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. 

10 years later...

            

           Many things change over time. For example, I have gray hair now. Not a gray hair: gray hair, as in plural. I'd always had one or two that I'd shave off from time to time or let grow when I wanted a more "seasoned" look. But when I went to shave last week I noticed something different: I'd reached the point of no return. I had so many gray hairs on my chin that I'd have to shave the entire goatee to get rid of them! And not only have they invaded my chin but they're on my head now too! Ummmm...when the hell did this happen?! Like most things in life, it was a gradual process. Little by little, I've grown older in many ways without even noticing. I mean didn't I just graduate high school yesterday? No? Ok well definitely college was last week, right? Nothing made this gradual time elapse more evident than playing basketball last week. I consider myself to be in good shape. I coach two varsity sports, work out 3-4 days per week, eat decent meals (deserts don’t count obviously) and run 5-10 miles a week. But after 30 minutes of 5-on-5 in the gym yesterday, I looked around and noticed I was one of the 30 something's yelling, "slow it down fellas, let's walk the ball up court". There's a difference between being 30 something "in- shape" and 20 something "in shape". Some things change.

            The same is true of relationships. This past Thursday I celebrated 10 years of marriage to my best friend, closest advisor, and most intimate confidant. Our love continues to blossom with each passing day but that doesn't mean that it's the same type of love as 10 years ago. When I was 20, I loved my wife in a territorial way. Think of the way a baby loves her pacifier or the way Kanye West loves Kanye West: You know, so much that's it's almost too much. I always wanted her around. I wanted to show her off. And who could blame me, she was (and remains) the most gorgeous girl I'd ever seen (in real life of course; Celebrities don’t count but if they did it would be: Nia Long, Zoe Saldana, early 2000’s J-Lo and pre-nervous breakdown but post-Fugees, Mis-Education of Lauryn Hill era Lauryn Hill, in no particular order but I digress). I'd get upset if she wanted to hang with her girlfriends or wanted to stay a little longer at work to finish things. I loved her in a possessive way. She was my wife. I loved her because she was beautiful and because she made me feel happy. That doesn't mean that our love wasn't strong but it did mean that we had to work out the kinks.

            Over these past 10 years, like my hair, our love has changed in many ways without my noticing. With 4 kids and a large extended family, I've learned to share my love for my wife. That's not to suggest that I love her any less but I've realized that she has enough room in her heart to love me fully and others as well. Love doesn't mean ownership as I thought it did at 20, it means partnership. I love her now not just because of her beauty but because we bring out the best in each other. Because of how forgiving her heart is. Because of how genuine her emotion is, whether in joy or sorrow. Now, a night out without the spouse only makes me that much more excited to get back home to be reunited with her. Long hours at work only serve to provide more financial security for our family so that we can afford to take those special trips, like we just did and create those special memories that we'll share forever.

            On this, our 10th anniversary, I am keenly aware that while the nature of our love may have changed, at its core our love will forever remain the same. Marriage does not come without its challenges and its crises but any strong marriage will consist of memories and moments that make the not-so-great moments seem not-so-bad. We were blessed to celebrate our 1st year of marriage in Paris and even more blessed to have spent our 10th in Hawaii. Only God knows where we will be for our 20th but I know for sure that the best part of that trip will be the same best part of these two trips: having someone worth sharing those moments with. For as much as some things change, some things remain the same. 

A Love Story

He loved her. Maybe more than any man has ever loved any woman. I witnessed it with my own eyes. His movements, his thoughts, his wishes, all for her to return to him. They reunited briefly only to have chance separate them again. His love soldiered on. It was all he knew how to do: love her with all of him.

            In the summer of 2011, my newly expectant (with twins) wife, my two sons and I moved into our new home. With the new additions on the way we needed more space and while small by most people’s standards, our new home provided us just that. The decision to move had not been an easy one. We had been given little notice that our former home was being sold and we scrambled to find a suitable environment in which to raise our family, which was even more important as our eldest son was about to embark on his formative middle school years. We needed a safe neighborhood, a family neighborhood, a place with good schools, and an area in our price range. (I’m pretty sure Beyoncé requires less maintenance than we apparently did!) Indeed we were blessed to find a home that met our requirements and so we loaded up a moving truck and onward we went.

