Raising an African American Son in an All American Society
Last summer my spindly six year old convinced me to let him sign up for tackle football. I dutifully collected his vital statistics(birth certificate, social security card and shot records), took him to the doctor for a complete athletes physical and reported to the recreation center along with hordes of other parents, to watch our first graders be weighed and fitted for the upcoming season. I recall feeling apprehensive as I watched what was obviously a hyped up ex-football star, pile hip, knee and shoulder pads, along with various other protective pieces totaling more than my son's original fifty seven pounds, on his body before shoving a hard plastic helmet down over his ears in one awfully painful-looking motion. I started to suggest my son needed a bigger size so his ears wouldn't get squished, but after catching a glance of the pride shining in my husband's eyes, I decided to stay put and keep quiet.
A week later I gave myself a mental kick in the rear for not voicing my initial reservations as I watched my son suit up for his first real practice. Twenty two six and seven year olds hesitantly ran onto the intimidating field while parents were threatened not to venture inside the white boundary lines, under any circumstance. I watched as my son attempted to imitate the assistant coach during drills and laps before the boys were divided in two and told to prepare for a hitting drill. Long story short, neither I nor my son was prepared for what would happen next. What looked like a ten year old on an indulgent diet of beans, steroids and cornbread charged at my baby's chest full speed, knocking the wind from his lungs and his feet from under his body. I felt my husband's eyes on me as I fought back the urge to run onto the field and check on Mom's baby. The seconds were equivalent to hours as I stood on tip toes willing him to get up. My husband and I breathed a collective sigh of relief as our son slowly ambled to his feet and awkwardly stood. A hulk of an assistant coach shoved him towards the back of the line and he moved along, but I could detect from the stiffness in his walk, he was more than shaken up. I grabbed my husband's arm and demanded he go see if my baby was ok. Realizing it was either him or me my husband grudgingly gave in and called my son over to the fence. I was told to stay out of it as my husband met my son at the edge of the field. My mother trained eyes zoned in on their body language as my husband bent down so he could talk to him eye to eye. In what seemed like slow motion, a build up of spit, tears and the loudest wail I'd heard since he was a toddler came hurdling from my son's helmet just as my husband pulled out his mouthpiece. My heart strings tugged as I watched my husband grab my son by the arm and yank him off the field all the while ignoring the disapproving glances of the other football dads behind the fence. Obviously crying after being hit by a kid twice your size is unheard of in the PeeWee leagues. After a stern talking to from Dad, shoulders stiff and fists balled at his sides our little one bravely trudged back onto the field,.
I knew after that first practice my husband was not in tune with our sonÃ’s safety. Looking for an empathetic ear, I brought up my concerns while talking with my mentor at work the next day. I have to say that as a general practice I donÃ’t talk to people about problems with my children unless they have been where I am now and seem to have done the best job they were capable of. My mentor was and is one such person. A middle aged Jewish woman with incredible perception, a dry wit and an uncanny ability to cut straight through BS, this woman is one of the most personable people I've met professionally or otherwise. The wife of a rabbi and Director for a social non-profit, she has raised two of the most together; young adults I've encountered. Her college age son is currently attending, and excelling I might add, at a top Ivy League school, in which tuition was more than my annual salary. Her seventeen year old daughter was a wonderful mix of a 4 point plus GPA and social aptitude that eludes most teens and adults, for that matter. Considering her track record, I felt perfectly at ease, asking her advice about my unease concerning my son's football career. I recounted my son's humiliating exit from the tackle line and my husband's reaction. She listened attentively before making a face at me and shuddering, Football is so barbaric. She shook her head at my description of the football fathers behavior and promptly encouraged me to end my son's pursuit of all things gridiron and instead recommended capitalizing on his love of chess and some other intellectual activity.
Later as I was mulling over our conversation and pitting it against my husband's input of I'm not raising a quitter. I began thinking about the differences in my son's journey to adulthood and her son's. In my opinion, there was some relevance in my husband's insistence that our son not quit something he started, and more importantly not let others see his weakness. As a young black boy growing up in the south he is sure to have a much different path to manhood than a privileged Jewish boy raised on the much greener side of the tracks. Growing up with the ability to assimilate and even be embraced into wealthy white America is an undeniable coup, even if my mentor's son chooses not to take America up on its offer. I wondered if her son would need the same skill set as my little boy. I found myself hoping my husband's insistence in our son having the ability to stand tall even after being hit by another boy would mentally prepare him for standing his ground after he'd been belittled by someone of another race. Not only did my husband want this for our son, but I too want to raise a strong black man able to, as the older folks would say, take a lickin' and keep on tickin'.
