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!

Blame Me

I guess I just don't understand the feelings of “shock” and “surprise”. What are your expectations? What have we done? I include myself in this too. When I could afford to, the first thing I did was to move out of inner city Baltimore. Away from the gunshots I became accustomed to as a child. Away from the 300+ murders a year. Away from the drugs that sought to ruin my family. To suburbia we came, picket fences (literally), soccer leagues and housewives.. We love the neighborhood 4^th of July parade, the soap box derby, the community meetings. Yet when we look around, everyone else is white. My family of 6, is one of only two black families in the neighborhood Every Sunday on my run through a neighborhood in which I have now lived for 3 plus years, I carry my I.D. in my pocket. Why? Because when I was young, my father told me to never leave home without an ID in case the police stop you.

I don't understand the concept of a post-racial society. When I went to the movies with my white girl-friend (really, she was just my friend who happened to be a girl, not that it matters, but I digress) in high school, people on the avenue in White Marsh would look at us strange. This was not in Jackson, Mississippi in 1964, this was Baltimore Maryland in 2001.When I was 20 and in college, I worked part time as a bank teller. One morning I arrived early and had to wait outside of the bank for the branch manager to arrive and open up. As I waited, a police squad car arrived and asked me if they could “help me” with anything. They then proceeded to ask me for my name and my I.D. and asked me if I had been picked up the night before because I looked like someone they had arrested. When my branch manager arrived, and explained that I worked at the bank, they politely left. That was 2004. I teach at my Alma Matter, a school about 90 % African American and yet the top 10 students each year are almost exclusively white…no one bats an eye. Did we think Barack Obama was the finish line? I guess I’m just confused. Three weeks ago, the Supreme Court struck down a provision within the voting rights act that will make it more difficult for people of color to vote. What does this mean? Laws such as “stand your ground” which so many people are now outraged by, will multiply across this country. Where was our outrage then? Our protests for our southern brethren?

But what did we expect? We’re willing to stand in lines for hours to buy Jordans or a Gucci pocketbook but unwilling to stand in line to vote. Unwilling to attend a parent teacher conference to keep their child on track in school. What happens in 2016, when there isn’t a black candidate for president? Will we lose interest again?

I hold no ill will to George Zimmerman or the jurors in this case. I hold us to blame. We, the collective black community, killed Trayvon Martin many years ago and we continue to kill our youth today. We’re quick to say they’re out of control, running wild in the streets, yet unwilling to meet them there. We become so upset that they use the word “nigga” casually that we cant hear them under their breath asking for our help. Wake up people, these bad-a$$ kids today didn't raise themselves! Or maybe they did and that's the problem. A generation of parents who are too busy at the club to help with homework. A Black church, once at the forefront of leading change, spewing hatred and condemnation at young people, instead of welcoming them with open arms. We expected a jury to solve all of this? That’s the real shock.

I hold no right to preach to you. For my move to the suburbs is yet another example of a brother who “made it” and left. So for all of those who have taken the time to read this, please hear me loud and clear: I accept your challenge America. If I’m the person it takes to give my children and yours the life they deserve to live, then put it on me. I’ll carry that weight. I’ll be more than just a father to my own, I’ll be a father to all. I’ll be more than a teacher to my students, I’ll be a teacher to all. I’m tired of waiting for somebody else to do it. Put it on me. I  apologize Mr. and Mrs. Martin that we didn't do more before your son became the latest victim of our hypocritical society. I promise to do my level best to stop it from happening again. I hope you all will join me. 

