To my Sandra

I’m married to a Sandra Bland; a black woman: unafraid to speak her mind, unafraid of the consequences. It’s one of the things I love most about her. While I sometimes search for minutes (or hours) for the exact right word to say and the exact right tone to say precisely the right thing, she often lives in the freedom of the moment; espousing quick-witted retorts and barbs before I’ve even had a chance to process. That is part of the beauty of a black woman. What outsiders perceive as “sass” or “having too much mouth”, we appreciate as a survival tactic, a necessity that developed in the task of drawing attention to the mistreatment, often of black men who can be beaten, jailed or killed for just being perceived as a threat. The black woman and her “mouth” have often acted as a shield for us; a protective first layer, sheltering us from the world.

You’ll hear the black mother say to her black son: “get your ass in this house before I come out there and drag it in here for you” (translation: I love you and it's getting dark/unsafe outside and I want you in here safe with me). The black wife snaps to her black husband: “You told me you were gonna be home an hour ago, where the hell are you at?” (translation: I miss you and I was worried when you didn't come home when you said you would). It is but the same roar that a mother bear utters when surrounded by predators as she tries to protect her baby cub. The black mother/wife is the protector often because the black man has been stripped of the ability to be.

            A Sandra Bland has no patience for the wasting of her time. I know because I am married to a Sandra Bland. Between her own job, mothering our children, checking in on the phone with her grandmother/mother, finding my car keys, wallet, left running shoe, flash drive with my latest research paper, making dinner, checking homework, driving the kids to swim practice, making lunches, ironing clothes, giving baths, vacuuming the floor, taking a shower and managing her hair, her time is of the essence. So you’ll have to excuse her, Mr. Officer, if her “attitude” isn’t sunshine and show tunes when she’s pulled over on a bullshit traffic violation in the middle of her busy day. Again, I’m married to a Sandra Bland; she doesn't put up with people who waist her time or treat her beneath her standards, whether they’re wearing a badge or not.

            It has become clear to me over the course of my 30-plus years that I, as a black man, have become a target to some. There is no such thing as a “minor” legal infraction for me. I am well aware that while the law books say that I have the right to ask an officer why I am being detained, the laws of reality tell me to shut my mouth and stay in my place. Historically this is where my Sandra Bland has stood in for me, acting as a mouthpiece because both old Jim Crow and new Jim Crow have rendered me mouthless. But what I had not realized (or maybe more truthfully, had willingly ignored) is that new Jim Crow, just like old Jim Crow doesn't want to hear from Sandra either. The warning signs were quite clear: she is never acknowledged for her intellectual prowess despite the fact that there are more black women enrolled in college today than any other singular group (including white men).  She is called a man for her body (see Serena Williams) despite being the real life African Aphrodite. She is paid nearly the least for her work (far worse than her white counterparts) despite regularly taking on more tasks than others and often being better educated than them. She is labeled as the “welfare queen” eating up hard earned tax dollars despite the fact that middle-aged white women make up a larger percentage of welfare recipients and the fact that black women are the fastest growing group of entrepreneurs in the country.  At the moment when she should be the most revered, the most praised and the most beloved, she is instead the most stripped apart, the most devalued, the most unloved.

            The fallacy of it all is that we, black America, want so desperately to believe in the ideals written in the constitution: that “All Men” (and in turn all women) are created equal. But literally as the ink on the constitution dried, our “forefathers” including Mr. Monticello himself, Thomas Jefferson, violated the words they wrote as he (and men like him) rolled around with the black women they enslaved as their playthings to be discarded when done being of use. This hypocrisy remained during old Jim Crow as black women would be raped, lynched and set a blaze by the local police officers who happened to be dressed in white robes for the local fraternal organization.  Today, “laws” prevent black women from being singled out exclusively for their race, so instead “laws” provide over zealous officers the vague leeway needed to transgress our Sandras legally when their “aggressive tone” offends the saintly ears of those in uniform.  

            For years our Sandras have busted their butts, sometimes single-handedly duct-taping black families together as both poor individual choices and systemic pitfalls sought to keep black men locked away like animals. They have achieved in the face of adversity and have refused to be stepped on along the way. They have in many ways, saved what is left of the black community, even when the community itself has seemingly been seconds away from implosion. It is our responsibility as black men to now return the favor.

