The Curious Case Against Poor People’s Parenting

“When are we going to hold these parents accountable. The teachers are great. It’s what comes to them that is the problem. These parents don’t read to their kids. We need to teach them how to parent.”

 -said some self-proclaimed liberal that was not me

My amazing nephews

All I knew was: I was broken. That I had come from a place too wrong; that the good teachers, just like the good pastors, in my neighborhood were going to make me right. The fix: Helping me understand why being a CNA making $10 an hour would be my dream job. That’s what Ms. Jackson told me I should be. That was a “good job” she called it for a Black girl. This was in 1991 not 1931.

 I was broken.

I saw the extra clothes given to me at school. I saw the extra boxes of lunch thrown in my backpack. I heard the whispers from adults around me. They thought we were hungry. They thought we needed counseling because of the gun shots at night. They always wanted to give my mother services-after school, Saturday soup kitchens, free basketball programs. I heard the whispers from the adults in the building that we didn’t know who our father was and that our mother was working so many jobs she didn’t know where the school was.

We were poor, yes. But almost none of those statements many of the teachers in my schools made about me and my siblings were true.

The dreams many of our teachers had for us were crushing. Many of them found compromising careers for us because well “…everyone can’t go to college, after all.” Our parents, many of whom, never graduated high school and couldn’t find a university on a map, were accepting of teachers’ professional career advice. My parents, and many in my neighborhood, sent us to school in good faith. My mother never questioned an A. She didn’t know an A in my inner city elementary school was not the same A on the other side of town where the white children played. And yet we rose, she sent me to school always on time. She sent me there fed and clothed. And when there were gun shots outside she turned the Cosby show up louder and we watched from under the bunk beds. And she scrubbed me down until I smelled like Ivory soap. And she read stories to me at night and would pop our hands if we lost focus while reciting multiplication problems. And when she worked nights, my father would make us veal parmesan while reading us stories about Langston Hughes. I wanted to be Langston.

The truth was, we ate pretty well. Sure, we were poor, but during tax time, we were riding high. My mother was and is a hard working, God fearing, union member, who believed that if she just sent her children to school and they worked real hard, they would go far. Very far. Because that’s what we do in America she would say with naiveté.

My mother, and my father for that matter, sent us to school with full faith in the system. That not only what we were learning was preparing us for college but for some amazing career. My parents, to their knowledge were engaged parents. They didn’t think that their neighbors or pseudo-intellectuals, or the people that sat on their pews in church were making judgments about how they parented.  They didn’t realize that they were fodder and gossip for teachers during lunch time who made gross stereotypes about how poor people parent. My parents had no idea that they, and parents just like them, were subject to so many debates on parental responsibility.

They didn’t know that there were people, real people, many of whom consider themselves liberal, who believed that if my parents and parents like them just had the sense enough to read to their children, instill values in them, reinforce a culture of learning, then that would change the trajectory of our lives. That somehow if they, as parents, could be held accountable, then the drop out rate for African American children would drastically reduce. My parents would be shocked to know people thought that way about them.

Some people call it respectability politics. I call it bullshit. Condescending bullshit. In fact, there is nothing more conservative and bootstrappy than to blame poor people for having poor people problems like faith in a failed system.

When did this vicious rumor start that poor people don’t read to their kids!?!?!

What’s even more fascinating is this liberal condensation that it’s not about teacher accountability but parental accountability. Because people love binaries. It’s about holding the entire system, which has failed generations of people (including the parents) accountable.

I continue to struggle with this embrace that my newly minted middle class sisters and brothers have with blaming parents. Because they had parents who pulled themselves up by their bootstraps and were deeply invested in their education then somehow people who didn’t “make it” parents must have not? Many of them, light intellectuals, but intelligent nonetheless believe whole hardly that poor people, very specifically, poor Black and Brown people inhabit a culture that prohibits them from valuing educational success. I suppose that’s a daring statement if you take it straight like that. And yet I hear it in insensitive statements, calling into question poor people’s judgment for even having children at all. It is also a common theme that is echoed in the whole “Education starts at home.” They mean poor homes, because they just assume it starts in middle and upper class homes already?

How do you expect to change an education system, a system you find uniquely insurmountable, by denigrating the millions of poor parents who rely on it as their only service for education? I suppose educational excellence and the expectation of high results from a public system is a middle class value that poor and minority people must not know anything about?

That is fundamentally classist and deeply harmful. And I am not torn on that fact. There is the undercurrent of disdain for poor people, especially Black poor people.  There is a need to want to fix them. There is this myth that if we fix the way poor Black people parent then we will have fixed the problem of education in America. I would venture to say that there is such hatred, such a need to want to fix as if they are uniquely broken, poor Black parents.