How I Met Your Mother

When is I was 15, one of my regular weekend activities was to go roller-skating. Think “Rollbounce” or “ATL” just without the rappers turned actors.  Since my two closest friends at the time were white, “Shake and Bake” wasn’t an option, so we would ride all the way out to Pasadena, about a 40-minute drive from our homes in southwest Baltimore, to find a more “diverse” skating population. For the most part I was just happy to be out of the house but the girls were nice too. Being from the “city” brought some clout with it to a place like Pasadena. We’d roll up 5-6 dudes deep in Steve’s 1987 yellow Chevy Cavalier (ballin’!) bumping DMX or Eminem as loud as his often broken speakers would allow. You couldn’t have toldme, I wasn't tough (with my cornrows and butter Timberlands, lol). We probably went skating every weekend for about a year. You know the drill, you’ve seen the movies: you spent most of the time rapping along to lyrics of songs while skating around and trying to look smooth for the girls. There was the all-girl skate, where the guys cleared the floor and watched the girls circle around as we “Ooohed” and “Ahhhed”. But the best part of the night was the all-guy skate. This was how you tested your “playa” level. As you skated around, girls would line the wall and stick out their hands for you to slap as you skated by. The more girls who had their hands out as you skated by, the more “swag” you had. And the part of the night you dreaded most was the couples skate:  you never wanted to be the guy who had to sit down and pretend to be tired during the couples skate.

​Needless to say we went skating A LOT. One Saturday night turned out to be different. I noticed her immediately. She had a narrow face, a black-t-shirt that said Elite Models, a pony-tail (turns out it wasn't hers) butmost noticeably she had a BIGGGGGGGGGGGGGG…Smile (yeah, you thought I was going some place else, well I would have and she did, but my kids might read this someday, so I’m sticking with smile).  I remember immediately thinking how beautiful I thought she was, but there was a problem. She was skating with another guy. So I waited. We left that night and I didn't approach her.

A few weeks later we returned and there she was. Alone. (Ole boy got the message, subliminally). Now was my time. Would she slap my hand during all-guy skate? Could I get her attention before somebody else did? What if I got her attention but she wasn't interested? So here’s the thing… I used to be kinda shy, especially around the ladies. Going up to her and asking for her number was out of the question. So how could I do it? How could I find out if she was interested without risking being embarrassed in the place where I was coolest guy there (in my own head)?And hence the Sedrick Smith “move-to-woo-the-ladies”was born! I winked! Yup, you read that right. I winked at her! Smooth, low-risk, and if she squinted her face in disgust, I could just pretend that I had something in my eye and move on with my life. So I waited for her to sit down, and when she looked in my direction…Boom! The Wink! She smiled, I smiled and that was it. A few minutes later her friend Stacy came over and asked me if I wanted to skate with her friend Asha, I said yes and we skated together the rest of the night and exchanged pager numbers (Yup, pagers, this was the late 90’s people) before her mother came into the skating rink with a house coat on and snatched her out because she was taking too long to leave (that really happened). She blew my pager up all night (she claims I blew hers up, but clearly her memory is fuzzy in this area) and when I got in the car to head back home, I told my boys Brad and Steve that that girl Asha was going to be my girl. 15 years later, 8 years of marriage later, 4 kids later (well 3 kids and an Audrey ), she’s still the girl I want to skate all of my couple skates with. Happy 28thbirthday to my darling wife. And this kids, is how I met your mother.