            When I married my Sandra, I promised her two things: to provide for her and protect her. That’s it. No big house, no cruises across the Mediterranean. Two simple promises: protect her physically, mentally and spiritually and provide for her physically (house, food etc.) but more importantly mentally and emotionally. I take those two things very seriously and I am willing to sacrifice my body to uphold those vows. This is not some brash act of bravado, some symbolic chest thumping of manhood. It is simply a declaration to any man, uniformed or not, white, black, green or blue, who attempts to violate my Sandra. There will be no need for cameras, no need for depositions. It will not be tolerated. Again, I do not pretend to be a man to strike fear in the hearts of others. I only profess to be a man of my word. I am proud to be married to a Sandra Bland for she is the backbone of my entire existence, her sassy mouth included, and I refuse to let my Sandra(s) continue to be violated. 

The Chicken & The Egg

I wasn’t sure whether or not I should chime in. In many ways I agreed with them both but it was like they weren’t speaking the same language to each other. Here they were, two young, college educated brothers, so busy trying to one up each other with stats and quick retorts, that they couldn't understand that they were fighting two sides of the same battle. One argued that our priority must be in taking back our communities, addressing black on black crime before we could address police brutality. The other, just as eloquently, argued that we had internalized our oppression and that we must hold officers accountable. Could it be that they both were right?

I guess I don't understand those people who say life is black or white: hot or cold. Life to me has always been shades of gray (no pun intended): a series of compromises, a litany of give and take because no one can live completely in their own utopia. So many people desire to go back and rewrite history to fit their own narrative.

In many ways the history of the 1950’s and 1960s struggle for equal rights is repeating itself today. The Civil Rights movement of the 1950s and 1960s was successful in large part because of Dr. King’s patience and virtue; his willingness to turn the other cheek and be inclusive of whites as opposed to harboring anger and locking them out. Others say it was the militancy of the Black Power movement that broke down those doors that whites sought to keep locked and demanded that blacks received equal rights. The truth, to me, has always been in the middle. Dr. King was effective in large part because the white public wanted little to do with the black militant alternative and saw King and his approach as a feasible middle ground. But they wouldn't have been willing to listen to King without the threat of X, the Panthers, SNCC (after Stokely Carmichael took power), Dr. Angela Davis and other black power voices demanding change in whatever manner was necessary. But that doesn't necessarily mean that the movement was successful because of militants exclusively either. An entirely militant approach would have most certainly have meant a race war, one in which Black people who made up between 10-15% of the population, would have surely lost. It was King’s dedication to a peaceful reasonable solution and inclusion of white allies that allowed the militants to be able make those demands in the late 1960s. One side of the movement could not have worked without the other side. And yet people still today debate about who was more influential, X or King. It has and always will be a silly debate because they were two sides to the same coin.

           The same holds true today. Those young brothers, so bent on being right, couldn't even see that they were arguing from two sides of the same coin. Yes, black on black crime is a major issue that needs to be addressed from within the black community. We have perpetuated a culture of silence and fear of repercussions for far too long. We must protect each other and build family communities again, instead of ones run by young men and women who only look out for themselves and have no regard for the lives of others. But that doesn't mean that we have to wait and fix that before we can address the increase of police brutality on unarmed black men. Those who take an oath to serve and protect our communities must be held to a higher standard than ordinary citizens and must let the courts dole out justice to those who break the law as opposed to playing judge, jury and far too frequently recently: executioner.  This is not a chicken or an egg debate. We don’t have to choose one fight over the other. We have enough people who are motivated, educated, politically connected and fed up to address both issues at once; not one before the other. 

I know I could never be a political leader because I’m not head strong enough. Even as a teacher I am sometimes corrected by my students because they sometimes make valid arguments that I’ve failed to see.  While I am confident in most aspects of my life, I was blessed to not have an ego that was so big that I can’t even listen to others' point of view. With a family of six, coaching two sports, a full time career and pursing a doctoral degree I don't have the time I’d like to have to march the streets and protest or rally in front of City Hall and demand answers. I sometimes feel guilty about this: that I am not doing enough of my part. But I am reminded of the lyrics of the John Legend/Common song “Glory”. In it, Common raps: “It takes the wisdom of the elders and the young people’s energy”. Not everyone can be Dr. King or Brother X and that’s okay. Behind those two stood the speechwriters, pamphlet makers, donation gatherers, security staff and other everyday people who contributed in their own way to make change. Maybe instead of fighting so hard to just be right, if we took that same energy and joined forces to combat all sides of the issues we face today, we could see that we were really arguing for the same results, just in different ways.

A Chair...