What is liberal about finding disgust with how poor Black people parent? And please explain to me how the decision to chose parental accountability over systemic failure, which should not be a choice, is progressive?

If you are looking for something to be mad at, a place to point your rage, a place to expend your critique of what is wrong with the educational system, you should investigate the policies of bureaucracy and the politics of the status quo. You would find that there are people who are deeply invested in your blame of poor parents. You will find that there are people invested in your desire to want to legislate parenting.

And if I were to blame my parents for anything at all, I’d blame them for not challenging, standing up and marching in the streets against an education system that not only failed them but their children. If I were to blame my parents at all, I would blame them for not understanding that all teachers are not created equal. I would blame them for not understanding that having good faith in a broken system is not going to fix it. 

The False Praise of Black Fatherhood

An Amazing Black Father 

Facebook never did much for me except for expand my over thinking into what I saw as people’s otherwise already irrational, simple behavior. Now, I’m in the mood to delete every Black male father on my timeline in an effort to excuse myself from the idiotic phrases of their mainly female fan base that goes a little something like this:

“I’m so proud of you. You are such a good father.”

Which elicits something like:

“Thanks______. I have to do for mines.”

UGH.

In full disclosure, not only do I have a Black father but I live with a Black father. We share a bed, rent payments, and our hearts for a pretty consistent basis now. And people, without knowing if he is a child abuser, emotional manipulator, or a poor role model, continue to sing unsolicited praises for him in the comments section of his social media accounts. Why?

I don’t see this celebrity treatment spread across the races. What instead I am forced to witness is the presence of Black male bodies in children’s lives being equated to good fatherhood. Just the mere presence. Without taking away from amazing displays of black fatherhood, can we be critical of how we treat black fathers because of this fascinating premise that they are somehow extinct. See, when you make something extinct in pop culture, the mere presence of it begins to take on a supernatural, mythological encounter.  It becomes fascinating. It becomes…good.

But often times, what I’m seeing from a few (by no means all or a lot) Black fathers is a piss poor display of personhood let alone a complete, stellar father hood performance. When I see some of these men, I am forced to witness an inability to be emotionally supportive without being physically abusive.  I am forced to witness men who don’t understand that their every move with be imitated and internalized whether their children are allowed to be fully expressive of that or not.  I am forced to witness some fathers who find it an extension of their manhood to behave in a patriarchal and oppressive manner to women who they deem worthy of verbal harassment, misogyny, adultery, and abuse.  What I am forced to witness is the display of bags of Nike shoes and Ralph Lauren coats as shows of affection rather than too many hugs, too many kisses, and infinite time reading, going to the zoo, and going on vacations. I witness an inability to teach boys how to be productive citizens, energetic, and creative without calling them names like ‘bad.’ What I am witnessing is an inability to teach girls how to also be productive citizens, energetic, and creative without filling their head with stereotypes on what girls should and shouldn’t do.

The reality is, is that the ability to purchase designer clothes, fancy jackets, and making weekend trips to visit children while they are playing violent video games has been the benchmark for success of Black fatherhood. This has got to end. It is not helpful to anyone.

The very best of Black fatherhood is something that I get to witness all the time and I am proud that this is the norm and not the exception. I am happy that I get to see Black men who are consistently in their children’s lives providing as much or at times more support mentally and emotionally to their children’s well being than anyone else. I am happy that I know wonderfully well adjusted Black children who get to see dedicated Black fathers who wash dishes, do laundry, go to work, read them stories at night, and pick them up when they fall regardless of their age and their gender. I am proud that I get to see Black men who are deeply invested in the quality of the children’s school and are sitting up at night thinking about what college their children will get in to. I am proud that I get to hear Black men speak to their children fair and diplomatically. I am equally as excited to see Black men teaching their children how to have a sense of agency as I am  to see them teach their children patience. I am glad I get to see Black men who let their children see them vulnerable, and in loving, healthy relationship and do not subscribe to this substandard of Black fatherhood.

What I believe will be praised in Black fatherhood is that which should be praised in humanity. Good will and deep commitment to that which is seen and not seen. We have to do more than give the gold to anybody. We have to give the gold to those who finish the race, compelled to be the very best whose ever done it.

Birth of a Trayvon Generation

Me in my Justice for Trayvon pen

Trayvon Martin was born today. His mother and father welcomed him into the world with as many hopes, dreams, and aspirations for their child as any other. Google didn’t change their landing page in honor of him. There is no TIME cover story of ‘How Trayvon Would Look Now.” There is no great investigative report spilling from the New York Times of how his death has changed millennials. There’s no statues in his honor, no schools, no federal holidays, no commemorative ceremonies.

