Legacy of Love

My father loves me. He tells me every time we speak either on the phone or in person. He has been telling me this since I was born, I guess, but I know it has been as long as I remember. It is these simple words that let me know that, at the minimum, I have to tell my son the same thing. Everyday. Of course, I feel it naturally, but to say it, consistently, is empowering and necessary.

So many Black men that I know either do not know their fathers or do not have the kind of intimate relationship with them as I do with mine. I am very fortunate. Whatever happened in my dad’s life, especially with his dad, prompted him to love, care and protect me even as I got older. I am thirty-five years old and my dad still takes care of me; not in a way like a crutch, but he fills my needs of needing a responsible man who is available and wise. The words “I love you” and “I am proud of you” roll off his lips freely and since he is a man of few words, this is all I need to hear.

By the standards of the material world my father might not be great. He is sixty-seven, lives alone, is not wealthy, is not college-educated and drove a UPS truck for twenty-five years. He is divorced. However, his fundamental example of being a Black, family man, gives me courage. He did not have to do what he did. He does not have to do what he does. His love for me is enduring and for that I will pass that on to my son.