Growing up my family and I were what some people might have called “Baltimore Gypsies”: a nomadic clan traveling from house to house and side of town to side of town every two years or so.  By the time I was 15 we had lived on Schroder Street (west side), Vine Street (west side), Druid Hill Avenue (east side) Calvert Street (east side), Calverton Road (west side), Warwick Avenue (west side), Eagle Street (west side), Fulton Avenue, (west side), Furrow Street (west side), oh and there was a brief year in Hartford, Connecticut somewhere in there as well. Sometimes the moves were prompted by my mother becoming bored or growing out of love with a certain neighborhood but more often financial difficulties forced us to abandon a house we owed back rent on for a new abode. Despite so many moves, so many new schools and so many new friends, the moves were never sad occasions to me. They just meant news starts, new places to have Christmases and represented new chapters in my family’s life.

Much of the same continued when I got married at 20 years old. Working part-time at the bank while taking 18-college credits and with my new bride working part-time at the Children’s Place and part-time at the Body Shop meant that we made a combined 25k a year and shared a car whose right front axel often fell off when you hit a pot hole (true story).  So to say our living options were limited would be an understatement.  Our first “house” was a two-bedroom townhouse in Highland Village Townhomes. It was a gem: No A/C, No dishwasher, No backyard. But it did include mice all throughout the trash bin next door, random Saturday morning cookouts with loud Hispanic music blaring from our neighbors’ speakers and a frequent police presence but not in a cozy “care about the neighborhood/ Roland Park” sort of way.  The highlight was sneaking a window A/C unit into our bedroom so that our newborn son wouldn't die of heat exhaustion in the Baltimore July heat and we wouldn't have to pay extra for the rent. Owning a home seemed the farthest thing from possible: we just wanted some A/C.

Our second house was a bit nicer in the Dundalk of Anne Arundel County: Glen Burnie. It had some nice stuff: central A/C, a dishwasher, no mice. A cop even lived next door (nice ones who weren’t freaked out by young black men at night…). The only problem was across the street…where my in-laws lived. And while I love them dearly (I really have grown to love them) , living across the street from them was probably not the best idea we ever had.  Lets just leave it at that. (LOL)

When we found out we were having twins, we scrambled to find a 3^rd house. We stumbled into Arbutus after a larger house in Brookyln Park was snatched away from us right before we were to move in (a blessing in disguise). Like Goldie-Locks and the 3 bears, this one felt “juuusst right”: Three bedrooms, a basement to store our things, a small backyard for the kids to play in. For the past five years, we’ve watched our family grow from 4 to 6 and we’ve done everything in it from hosting our first Thanksgiving and Christmases, Baby Showers and birthday parties. But like the two houses before them, we outgrew our townhome. With a son in high school, another nearing middle school and 5 year old twin girls with a growing wardrobe, it felt like we were living on top of each other. 

            Today we closed on our first home. It has rooms for both boys, a fancy closet for my wife (with apparently no room for any of my clothes) and a backyard big enough for the kids to rip and run for years to come. It's the kind of house I would have thought was never possible for me as I bounced with my family from house to house as a kid.  And as moving date draws closer, I am reminded of Luther Vandross who once famously sang, “A Chair is still a chair…even if there’s no onnnnneeee sitting there! But a chair is not houuussssee and house is not a home….” I finally get what Luther meant. I’m not looking forward to moving boxes and setting up new furniture but I AM excited to move our memories, our laughs, our tears and our special bond into a new space where they can continue to grow.  I’m excited and blessed to be able to help provide my family with the stability I sometimes lacked as a kid but more importantly, what I’ve come to realize is that long before we had a house, with all the love we share, we already had a home; and no house can provide that kind of stability.  

A Perfect (UN)Plan

Growing up, I always wanted a big family. I was the only child for 11 years before my brother was born and because my mother and father both moved to Baltimore from South Carolina, I didn’t grow up playing with cousins, aunts or uncles. The Cosby Show provided me with a visual for what fun a large family could provide. Arguments and fights but lots of love and laughter. Like Cliff and Claire, I wanted 5 kids. Or so I thought.

            Fast-forward 25 years to my wife and I lying in bed one night. We had 2 boys, the second of which was finally school age, had 1 car, lived in a 2-bedroom townhouse (without air conditioning, Yikes!) and I was wrapping up my 4^th year of my lucrative career as a teacher (#brokeville USA. This was long before the idea of a “Model Teacher”). I could tell my wife was nervous as she rolled toward me and very quietly and hesitantly announced: she was pregnant. We had talked about having another child… sometime down the road. Maybe even adopting but this caught us both by surprise. We’d have to find a new house, find more money and push back our dream of beginning to save to buy a home. She cried nervously and I held her and assured her that everything would be fine (even if I wasn’t exactly sure how it would be myself).

