I've come to realize this world is full of Bad Mothers. Mothers who give their all to raise whole, happy people. Mothers who show their children what true strength is by bearing down and birthing their dreams. This world has been a better place because of Bad Mothers. Women who refuse to shrink but grow in love and wisdom and creativity each day.
But let us not forget the dads. Each day, we are bomabarded with images and stories of bad daddies. Dads who walk out on multiple children with multiple women. Dads who are selfish, rude, misogynistic and gutless. As a society, I believe we have shifted the ideas of fatherhood; we commend men for doing a job that women are sometimes forced to do because we see so many examples of men who run from the responsibility. We assume that fathers are deadbeat losers who can barely hold their own lives together let alone build a life with a family. How do I know this? It's in the look of surprise on a new beau's face when they ask me about my son's father and I don't have much to say. I don't have anymore sob stories or woe-is-me how-lost-am-I-cuz-he's-done-me-so-wrong stories. The raised eyrbrow when I don't have much drama to spill about our relationship is enough proof that as a culture we have changed daddies into monsters.
So I don't want to talk about bad daddies anymore; there's enough of that through memes, vines and internet sites. I want to talk about Bad Daddies. Bad Daddies are men who flourish in the light of their children's eyes and take pride in the fact that they have procreated and thus cretaed a new opportunity for hope in the world. Bad Daddies are men who foster the growth of children; who can leap around the house making the "oohs" and aahs" of a monkey just to hear a child's giggle and who teach you how to fight when that bully gets a little too full of themselves and the teacher's not looking. These are the daddies we should talk about. We should celebrate, encourage and support them so that they multiply and we can create a world with myriads of Bad Parents.
My first experience of a Bad Daddy was with my own. A man of few words, my father taught me the joy of being unique and loving my own company. When he passed in February of this year, I found it hard to put into words how I felt about his presence in my life and when I was asked to write the obituary for his memorial I struggled with it for months not quite knowing what to say. But my Bad Daddy is the very reason why I love words in the first place so they had to eventually spilled out of my pen. Let me share with you what I wrote in celebration of my first Bad Daddy:
Dear Father, Husband, Brother and Friend
We love you. We miss you. Since you entered this world on September 25th, 1949 at Duke Hospital in Durham, North Carolina it has been irrevocably changed. James and Christine had no idea what a force they were ushering into the world and were simply happy to meet their newborn son. Or perhaps, early on they could see in each tiny yawn and adorable gurgle the creative, diligent and formidable black man you would become.
Growing up in the streets of Baltimore with a brood of brothers and sisters to chase after, you learned and mastered the trick of fending off the harshness of life all while flourishing in it. Your words became reality in the things that you wrote and you tumbled with life on the pages of your notebooks capturing much and communicating all. From school boy pranks to childhood fights you grew not only in stature but in wisdom learning to navigate the thin line between being one of the crowd and standing as an individual in such a big family. You learned to see family as strength, loyalty and comfort and as you all grew together you carried a piece of each person's life journey with you in your heart and in your journals. Those you have left, Ronnie, Michael, Eric, Pamela and Paula will forever see your childhood grin in their dreams laughing and coaxing them to enjoy the beauty of life.
Then you met Clara. Enchanted by her at first on the campus of Morgan State University, you vowed and eventually became the epitome of a man after God's own heart even without stepping inside a church barring Mother's Day and Christmas. You were the shoulder to cry on and the arms to run to; the pillar of consistency and duty that kept the household from crumbling. It was in your letters of love and devotion that Clara found a home to grow as a woman and eventually become the mother of three children: Morgan, Malcolm and Marcus. On each you left your indeliable mark: in Marcus you bred a creativity and artistry that is undeniable and a quiet courage that is unmatched, in Malcolm you have left a voice strong and boisterous that stands by it's beliefs and wrestles with opposition while being at ease with it's own potency, and in Morgan a love of words and a love of love that weave themselves into a magical appreciation of the beauty of this world. This universe encounters you through those you have created and the one who you adored.
This city mourns the loss of a talent and friend that will be sorely missed. With a camera that seemed to be surgically implanted in your hands you captured the essence of an often tumultuous place in Baltimore and chronicled the energy of it all with a vigor and a vitality that embedded itself into every shot. Through your camera you built relationships; unbreakable, fruitful and eternal that left the sidewalks of this place whispering your name. "The man with the camera" could tell a story with the swift push if his finger and communicate a lifetime in the space between pages. It is through your lens that we learned to see and love ourselves, flaws and imperfections evident, while also reveling in the joy of being seen and appreciated.
You have left your stamp on this world. And every time we gaze on one of your pictures, or laugh at one of your stories, or dive into one of your journals, you live on. We will forever remember the scent of a peaceful darkroom and the potent tobacco of your favorite habit. And we can only marvel at the notion that you are somewhere in the clouds, reclining in a heavenly chair, with a celestial newspaper at your side and an ethereal corn cob pipe between your lips, looking down upon us all and saying, "Well done." Well done.
Love Always,
Those Who Have Been Left Behind
Ashe and Amen. I hope that my father reads that and is pleased with himself for all the cards he destroyed with his own tiny novels, all the letters in which he shared his innermost ideas and all the journals in which he taught me that even when we're not speaking we still always have a voice.
So in honor of my Bad Daddy, I have created a Bad Daddy page. Each week I'll find a Bad Daddy to share with you so we can all be reminded that real men still exist. Check it out today to see photos from my own marvelous Bad Daddy. And if you are a Bad Daddy or know one, shoot me email. Let's start building an atmosphere for Bad Parents to shine!
