Mommy I

My wife told me tonight that I always have something derogatory to say about women. She said that I am always making comments like “she’s only with him because he has money” or “she’s been around. Who would want used goods?” Now, admittedly, I am overly judgmental of women and how they navigate the world and deal with men. I firmly believe that the love that I have with my wife is rare: I love her – almost unconditionally – and I hope I never lose her trust or companionship. But look at most women and assume that they have ulterior motives; that they shouldn’t be trusted and more often than not, are unhappily in relationships and will jump at the first chance for something more comfortable and profitable.

Most people assume this about men too and I don’t refute that. But I have accepted that I have a double standard that I can neither defend nor justify. It just is what it is. Men sleep around and women should not. Sorry. It’s my intellectual versus carnal contradiction that I am okay with.

I assume much of my issues around women surround my mother and what and who I always wanted her to be. (Doesn’t it always go back to the mothers?) I have heard that we are forever seeking what we did not get from our mothers and, for me, that is probably stability and honesty. Yes, I believe my mother cheated on my father. Probably physically and definitely emotionally. And because of this and many other issues revolving around dishonesty, she and I do not speak. We will save that conversation for another post.

However, before and throughout my marriage, all I ever wanted was a daughter. I have an incredible son; he’s cute, charming, smart, affectionate and loves sports just like his old man. Yet, I want more. A baby girl. When I was nineteen and feeling very alone in this world, I dreamed of having a little girl with whomever and all I would ask is that I live across the street. Because of parent’s divorce, I was unsure if I would ever get married – how could I trust – but I knew I wanted a child. A daughter. But instead I found a queen, who I trust 97% of the time and we have been together for over ten years. Our love is rare, it’s genuine and evolving. I love my wife more now than I ever have and that’s because she’s a good woman. And she likes me, which is saying a lot since I am not sure I would want to marry myself.

Every time I want to post a new entry, I ask myself “is this the time that the self-proclaimed ‘Black Family Man’ is going to reveal that he may hate his mother? How can a ‘Family Man’ be at odds with the person who birthed him, inspired him, taught him so much? What kind of man does not speak to his mother?!!!!”

I am what I am. Black Family Man. Living everyday for my Lord, my wife and my son. No, not for me. And not for my mother. Oh yeh, but I also live for my unconceived daughter who I hope I can mold into the perfect woman and replace the female blood lineage that makes me suspicious of anyone with estrogen.

Me and you. We're dying.....

My heart is hurting. No, I have not lost my wife (I love you gurl!) my heart is really hurting. Every time I eat, especially something with sugar, I feel sharp pains in my chest. Real deal. I am 35 years old with high blood pressure, high cholesterol and a ton of stress. Black men die of heart disease more than any other ethnicity and I am fast becoming one of the norm.

So why don’t I change? Because it’s hard. I am overweight (gained 40 pounds in 10 years), probably have pre-diabetes, love to workout (sometimes) and have a very difficult time changing my diet. My doctor put me on a blood pressure medication five months ago that I sporadically take. My wife implores me to lose the weight – to live! – yet I make little progress and regress even faster. My reluctance to follow instructions whether they are hers or the dietician is making me into the typical, Black Family Man. Fat.

Yes, I said it. We’re fat. We overeat, do not do enough cardio exercise and die at 50. Bernie Mac. And why? Because we have failed to make the adjustment. Everyday I tell myself “this is the day” yet by 2pm I am fiending for a sugar rush and have to have bread or coffee or chocolate or fruit or juice. Sugar is our nemesis, yet we feast upon it. And then we leave our families without a man. Without a father. Without a husband. Prematurely.

I am afraid to die? Absolutely. Please pray for me and help me to uplift myself to be the best BFM I can be. In order to do this, my heart has to hurt less.

Nia

I am not a car guy. I say that because I know so many dudes who worship cars and fantasize about when they will own (or lease) a Benz or Lexus or a Porsche. Sure, if money was no object, I would buy a BMW and enjoy it like the toy that it is, but I would never worship it. Nor would I define myself by it. What I would also never do is drive a better car than my wife.

I am big believer that my wife is a representation of me. When she is out in the world and she is wearing our wedding band on her hand people know that she is mine. And although that may sound contradictory to what I said earlier, it is important to me that my wife feels good, look good and yes, shines. She is a car girl, and although I have not had the resources to buy her the car of her dreams, I understand that it is one of her dreams and one day, just to see her smile, I have every intention of buying it for her.

As a representation of me, she must drive the best that we have. We have two cars: a dented base model Dodge Durango and a slightly sleeker, more fuel efficient Acura TL. The Acura is the “better” car thus I insisted that it be her primary mode of transportation. I can drive the bulkier car because I don’t care; I firmly believe that men who buy hot cars want to attract hot women. I am not that dude. I prefer to let my Queen have the best that I have and show the world that I will give her my all, at all times. Some of it may be superficial but I am not professing that I am above that. She married me because she said I was a giver and, for that, I will do my best to give her all that I have. I am.

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.