            From the beginning this pregnancy was different. My wife became violently ill. This wasn't your typical morning sickness. Violent nausea and fainting spells landed us in a hospital, panicked that our unexpected bundle of joy might not make it full term to meet us. The Doctor calmed our nerves and increased our anxiety all at the same time with one question: “Did you know there were two babies in there?” The fainting happened again.

            The previous pregnancy had been a breeze. Fun even. I’d pick my wife up from work, rub her feet at night while I read the Communist Manifesto (yup, economic equality for all, down with the bourgeoisie!) to her pregnant belly.  No complications. No sickness. The due date came and the baby came the same night. A special gift to my mother who shares the same birthdate.

            But not with the twins. Money was tight and worry high as we scrambled to save for two babies. Two sets of diapers each time, two sets of clothes each time, two bottles of formula each time. Two, Two, Two, Two. It was like I was Noah on some bizzaro Ark.  The belly rubs were less frequent. The reading non-existent. My wife was in so much discomfort that she needed an electric wheelchair to get around the grocery store (she still doesn't trust me to stay under the grocery budget). We were both highly stressed.  With about a month to spare until the due date, we found a new house with an extra bedroom and a basement and I pretty much moved the entire house by myself. This was not some beautiful baby story.

            As November rolled around and the due date grew closer, at school I was preparing my soccer team for the state playoffs. We had just won our first City championship and we had a good shot of upsetting perennial soccer power Eastern Tech at home the next day. As we wrapped up practice for the day I got a call from my wife; panicked again. She and Noah, the youngest son, had been at a routine doctors visit. When the doctor did the sonogram to check up on the babies, She could only hear one heart beat strongly. The other was very faint. I needed to get there as quickly as possible. The problem was “there” was Annapolis and I was in East Baltimore, which considering the circumstances might as well have been Fallujah. I jumped in the truck and off I went. As I got close to downtown, I got another call. There was now no heartbeat and the doctors feared that the ambilical cord might be wrapped around one of the babies and she might not make it. They were going to have to do an emergency C-section. As panic overwhelmed me, I hopped on the highway:  295 to 695 to 97. My wife often criticized me for being such a slow driver. But not that day. Jeff Gordon would have been proud. I-97 was backed up. I drove on the shoulder hoping a cop would see me, ask questions and then lead the way (of course this never happened, no cop to be found of course!). As I neared the exit for the hospital, I got a final call. This time it wasn’t my wife, but a nurse, asking how far away I was in hopes I could make it to be by my wife’s side. I hoped so too.

            I finally arrived. I double parked the truck and hoped out, racing in soccer cleats up three flights of stairs because I couldn't afford to wait on an elevator. I grabbed a badge and raced through double doors. As I went through the doors, a nurse asked, “Are you Mr. Smith?” I guess I said yes and she handed me a set of scrubs and a mask. As we entered a second set of double doors, there sitting at the front desk, coloring and eating a hot dog was Noah. He was a hit with the nurses but I had no time to chat. At that moment all that mattered was getting to my wife and those babies. I needed to see them to know that everything was alright.  The months of worry, the panic, the stress all seemed a distant memory at that moment. We would make a way if God would just let my wife and babies be okay.

            I opened a final door, walked in and it seemed like life slowed down; my life changed forever. In the room was a tiny, 4-pound little girl in an incubator. Abigail was resting on her side. I could barely see what she looked like as the tears streamed out of my face. I didn’t have to see her clearly to know she was beautiful. Across the room, 2 doctors, with stethoscopes checked another baby. At 5 pounds, Audrey looked like a butterball compared to her sister. The doctors backed away so that I could see her. The tears came again.

            I’ll never forget that moment. The stress, the worry, the panic all seemed so silly, so indescribably pointless when I saw those two perfect faces. No pre-made plan I made, mattered. I knew everything would be okay when I saw them. A few minutes later I got a chance to see my wife. She was groggy and didn’t remember any of the actual procedure, as she had to be sedated for the emergency operation. Turns out Abby had just flipped and was breached which was why the reading probably was inaccurate.

The past five years have been more amazing than I could have ever dreamed. From obsessions with everything sparkly, to car ride One Direction and Taylor Swift sing-a-longs to random kisses on the cheek, I could have never imagined how having daughters would teach me to a better father. I’ve learned how to perfectly lay out a bed at bed time, how to not cut food for Audrey but to always cut food for Abby and how to always buy two of any toy to avoid a death match to the heavens.