I realized that my mentor’s advice, although sound for her son did not necessarily translate to my situation. The sad truth is my son will one day have to deal with at least one police officer possibly more, harassing him for nothing more than the color of his skin. It’s in that instance that I hope my son remembers his father’s words “Don’t ever let a man see your weakness. Hold your head high.” Although my son is only seven years old, and racial tolerance is slowly improving, I know that one day he will be discriminated against at school, on the job or in a social environment simply because he is a black man. “Know who you are,” will hopefully be so engrained in my son’s psyche that he won’t give the ignorance aimed at him a second thought.
I’ve learned from watching my husband, who was raised by two extremely conscientious parents in a middle class environment, and was privy to an excellent education, that the road of any and every black man in America is a very different one than his white counterpart. His road is undeniably rockier and lonelier while filled with unfair obstructions one must be mentally prepared for in order to ward of the bitterness and anger that plagues so many of our young black men today. And while I agree with my mentor that the strategist skills used in chess will help my son’s ability to think, I must agree with my husband that our little brown-skinned boy needs to be tougher than the next guy physically and mentally in addition to being intelligent if he is to be successful.
After my football is equivalent to life epiphany, my defensive end decided he preferred basketball, soccer and yes chess club to football. After the emotional roller coaster I’d experienced as a first-time football mom, I admittedly was a bit disappointed. I’d watched over a three month period as my husband grilled our son on lessons in football that were directly applicable to his life. I know my son got the “I am not raising a quitter” speech every game day and practices were filled with “Man up!” and, “Practice makes perfect.” “You have to be that much better than your opponent.”
Those lectures were monotonous for my son I’m sure, but I realized none to late that my husband was using football as an analogy for dealing with the pitfalls of life especially those of a black man in America. Perhaps by the time my son’s wife is watching him interact on the field with my grandson, it won’t be such a necessity for him to have the same tough exterior. Perhaps America will be a more tolerant society by that time. In any case, I won’t be disappointed if my son decides after a year off the field, to strap on those protective pads again and get back in the game.
A week later I gave myself a mental kick in the rear for not voicing my initial reservations as I watched my son suit up for his first real practice. Twenty two six and seven year olds hesitantly ran onto the intimidating field while parents were threatened not to venture inside the white boundary lines, under any circumstance. I watched as my son attempted to imitate the assistant coach during drills and laps before the boys were divided in two and told to prepare for a hitting drill. Long story short, neither I nor my son was prepared for what would happen next. What looked like a ten year old on an indulgent diet of beans, steroids and cornbread charged at my baby's chest full speed, knocking the wind from his lungs and his feet from under his body. I felt my husband's eyes on me as I fought back the urge to run onto the field and check on Mom's baby. The seconds were equivalent to hours as I stood on tip toes willing him to get up. My husband and I breathed a collective sigh of relief as our son slowly ambled to his feet and awkwardly stood. A hulk of an assistant coach shoved him towards the back of the line and he moved along, but I could detect from the stiffness in his walk, he was more than shaken up. I grabbed my husband's arm and demanded he go see if my baby was ok. Realizing it was either him or me my husband grudgingly gave in and called my son over to the fence. I was told to stay out of it as my husband met my son at the edge of the field. My mother trained eyes zoned in on their body language as my husband bent down so he could talk to him eye to eye. In what seemed like slow motion, a build up of spit, tears and the loudest wail I'd heard since he was a toddler came hurdling from my son's helmet just as my husband pulled out his mouthpiece. My heart strings tugged as I watched my husband grab my son by the arm and yank him off the field all the while ignoring the disapproving glances of the other football dads behind the fence. Obviously crying after being hit by a kid twice your size is unheard of in the PeeWee leagues. After a stern talking to from Dad, shoulders stiff and fists balled at his sides our little one bravely trudged back onto the field,.
