going have my baby looking crazy,” she said. “You’re taking him to the barbershop.” And I did.
I sat N in the barber’s chair and he shook his head as he looked at N’s hair. “You tried to cut it yourself didn’t you.” I sheepishly lowered my head and admitted that I did.
“It always happens like this,” he said with a chuckle. “You dads think you can cut your boys’ hair and when you realize that you’re in way over your heads, you bring them to me to clean up the mess. I don’t go to your office and try to do your job. Why does everyone think they can be a barber?”
I still haven’t learned my lesson because I recently gave my other son, X, his first haircut. By the time he turned one, his hair had grown into a freakish Mohawk style. Surprisingly, his mother asked me to cut his hair. I figured she had gotten over the trauma of my cutting N’s hair or maybe she just repressed the memory. I rushed X into my bedroom to get started before she changed her mind.
I sat him in his play pen and turned on the clippers. Amazingly, he just sat there quietly. I tentatively placed them on his head and started cutting. Still quiet. Eventually, the droning of the clippers lulled him to sleep. K came in to evaluate my work after I was done and gave me a “thumbs up.”
Even though things turned out better than expected with X’s haircut, I’ve decided to retire my clippers. Besides, going to a real barbershop is a rite of passage that all boys must experience. The twelve bucks that I pay the barber is well worth it.
I have a bad habit of not fastening my seat belt until I’ve driven a few blocks down the road. This behavior drives my five year old son nuts. Last night, he was fed up and gave me a piece of his mind.
“Daddy,” he said. “You didn’t put on your seat belt before you started driving.”
“I know, son,” I said. “But I have it on now.”
“It’s not safe to drive without a seat belt.”
“You’re right. It’s not safe.”
“In fact,” he continued with a stern voice. “It’s very dangerous.”
“That’s true,” I conceded.
“Daddy, I know it’s true because God told me.”
Whoa! He pulled out the big guns on me - personal safety tips from God. I guess I’d better buckle up as soon as I step into the car. I can deal with a ticket, but the wrath of God (and a five-year old) is more than I can handle.
Birthday parties have come a long way since I was a kid. Today, they are elaborate productions complete with themes and catered meals. Kids anticipate a party each year of their life until they reach sixteen. That’s when they expect the soiree of a lifetime. My blood boils each time I watch the spoiled brats on MTV’s “My Super Sweet 16″ con their parents into throwing opulent, six figure parties.
When I was a kid, I was lucky to have a birthday party. They consisted of a few kids packed into our living room singing “Happy Birthday” while my mother served homemade birthday cake, a carton of Neopolitan ice cream, and Hawaiian Punch. Once, mom splurged and let me have a party at McDonald’s. The McDonald’s birthday party was really big deal - my rank among my peers rose quickly as they jockeyed for an invitation. At the party, we got some goofy birthday hats, a Happy Meal, a cake, and a flimsy plastic Ronald McDonald hand puppet, but we thought we were living the high life. If I suggested this type of party to my children, they would scoff.
My son, N, had his birthday party over the weekend. His actual birthday was in September, but Hurricane Ike forced us to reschedule the party. N, suggested several venues and themes before settling on a gymnastics party with a Power Rangers theme. N, is “Mr. Popularity” so he wanted to invite everyone that he has ever known. The guest list grew so long that we had to reserve the biggest room in the place. Instead of cake and ice cream, he requested brownies and pudding (if this combination becomes a birthday trend remember where you read it first). And Papa John’s thanked us for keeping their company afloat with our pizza order.
N and his friends enjoyed running, jumping and tumbling, and the coaches we hired stoked the kids’ excitement with a few high-flying stunts. I even had fun attempting to master the gymnastics apparatus. Let me say that doing an iron cross on the still rings is not as easy as the pros make it look, especially if you’re 38 and have never had any gymnastics training. Thank God for ibuprofen.
After the party, we had an after-party at our house, where N opened his gifts and hit the piñata. The piñata requires a separate post because of all of the drama associated with it. I’ll just mention that his sister said, “If you get him a piñata that means you don’t love me.”
All in all, N had a great time and I didn’t have to declare bankruptcy. He is already planning his next party. I’m taking donations now.
The temperature has been surprisingly pleasant in Baghdad. It still gets hot during the day, but the highs are in the low 100s rather than the mid-100s. The mornings are the best time because the weather is cool and breezy. The only problem is that the breeze stirs up the dust and causes it to linger in the air. Since I’ve been in Iraq, I’ve already inhaled and ingested more sand than I believe is healthy. People who suffer from asthma or other respiratory problems must have a hard time in this area of the world.
The other day, I saw some Marines on their morning run. One of them was covered in sand and I thought that he must have fallen down. I quickly realized that he had not fallen down, but that the sand in the air was sticking to his sweat soaked body.
On the security front, things have been a bit dicey. As expected, car bombs and other attacks have increased during Ramadan as insurgents try to chip away at recent security gains that have driven violence to its lowest level in more than four years. On Sunday, September 28, two car bombs killed 13 people and wounded 37. In addition, there seems to be much turmoil as the Iraqi politicians work to make laws and establish their political process.
All of this confusion has made me really miss my family. Because of the time difference and the long hours that I work, I have not been able to talk to them as much as I would like to. My plans to use Skype and a webcam to stay in touch were nixed when I found out that I wouldn’t be able to bring my personal laptop with me.