When Bunny lost Birdie

I was 12 when I my father lost his father. I say it that way because I never really got to know him as a grandfather. Our first time “meeting” was at his funeral. I remember examining him as he lay in the casket on a hot summer day in Manning, South Carolina,1995. I imagine I was looking to see what of me I could see in him. He was slender, didn’t appear to have been very tall. Grayish hair. His face reminded me of my father’s, but not so much of mine at the time. I remember thinking, “Wow, that’s really him”, “my granddad”. James Silas Smith or “Birdie” as he was more affectionately known. I was sad; not because I felt it, but more so because I knew I was supposed to feel it.
All I knew of my grandfather was from the stories my dad told me. They had had a rocky relationship as my dad grew up. When he was younger, my dad once told me, he and Birdie had gotten into a fight, a fist fight at that, Birdie kicked him out of the house, told him to never come back. Things cooled of course and he moved back in. Birdie and my grandmother divorced when my dad was in his teens and my dad stayed with his mother and his sister. But he’d often visit Birdie, who was known to be a bit of a ladies man and his “wife of the moment”. My father grew especially fond of one of Birdies wives, “Nell” whom we would visit on the rare occasions we made it down to South Carolina. I called her grandma too because my dad still called her Mama. But not only was Birdie a ladies man, according to my dad, apparently he was bionic as well. You see, he had been in several car accident, one in which the car flipped over several (hundred according to my dad) times and he walked away without a scratch! Man, Birdie was something else.
So while I didn’t know Birdie personally, I carried around a mental picture of him in my wallet: Some suave Billy D Williams –meets- Superman type character, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound and make ladies swoon with the wink of an eye. It didn’t really match up when I saw him in the casket, but I still imagined it to be true.
I remember my father taking it extremely hard when he got the news that Birdie had passed. He pulled me aside right before I left for school and told me my grandfather had died. I cried, in part because I felt like I was supposed to, but also because I was sad I had never gotten to meet Superman. My dad was a mess. He coped like he did for most things in his life; by drinking. I remember when I came home he was sitting in the relaxer chair in the den, staring off at the wall, singing, drinking, babbling about his dad, pretty incoherent. He was that way for most of the weekend. Usually my dad was an angry drunk, yelling, cursing, fighting, but not that weekend. He was drinking away the pain, of what I now know, was a man who simply missed his father…
…The hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my life thus far, was to tell my sons that their grandfather had passed. I had been crying all day, making arrangements with my mother, grieving with my wife. When I walked in, Noah almost immediately asked me what was wrong. I guess he could see it on my face. I pulled them both close, tears welling on my face, my wife moved in to support me and I told them that Bunny had gotten real sick and he had to go to the hospital and that he passed away while he was there. Kaleb’s head dropped into his lap, Noah started crying. I pulled them both in closer and told them that their grandfather loved them both very much and that we were all going to miss him. Even as I retell this story to myself, I can feel the emotion of the room. Bunny was their Birdie. I can remember how excited Noah was, telling me one afternoon that Bunny had taken him for a ride in his car to McDonald’s. And how excited they would get when Bunny and Me-Ma would take them to see the wrestling or to the state fair. They loved Bunny and Bunny certainly loved them.
After I told the boys about Bunny passing, I stumbled up the stairs into my bed and wept. A lifetime of memories, a heart full of sadness. The door opened and in came Noah. He didn’t speak. His shoulders bounced up and down as he stood in the door way. I couldn’t see his face in the darkness but I could hear his sniffles. He crawled into bed, laid his head on my chest and we cried ourselves to sleep. He too had lost his superman.
Nearly six months after my father passed away, I continue on the roller coaster of emotion. Some days I remember him fondly and smile, I give a “thumbs up” to the sky to let him know I’m okay. Other days I struggle to sleep, still remembering him fondly but missing him all the same. As I enter my season of manhood and maturity, I thank God for allowing me 27 years with a father for I know many who never had a day with one. And I am most thankful that unlike I, who never got to know mine, although their time together was short, my boys will forever have memories of their grandfather, Silas Levern “Bunny” Smith, my father, their superman.