But maybe the best lesson I’ve learned is that no matter how much you plan and worry, save and strategize, God has a plan that you have very little control over. So instead of living in worry, I try to enjoy the moments each day where all I can do is sit back and laugh and be thankful that everything turned out the way it was supposed to.  Happy 5^th birthday to my hilarious, beautiful, intelligent, kind and caring twin daughters Audrey Ava and Abigail Lillian Smith. I love you more than I could have ever planned. And if you ever hear me talking about having a fifth child like Cliff and Claire, feel free to call Sheppard Pratt because I will have clearly lost my marbles.

 

 

 

 

Holding Hands

It may not come as too big of a surprise that I wasn’t exactly the toughest kid growing up. I mean, I was always athletic and into sports but I was much more likely to try and negotiate my way out of a fight than join in one.

It is probably also then, no surprise that I was also a momma’s boy. This was primarily because we spent so much time together.  We’d write stories together (I know…I know…) she’d make uniforms and clothes for my wrestling action figures (not DOLLS, thank you very much) and let me use whatever household ingredients I could find to mix and match to make my latest secret potions. I loved that time we spent together. My dad and I didn’t spend as much time together one-on-one primarily because he worked when I was young and my mother didn't. But in many ways, that made the times we did spend together, just the two of us, that much more special. They wouldn't be major events: a walk to the store, a ride in the company truck before he had to take it back. But they were special because it was just me and him. We always lived in pretty rough neighborhoods on the West side of the city but I always felt safer when he was home, which is ironic because my dad was 5’7 and maybe 150 pounds. Looking back on it, if danger did occur there probably wasn’t  much he could do about it. But just his presence made me sleep better at night.

We often hear of the maternal instinct: those instances when a mother reaches beyond any logical strength she may have to lift a car off of her injured child or protect her baby cub from the advances of a hungry lion. But I believe fathers (at least true/dedicated fathers) have a similar instinct. It is a primal need to protect. In most situations I’m still more likely to try and use my wit and smarts to negotiate the terrain but involve my wife or children and something primal engages within me. My safety, nor the consequences of my actions, are of concern any longer. My only thought is protecting my family.

            Today I got to spend some one on one time with my baby boy, Noah. He’s not much of a baby anymore: he turned 9 this summer. It’s eerie how much he reminds me of myself.  He’s pretty smart and a hard worker in school. He’s super polite and respectful. He loves his momma (and truth be told she loves him even more) as much as I loved my mom as a kid. I love the bond they share.  He’s always making those same weird concoctions I used to make. He even has my crooked smile (sorry for passing along those bad genes dude, braces soon I promise!) Just like me and my dad, Noah and I don’t spend as much one on one time together as I’d like primarily because I’m usually working on something: grading school work, grad school work, a paper, a lesson plan, a game plan, something.  But today, my wife took the girls and Kaleb was somewhere being too cool to hang with his family anymore (he’s 14, pray for me) so it was just me and my guy. We didn’t do much, just went to the mall and grabbed some dinner. But it was just us guys. We talked about school, Ipods, phones, minecraft, angry birds, why Ray Rice was playing in the pre-season  (he asked) and the little league world series. And it was just as special as the times when my dad would take me to watch Nascar with his roofing buddies or when we’d walk to the grocery store to get fatback for breakfast or go to the park to play catch. It was just us and I knew I was safe.

            I always wondered if my kids would feel that same protection around me. My wife says she has trouble sleeping when I’m not home, but I chalked that up  mostly to flattery and her not having anyone to throw her leg on in the middle of the night. I often asked myself, do I make my family feel safe the same way my dad did?

On Monday night, my best friend and I took my boys down to DC for an Orioles game (O's won! How 'bout dem birds hun?!). As we walked out of the stadium at about 10:30, literally thousands of people surrounded us as we trekked the couple of blocks back to the car. Kaleb (my oldest) and D (my best friend) walked to my left and on my right, as we crossed the street through a throng of people, I felt a hand grab hold of mine. It was Noah. He had a bit of a panicked look on his face, as if there was too much going on around him and he was afraid of getting lost in the shuffle. I grabbed his hand tight to mine, to let him know that I had him, everything would be fine and we walked back to the car. No words were exchanged but he had answered my question. I knew he felt safe with me.

            My father was far from perfect but what he was, was always there when I needed to feel safe. From a car accident when I was 16 to my first day of orientation at high school, he was there when I needed him most. I think that’s what I miss most about him. But in those special moments, when the world slows down and it’s just me and my boy, I can feel my dad there too, holding my hand on the other side.