            As I unloaded some of the last boxes from the moving truck, a little old man and his wife pulled up in their tan mercury sedan behind us. She, in front, and he behind, they marched up the stairs into their home. I gave an obligatory “Hello”, to which he gruffly responded “Hey, how ya doin’” without so much as looking up at me. It was less than a ceremonious welcome. I pressed on with my duties, not thinking much of the encounter other than the thought that our neighbors might not be too “neighborly” in the future.

            That Saturday morning I yanked the pull cord squeezed the handle and began my bi-weekly ritual of mowing the lawn. Back and Forth, climbing the side hill of the house, rolling over flowerbeds, leaving patches everywhere; my first attempt at lawn maintenance was less than stellar but gratifying nonetheless. I came in, sweaty, proud of my feeble efforts at being handy and plopped on the couch next to my wife, who thanked me for cutting the grass and proceeded to laugh at the pitiful job I had done. As we laughed and talked, we heard a knock at the door. I opened it, expecting to find my in-laws, instead I was greeted by that little old man,who had barely acknowledged me the previous day. He introduced himself, “Hey, how ya doin? I’m George, George Keys from next door. Just wanted to say thank ya for cuttin' that grass. Ya know the people who lived there before you never cut that damn grass! They’d leave cigarette butts all over the front porch and on the lawn. They’d even toss ‘em on my porch. Good to see someone there to take care of that house”. I thanked him for coming over and introduced my wife and myself and exchanged pleasantries. Turns out the little old gruff man wasn't so gruff after all.

            Mr. and Mrs. Keys, 85 and 84 years old respectively, have been our neighbors now for close to four years. And since that day I cut the grass and he introduced himself he’s been the best neighbor I’ve ever had. A World War II veteran, Mr. Keys worked for 30-plus years at BGE. He and his wife of 50 years raised 4 children in a 3-bedroom townhouse (sound familiar) all of whom are married with children of their own. Without him knowing it, Mr. Keys has taught me many lessons about being a man and about being a good husband. A man of integrity is how I’d describe him. When the men of the neighborhood realized that the kids of the neighborhood needed a place to play, Mr. Keys organized a petition in the neighborhood to have a park built. The park still stands on the corner of our neighborhood today.  When our twins were born, we arrived home from the hospital to a box of diapers and a card from he and his wife. When my wife’s car wouldn't start, 85-year-old Mr. keys popped his shirt off (wait a minute, I just vomited a little bit remembering that image), grabbed his tools and was under the hood with me, getting her cranked. When I ran over my own lawnmower cable (don’t ask) Mr. Keys lent me his mower to cut the grass. And when I ran over his lawnmower cable (seriously, I’m awful at manual labor) he fixed his cord and got me cutting again. When my dad died, he offered his condolences and I did the same, when his sister passed. Indeed, Mr. Keys taught me how to be a good neighbor.

            But the best lesson old man Keys taught me, was how to love unconditionally. You see, he loved her more than any man has ever loved any woman before. Her name is Doris. And Doris Keys is the love of George Key’s life. She’d stand on the porch, yammering while he cut the grass, yelling out directions about spots he’d missed. He’d bicker back and then go back and get the spots she said he’d missed. When he’d sneak sweets and cakes into the house, she’d knock on our door with those sweets and cakes in hand because she knew he wasn't allowed to have that stuff. When that long tan mercury sedan pulled in front of the door. He’d get out, walk around and open the door for her.  He adored her and truth be told, she adored him too.

            About two years ago in the middle of the night, we awoke to the flashing red lights of an ambulance. I assumed Mr. Keys, who hadn’t been feeling so well at the time, was being taken to the hospital, instead it was Doris. She had fallen and broken her leg. But a break at 82 is not simply a break. The leg eventually became infected. Doris became sicker. George, who’d always been stoic in nature, became a mess. Everyday, he got up as soon as he could and drive across town to the hospital to visit his wife. Things went from bad to worse. She became sicker, at one point losing the ability to even eat on her own. A break at 82 is not simply a break. Her body was having trouble taking all the procedures. We feared the worst. George did not. He simply got up every morning, drove across town and stayed with his wife. He loved her more than any other man had ever loved any other woman.