Mr. Fix It

Men are often defined by certain characteristics: strong, athletic, proud, protective, aggressive. I’ve always felt like I carry most of those characteristics. But there’s one, that ever since I was a little boy I seemed to lack: being handy.
I can’t fix sh*t! Never could. Couldn’t fix a flat tire on my bike as a kid. Couldn’t figure out how to put the arms back on my GI Joes. Takes me 45 minutes to an hour to change a car tire. Assemble Ikea furniture?? Forget it, I’d be better off buying it online and having it shipped in fully assembled from the warehouse in Sweden. My wife once had to assemble our son’s bed because I was convinced it was defected and missing pieces.
My dad, on the other hand, seemed to have been born with a tool belt. A roofer by trade, he’d climb 10-20 story buildings on a daily basis, patching holes, lining gutters, placing shingles. And he wasn’t limited to just the outside of the house. He’d lay carpet, unclog the kitchen sink, change the oil on the car. A real man’s man. I’d often think to myself, could we be any more different. I mean, aren’t some traits inherited?? Did those genes just skip me??
Our differences weren’t limited to our kinesthetic skills (or in my case, lack thereof). No sir, it seemed sometimes that the only thing my father and I shared in common was our last name. I was a nerd, a book worm, read all the time even made up my own stories as a kid; He could barely read. I once tested for near perfect vision, 20/15; My father almost went blind as a child, he could hardly see his hand in front of his face. I was quiet, shy, a housecat; He was the life of the party, always outside, making noise, having fun. My hair long and locked; his short or bald. Even our skin complexions didn’t match. Mom are you sure he’s my father??
Yet as I grow older, I am realizing what I’m sure he already knew, that so much of him is engrained in me. The differences now seem so miniscule. As I stood in my mother’s backyard today, weedwacker in hand, trimming her grass, as my father had so many times before, I couldn’t help but think about that little boy, who couldn’t fix anything. I cut the grass, trimmed the edges as she stood in the door way and looked on. I imagine, we both saw my father out there really, he in me, I in him. A couple weeks ago, her refrigerator died and she called me over to help her set up the new one. I had to take the hinges off of the door to get it to fit through the door way, shave a bit of the door to the kitchen that had swollen, then reattach the door to the hinges. I had never done any of it before but yet somehow, all of a sudden, I just knew how to. Which made me think: Maybe I wasn’t handy before because I didn’t have to be? In the back of my mind I guess I always knew, whether it be a hole in the roof, or a hole in my tire, that dad would be there to fix it. It’s funny how much we absorb from our family without ever knowing it.
Kaleb broke the leg to one of Noah’s action figures a few weeks ago. As I walked up stairs to see about the ensuing melee, I overheard Noah say to his brother, “Its okay Kaleb, I can give it to dad, He can fix anything.” He’s 6 and in his dad-hero worship phase, so right now I’m Mr. Fix it. I don’t mind, because for all of my life my dad was Mr. Fix it too. Now I guess it’s my turn. I imagine one day Noah will realize that we share more in common than those minuscule surface differences. More than simply a last name. He is part me, as I am part my father. So one day too he’ll be Mr. Fix it. Just do me a favor and don’t tell him about that tube of crazy glue hidden in my bedroom drawer!

Celebrating GSAM Day

Logged into facebook this morning. Newsfeed read as follows:
- “Fathers day is a joke. So fu*k Fathers Day. Dudes become fathers by accident or in 30 seconds. It takes a real man to be a daddy. You gotta earn that one. So happy Daddies Day to all those Dads out there. Especially those who have taken the place of those 30 second Fathers”
- “Happy Father's Day to all the fathers/dads, sperm donors not included!!!”,
- “Really don’t care too much for this day”,
- “Happy "Fathers Day" to all you dead beat dads”,
- “I hate all men, especially black men!, I hope they all die in a fiery pit in hell!”
…Ok, I made that last one up, but the rest of these are actual “status updates” for… What else? Father’s Day! Bitter much??
The unfortunate truth is that too many young people today (and some older ones as well) have a right to be bitter. Too often do I meet students being raised by single mothers, grandparents, aunts, cousins, friend’s parents or the social welfare system. I’m not breaking any news when I say there are too many missing fathers in the lives of our children today. Too many fleeting fathers, who leave the children behind, while they are in the process of leaving the mother behind. Too many guys with too many excuses about why they don’t have too much time to be in their children’s lives.
My point is not to bash absent fathers. There are plenty of days for that. The question that needs to be raised is, Are YOU sir doing enough to pick up the slack? You, yes you! (No seriously, go look in a mirror right now, then come back and finish reading this blog, I’m really talking about you!). “It takes a village to raise a child” or so the saying goes, right? I don’t know if we have a whole village left, but all movements start with one person. We get upset, when we hear a little boy cursing like a construction worker in the mall, or when we see a little girl half-dressed prancing down the street attracting the wrong kind of attention. But each of us are to be held responsible for this. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not telling you to go out and snatch that little boy by the ear (he WILL CUT YOU! I am not kidding!). But what I am saying, is set the example for those kids to see. Being present and involved in your children’s lives will impact the children around them. As original as kids claim to be, they really aren’t. Kids are copy cats. If your child has manners, his manners may rub off on that little Marlow Stansfield in his class (Wire reference, sorry I’m addicted). If you daughter is dressed in cute, age appropriate clothes, her little girlfriends are going to ask her where she shops. Peer pressure goes both ways. But all of that starts with US. Not with just allowing the kids to dress however or do whatever, because dad isn’t around.
Yes fathers are important. But for most successful people, there was no one singular person who made them into the person they are today. We don’t live in a vacuum. Yes, my father was involved, I realize my blessing but there were other men: a math teacher , a soccer coach, a friend’s dad, who helped shape my world and my vision of what a good man is. A good man is responsible, hard working, steadfast in his values, but a good man is not PERFECT. And because we are all flawed, it is all of our responsibility to pick up that slack when some MAN falls short.
Let us each be fathers to the kids in the community, even if that just means being a good parent to your own child so that they can be an example to the children around them. I’m not telling you not to be bitter. Hurt is real. But let us not get caught up in those choosing to be absent today, and rather let us focus on those who chose to be present for today. Yeah it’s called “Fathers Day”, but to me, its Good, Strong Active Men in our community today. We all know them, lets each become them. And then maybe next year, my Facebook newsfeed wont be so, d**n bitter!