Even worse, I’ve missed two of my son, N’s, soccer games. My wife, K, told me that he was quite the superstar in his last match. He defended several shots at goal and led his team down the field on scoring drives. K felt bad that the other dads were on the sidelines cheering their sons on while, N, only had a mommy cheering section. I felt more terrible than she did. I made these grandiose plans to never miss a game or a practice. What a difference 8,000 miles makes.
To add insult to injury, I have gained 3 pounds since I’ve been here. While the “chow” is not great, it is plentiful and the catering contractor is quite creative at making new entrees out of leftover items.
Today my wife and I took our boys for their pediatric check-ups. While we were there, the doctor asked if we had any “Mr. Yuk” stickers. I told her that we didn’t and she brought us a few to place around the house. When I looked at those stickers, memories of my childhood came flooding back. I immediately recalled the old “Mr. Yuk” commercial from the 70s. That commercial scared the crap out of me when I was a kid. The ominous “Mr. Yuk is mean. Mr. Yuk is green” followed by diabolical laughter was enough to keep me out of the medicine cabinet. “Mr. Yuk” was a bad dude and I didn’t want any part of him.
This walk down memory lane prompted me to do a YouTube search to find the commercial. I was pleased to find it and I’d like to share it with you. All of you 70s kids will be able to relate.
I showed the commercial to my kids and explained to them why they should not touch items with “Mr. Yuk” stickers. They didn’t seem as scared of “Mr. Yuk” as I was. Maybe it takes more than a green dude to frighten this generation.
My wife, K, and I were frightened a few years ago when my son, N, swallowed some of the oil I use to lubricate my clippers. K freaked out when she noticed him walking out of our bathroom holding the bottle.
“Oh my, God,” she said. “He drank some of that oil.” I tried to play it cool, but I was scared because I took drug counseling course that taught us how oils coat the lungs and cuts off breathing. We weren’t sure if he had ingested any or not, but we weren’t about to take any chances. K called Poison Control to find out what we needed to do. They gave us detailed instructions and we followed them to the letter. We are thankful that he only swallowed a small amount and we were able to flush his system before any serious damage occurred. But the situation could have been much worse if we didn’t have access to the Poison Control Center.
I implore each of you to make sure that you have the Poison Control number in an accessible place. Post it on the refrigerator, in the bathroom and any other location that houses hazardous chemicals. For those who don’t have the phone number, it is (800) 222-1212.
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.
My son, N, is so full of love that he cannot contain it. He is constantly giving kisses and monster hugs (much to the chagrin of his baby brother). His displays of affection make me smile, but they also make me want to protect him from those who would take advantage of his loving nature and crush his gentle heart. I was not like N as a kid. There was a point in my life when I would have never considered expressing affection for another black man, or any man for that matter. I was too cold, too hard. It was difficult for me to even love myself let alone anyone else.
In retrospect, I understand why it was so hard for me to express love. I cannot remember ever hearing a man say “I love you.” I can only remember them talking badly about each other and telling me to watch my back. Rather than love, they taught me fear.
My mother tried her best to put love in my heart, but her efforts were not enough to save me. Without a strong, male figure in the home, I had no one to emulate, no one to show me how to love. I’m not saying that women cannot be role models for young boys because that’s not true. What I am saying is sometimes a boy needs a man to talk to.
As I grew into adolescence, I started hanging with some of the older neighborhood boys, fighting, drinking, and getting into all sorts of mischief. If someone we didn’t know stared at us for too long or (God forbid) touched us in any way, we felt compelled to attack. It sounds pretty silly now, but back then it seemed like the right thing to do. I really don’t know why I felt threatened by these young men. Maybe I saw things in them that I hated about myself, maybe I was venting my frustrations about my father’s not being around, or perhaps I was simply insecure. Whatever it was, it kept me on the defensive.
Sometimes I would see men embracing, shaking hands, or otherwise displaying emotion towards each other. Of course, I would always label these men as sissies or punks, but in reality, they were neither. Unlike me, they were secure in their masculinity and could express themselves without foul language or violence. They felt safe in the presence of other men because they knew how to love.
Fortunately, a conversation with my father turned my life around. We hadn’t spoken in years, but something made me pick up the phone and call him. The conversation was heavy with silence. We had so much to say, but didn’t know how to say it. Then out of nowhere, he said, “I love you.” I was stunned. This was the first time that I had ever heard him utter those words to anyone. Hearing him say them to me was almost surreal. I almost cried. I felt confused, happy and relieved all at once. For years, I had been hating my father for not being around when I needed him, but those three words eased the tension of several years. It was as if I had been in the dark for several years and someone had finally turned on the lights. On that day, I told a man “I love you” for the first time and it felt good.
Though it took several years, I can finally tell another man that I love him, and mean it. But more importantly, I can believe it when I say it to myself.
So dads, hug your sons, give them a kiss, and let them know that you love them. You will all be better men because of it.
Last week I attended the funeral of my friend Martin’s father, Andrew L. Jefferson Jr. He was the first black state district judge in Texas largest county. His legal career took him from receiving his Law Degree from the University of Texas law school in the 1950s before the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 (he was the only black in his class), to judgeships of local civil and criminal courts, to the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Fifth Circuit in New Orleans.
Entries (RSS)