I knew after that first practice my husband was not in tune with our sonÃ’s safety. Looking for an empathetic ear, I brought up my concerns while talking with my mentor at work the next day. I have to say that as a general practice I donÃ’t talk to people about problems with my children unless they have been where I am now and seem to have done the best job they were capable of. My mentor was and is one such person. A middle aged Jewish woman with incredible perception, a dry wit and an uncanny ability to cut straight through BS, this woman is one of the most personable people I've met professionally or otherwise. The wife of a rabbi and Director for a social non-profit, she has raised two of the most together; young adults I've encountered. Her college age son is currently attending, and excelling I might add, at a top Ivy League school, in which tuition was more than my annual salary. Her seventeen year old daughter was a wonderful mix of a 4 point plus GPA and social aptitude that eludes most teens and adults, for that matter. Considering her track record, I felt perfectly at ease, asking her advice about my unease concerning my son's football career. I recounted my son's humiliating exit from the tackle line and my husband's reaction. She listened attentively before making a face at me and shuddering, Football is so barbaric. She shook her head at my description of the football fathers behavior and promptly encouraged me to end my son's pursuit of all things gridiron and instead recommended capitalizing on his love of chess and some other intellectual activity.
Later as I was mulling over our conversation and pitting it against my husband's input of I'm not raising a quitter. I began thinking about the differences in my son's journey to adulthood and her son's. In my opinion, there was some relevance in my husband's insistence that our son not quit something he started, and more importantly not let others see his weakness. As a young black boy growing up in the south he is sure to have a much different path to manhood than a privileged Jewish boy raised on the much greener side of the tracks. Growing up with the ability to assimilate and even be embraced into wealthy white America is an undeniable coup, even if my mentor's son chooses not to take America up on its offer. I wondered if her son would need the same skill set as my little boy. I found myself hoping my husband's insistence in our son having the ability to stand tall even after being hit by another boy would mentally prepare him for standing his ground after he'd been belittled by someone of another race. Not only did my husband want this for our son, but I too want to raise a strong black man able to, as the older folks would say, take a lickin' and keep on tickin'.
I realized that my mentor’s advice, although sound for her son did not necessarily translate to my situation. The sad truth is my son will one day have to deal with at least one police officer possibly more, harassing him for nothing more than the color of his skin. It’s in that instance that I hope my son remembers his father’s words “Don’t ever let a man see your weakness. Hold your head high.” Although my son is only seven years old, and racial tolerance is slowly improving, I know that one day he will be discriminated against at school, on the job or in a social environment simply because he is a black man. “Know who you are,” will hopefully be so engrained in my son’s psyche that he won’t give the ignorance aimed at him a second thought.
I’ve learned from watching my husband, who was raised by two extremely conscientious parents in a middle class environment, and was privy to an excellent education, that the road of any and every black man in America is a very different one than his white counterpart. His road is undeniably rockier and lonelier while filled with unfair obstructions one must be mentally prepared for in order to ward of the bitterness and anger that plagues so many of our young black men today. And while I agree with my mentor that the strategist skills used in chess will help my son’s ability to think, I must agree with my husband that our little brown-skinned boy needs to be tougher than the next guy physically and mentally in addition to being intelligent if he is to be successful.
After my football is equivalent to life epiphany, my defensive end decided he preferred basketball, soccer and yes chess club to football. After the emotional roller coaster I’d experienced as a first-time football mom, I admittedly was a bit disappointed. I’d watched over a three month period as my husband grilled our son on lessons in football that were directly applicable to his life. I know my son got the “I am not raising a quitter” speech every game day and practices were filled with “Man up!” and, “Practice makes perfect.” “You have to be that much better than your opponent.”
Those lectures were monotonous for my son I’m sure, but I realized none to late that my husband was using football as an analogy for dealing with the pitfalls of life especially those of a black man in America. Perhaps by the time my son’s wife is watching him interact on the field with my grandson, it won’t be such a necessity for him to have the same tough exterior. Perhaps America will be a more tolerant society by that time. In any case, I won’t be disappointed if my son decides after a year off the field, to strap on those protective pads again and get back in the game.
posted by Christal Jordan-Mims | 3:38 PM
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