What we are left with is our memory of the pain of injustice. Of laws. And yet we are a nation of laws. Laws that are deeply rooted in injustice with liberty for some and threat, death, danger, and inadequacy for others. Of laws, you know those things that imprisoned Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., those things that sanctioned terrorism and apartheid against the Bantu people of South Africa, those things that sentenced Nelson Mandela to life imprisonment, those things that allowed Nazi Germany to bestow atrocities against its fellow man, those things that denied African Americans the right to vote, to own land, and to a sound education. Yes, those were all laws. And it was the law, the court system, the justice that we so readily hold high as our social superiority in the world, that in fact sanctioned the death of Trayvon Martin. 

Many brown boys have faced the same death as Trayvon since his passing. Many have marched. Many have sat in fear, in shock, and in disdain of the events that have passed. Many scrutinized the online rage as only being short term and committed those who didn’t march to some hell for piss poor progressives. Many thought we would forget….

So we are forced to remember Trayvon much less than how his parents would, as a strong reminder of how even our worse nightmares linger over with very little progress.  I am reminded today of how very fearful I continue to feel for my nephews. Of how very inhumane I suspect people see me, and my body, and the bodies of people whom share my skin. I am reminded today of how isolating, how devastating of a task it is to take on that burden. I am reminded of the outrage and the lack of progress that has followed.

I hope that not only will people take today to remember a young boy who died a few weeks from today 17 years ago, but to also remember what both his life and death means to the trajectory of our progress. I hope people take today to remember Trayvon as not only a household face for racial violence, but also a simple young man owning his carefree stroll to his very right to be alive. I hope people take today to remember that this could have been any of our sons and will continue to be if we don’t stand in deep and long-term solidarity for racial justice through a series of laws and judicial revisions. I hope people take today not only to wear their hoodies and imagine Trayvon’s life as a college student, but to also think critically and objectively of how the media has continued to frame this as a singular, rare story worthy of a singular, rare amount of rage. I hope that people take today to be

It is my deep hope that people will not take today to be drug down a Don Lemon respectability politics rabbit hole of what we should wear, should say, should achieve in an effort to not face imminent threat and untimely death.

It is my hope that people reflect and conclude that we continue to hold Trayvon up as an example, just one of many, in which justice has failed up. It is my hope that we decide that we will rise and seek our destinies of justice together. We are inextricably linked.

It is my hope that we give birth to a Trayvon generation. One that understands collectively that if we don’t rise at the sight of this call to action, we will continue to meet our fate of injustice together. 

Guns Kill People

Picture from DragArt.com

I don’t even remember the first time I was affected by gun violence but I do remember the most striking. I was young. Perhaps 8 or so. My parents were on the side of a rented duplex where many of my relatives lay celebrating in the summer months. My 90-something year old great, great grandmother was baking in the kitchen, her ears bad but spirits high. Many of my cousins were fairly young then as well, running around, tired and ready for bed. My parents, who had a tumultuous relationship back then, were on the porch engaged in yet another argument about God knows what. It was hot. A car full of young men arrived at the duplex in search of a rival gang member. My uncle, who misheard the young man’s request upon arrival, was struck several times at point blank by a sea of bullets. It devastated my family and it changed my father.

From that day on, my life was constantly disrupted in personal ways by guns. I saw a young man die on a sidewalk in Flint, Michigan. I’ve had community members cancel meetings after a sudden death of a brother, friend, cousin who was taken away by a gun shot in the summer’s night. I’ve had cousins subject to multiple gun shot wounds. I’ve had a female cousin get shot in the face within an inch of her life. I’ve had cousins imprisoned for gun possessions. I’ve had playground fun interrupted by gun battles. I’ve snuck out of basketball games early to avoid the inevitable gun fight that would follow. I’ve been in movie theaters where we were let out the side door, my father clinching tightly to my hand, eyes moving swiftly to scope out any threats.

I’ve lived with guns my whole life yet I had never seen one up close and personal until it was pressed against my brother’s face on a street sidewalk in the thick of summer. The perpetrator was a policeman.

I’ve always known that guns killed people. They killed children who would never remember their fathers. They killed spirits that never got to make it to 30 years old. They killed their victims, of course, but they killed communities. They killed scared boys hoping to become men. They killed the young. In fact, I learned that the old died of diabetes, amputated and gray and the young died from guns. Everyone else went to jail. Because of guns.

The guns that occupy my memory never killed squirrels.

I don’t hunt. I’ve never lived in an area where hunting was a necessity or owning a gun was a sport. Every urban center I’ve called home has seen guns as an immediate threat to humanity. Every place I’ve called home has seen what the destruction of guns can do. Every city I’ve called home has only seen guns in ‘the wrong hands.’ The neighborhoods I grew up in, the urban centers I later moved to, and the mostly minority communities I work in, have led me to the conclusion that guns are not only bad but have no place in the hands of human beings.