The Reality of Marriage

There was a couple that my parents and I knew when I was growing up, that seemed to have everything. They both had successful careers, were college educated, lived in a big beautiful house, with their 5 kids. They seemed the antithesis of my parents: neither of which graduated from college, my father barely able to read, moving from house to house in west Baltimore whenever the rent became unreasonable. As far as I can remember, at least in front of us, the “Perfect” couple never fought, almost never even had a disagreement. My family and theirs would get together about once a week, eat, laugh, in general have a good time. But I can remember after they’d leave, I’d sometime feel depressed. Despite enjoying their company, I’d often compare their family to mine and more often than not, I’d end up feeling like something was wrong in my house. Unlike our friends, my parents seemed to argue and fight constantly; Over bills, blown paychecks, my father’s poor choice in friends, for one reason or another, somebody was yelling, some plate was being slammed, someone threatening to leave for good. As a kid, I’d think to myself, “What’s wrong with my parents”? Why can’t I have *** and *** as parents? Their marriage seemed perfect.
But things aren’t always as they seem. As I’ve gotten older and today celebrate 7 years of marriage with my wife, I’ve realized many things about marriage, maybe the most important being: Marriage is difficult. Yeah, my parents fought like cats and dogs, but they loved like them too. My mother stood beside my father through his struggles with addiction, through his job losses because of those addictions. Through it all. When my mother needed surgery last year, my father stayed with her in the hospital, heading home to cook for my brother, heading to work, and then heading back to the hospital to be by her side. With marriage, I now know, there are ebbs and flows, as I child I didn’t understand this. I could only see the ebbs of my parents’ marriage and the flow of the marriage of their friends.
At dinner the other night, my wife asked me , “Why do you think so many marriages don’t work today? (You know, those questions that guys just looooovvvee to answer!) This time I actually thought about it and said, “Because they give up too easily”. An argument is not a justification for a divorce. The reality is that the people who love each other the most, often fight the hardest. Each being so passionate and convinced that what they are doing is for the betterment of the relationship, that they have to convince the other person that they are correct. If a couple doesn’t fight, it doesn’t necessarily mean that things are going well, it might just mean that they have nothing left to say to each other.
These last 7 years of marriage haven’t always been easy for us. We yell, we fuss, we curse, a plate or two may have been thrown in 7 years, but here we stand 7 years later, and the only “itch” I have is to have my wife by my side forever. I pray that my sons will find wives willing to stand by them through the ups and downs as my mother did for my father, as my wife had for me, and that they’ll stand strong in their union, unwilling to run when things get rough, much like their parents and much like mine.
My parents spent 27 years together before tragedy stole my father away. Those fights along the way only served to solidify their bond. Today we celebrate 7. But we also celebrate the reality of marriage, the fighting, the cursing, the yelling, the crying, the throwing, and most importantly the loving.
….. And what happened to my family’s friends, you ask?? The “Perfect” couple with the “perfect” kids?? ….
Well Sandra married Elvin and had twins, Denise married a Navy admiral, Theo graduated from college, and the Cosby show got cancelled in 1992.