Doris pulled through and got better but not without a major side effect. The infection had become so bad that her leg had to be amputated. She would have get a prosthetic, learn to walk again, spend 6-8 months in physical therapy and a nursing home before even the possibility of her returning home arrived. The cost threatened to rob George of his home for 50 years. But it didn't matter to him. Because all he wanted was her. Her back at home. Her back on that porch. Her by his side. And so he waited. And he visited everyday. And he drove her to therapy. And he considered moving temporarily into the nursing home with her (she talked him out of it). So he visited and stayed with her everyday. Everyday. Everyday for 2 years. Why? Because he loved for to infinity and back again. And so when we got a knock on the door 2 months ago, I was surprised to see George’s daughter on the porch. She was there to announce, that they, her parents, were around the corner, in that long tan mercury sedan. He was bringing her home. He had waited two years but he would have waited a hundred more, just to bring her home. And he did. And his smile and hers told me all I ever needed to know about love. And that is, Love is real, love is patient, love is pure, love is kind, love endures. For he loved her more than any man has ever loved any woman …ever.

         I wrote this blog upon hearing the news tonight that Doris Keys fell again last night and broke her ankle meaning another long and tenuous hospital journey for her. I pray for her speedy recovery, and for George’s as he is devastated to have to go through this ordeal again. I’m not certain how much more her 84-year-old body can handle, but I know that he will be by her side for however long it takes. 

I am not my hair

I wish I could say I started growing my hair long because it symbolized my rejection of societal demands for men (clean cut, clean shaven) or that it somehow connected to a new found religious belief (Rastafarianism). The truth is that for me it was all about convenience. In the fall of 2001 I was headed away to Syracuse University, a 5-hour car ride (8 hours by Greyhound bus which was how I most often travelled) from Baltimore. I had cornrows in high school and being away from home meant that I would have to find some new fine young lady (ok, really it was my mom) to do my hair. Unsure about my surroundings and my ability to make friends quickly enough to find someone to do my hair, I decided I would lock my hair before I left. I could wash and re-twist them on my own and when I came home I could get them maintained for pretty cheap.

            While the beginnings on my hair journey were simplistic, my 12-year lock journey was far from it. My hair became in some ways my closest companion. Tried and true, through rain, beach trips, snowy winters and blazing hot summer days; my hair was there through it all. Many of the most significant moments of my emergence into adulthood involved my hair in some way. From the birth of my children, to beginning my career, to my wedding, to my father’s passing, my hair served to provide a sense of comfort and familiarity. In many ways it symbolized me: simplistic and laid back but tough and rugged (ok, maybe not so rugged) and enduring. I take pride in being intelligent but also not taking myself too seriously. My hair represented that too. And beyond those things, it sounds silly to say but my hair brought me a confidence that I had lacked as a young man. With it I felt powerful and important.  When you feel that way, other people take notice and I am convinced that some doors opened in my life, in some small part due to the confidence brought forth from having my locks.

            So then why cut it?  Again I wish I had some amazing revelation to make. Something about a journey or a new moment in time. But the truth is, it was just time. I had always semi-joked that I would cut my hair at 30. I would say “I don't want to be the old guy whose balding but still holding on to those 3 locks in the back of his head!”. And while that’s true, as I grow closer to 30 I’m far from that old guy.  I’m in the best physical shape of my life (knock on wood) and with the love and laughter shared everyday in my home, I feel younger at heart than I ever have before. But the hair had just become more troublesome than I had the patience for.  My desire to sit and get them washed and twisted for an hour or two at a time (yes, with hair that long and heavy, it often took that long) eroded. As my kids get older and even more active, I hated the silly inconvenience of having to tie my hair just to be able to play around with them. What had originally been simplistic and convenient had become cumbersome and interfering. And so I knew that the time had come. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, scissors in hand, expecting to feel remorse or regret but instead as I took the first snip, I felt relief and rebirth. Each cut became easier and easier instead of harder and harder and I knew that I had made the right decision for me. (Good thing I felt that way. It would have been really hard to stop cutting after like two locks were off, feel regret and then try and glue those suckers back on my head!)  As much as I loved what my hair represented, I realized that I am who I am regardless of what my hair looks like. And while I’ll always have the memories and pictures of all of those wonderful experiences with my hair, it was those experiences, not my hair that helped to shape me into the man I am today. It is those experiences that will live on with me and continue to shape how I see the world, interact with it and try to shape it more positively in the future. And I can do those things with or without my locks.  As India Arie famously once said, “I am not my hair!” So without further ado, I introduce to you…my new ‘do!