Because of who I am and what my skin color convenes to the rest of the world, I don’t feel safe walking around this country knowing that others are armed. We have seen time and time again, the reckless judgment of officers and everyday citizens who have killed their fellow man on behalf of some perceived fear. I’m often left with the lingering question: What if they were not armed? What if getting a gun was not as easy as getting a pack of cigarettes? What if gun ownership were not these highly and hotly debated topics for evening news’ partisan participants? What if we could honestly say that we wouldn’t have wanted to be in that movie theater, or school, or mall in any town across America? What if we could publicly acknowledge that there are people in urban centers all across the country who own guns, legally and illegally for the expressed intention of killing another human being? And that should not be subject to debate. And that people in Mackinac County, Michigan should not be weighing in on how we restrict gun access to people who’ve never even seen a deer let alone packed up an RV for a boys trip in search of some rabbits.

What if progressives could just come right out and say that we want a completely unarmed society? I don’t want to turn on the news and see another headline ripped out of a Law & Order scene of some 22 year old cop who was so sure this young, black boy coming from his 3rd day of 9th grade had a gun. When in fact he just happened to be 6 feet tall with peach fuzz and daydreaming in the middle of Bedford Stuyvesant. And respectability politics aside, we have become so engulfed with defending the Cosby kids and suburban schoolchildren against guns that we’ve forgotten how guns have a lasting effect on all of us. Whether we are employed or unemployed, whether we’ve been a perpetrator or a victim. Guns are not good for us. There should not be a gun under a pillow on the 12th floor of a studio apartment in Chelsea legally owned by a person popping meds for bipolar no more than there should be one pointed at a room full of kindergarteners in Greenwich, Connecticut. There should not be a gun riding on the A train with me. There should not be a gun visibly holstered on an officer at the supermarket with me. There should not be a gun at the scene of a robbery for tennis shoes. There should not be guns in urban centers where there are more people than animals to shoot.

Let’s get real about what’s happening here. Guns are killing people. They absolutely are. They are destroying our happiness. They destroy our communities. And there isn’t a gun alive that can protect me from feeling helpless every time I am destroyed by the news of another gun crime. 

Brownstone Stalker

Brownstone in Bed Stuy 

I wish brownstones could be as easy to get as sexually transmitted diseases.

I am, one of many, desperately seeking an affordable multi-level brownstone in an affordable Central Brooklyn neighborhood. Emphasis on affordable.

The truth is, I live in a brownstone now. That’s right. I live in a brownstone with 3 bedrooms. That sounds luxurious and I should be grateful that I am not stuck 10 blocks away from a train station in a 5 story walkup with 17 roommates. But the multi-family, mixed use brownstone I live in now is nothing like I imagined it would be.

Growing up in the 1980s and 90s in a low income community, television was an inexpensive way of seeing the world. Though pop culture can be criticized heavily for its unrealistic cultural contributions, there were times when it gave me aspiration. Like other brown kids, the Cosby Show was the pop culture symbol that changed my idea of who and what I could accomplish economically in this world. Because Clair Huxtable was so charming, I was drawn almost exclusively to her lifestyle. I knew I wanted to go to an HBCU, I knew I wanted to get married, I knew I wanted to be as witty as she was, I knew I wanted to be in love with jazz music, and I knew-even from very early on, that I wanted to live in Brooklyn in an iconic brownstone.

Brownstones are multistory townhouses that are made of stones that are brown. Brownstones to Brooklyn transplants are essential status symbols. They represent everything you move to Brooklyn for-space, a patch of green, a bit of quietness, and to be slightly closer to authenticity. They conjure up feelings of summer time nostalgia. They force you into conversations about neighborhood events, gentrification, community happenings, so forth and so on. They are charming. They represent memories of romantic nostalgia. Brownstones breath life into your otherwise tiny, cramped up existence. Brownstones are everything.

Me near some brownstones

Brownstones today are expensive. Brownstones in Park Slope, Cobble Hill, or Downtown Brooklyn can start at well into the $1 million range for a 3 story single family. Brownstones in Bedford Stuyvesant and Crown Heights are slightly more affordable starting at $600,000 going well into the millions for fully renovated properties. Buying an affordable brownstone at $400,000 is also a gamble, with many of them requiring significant renovations.

I always wonder how people got into these amazing brownstones? Don’t you love the stories of how the city sold vacant brownstones to people for $1 during the height of the crack epidemic? Don’t you love the stories of your coworkers who inherited their brownstone from their great grandmother who paid $12,000 for it in 1942? Don’t you love how people talk about how cheap they got their brownstone for in an ‘up and coming neighborhood’ and now they use it as rental property?

I think the days of brownstone affordability may be over. I’m searching almost daily for my Brooklyn brownstone so if you see her...et me know.