Good Grief

I don’t know if this is well known outside of intimate circles of black men. Most of us don’t envision ourselves growing old. Most of us are content with the idea that we will die before or during the prime of our lives. Most of us envision getting shot, stabbed, hit by a car, or falling to our death. Many of us envision violent and scary deaths. I had visions of people mourning my death. I never thought much about it, nor was I even scared by thoughts of my untimely demise. I wasn’t saddened by these thoughts; I didn’t consider myself morbid nor did I live a reckless life where these thoughts had the likelihood of becoming reality. It was just my normal way of thinking about the future.

Until I was about 30, I thought it was just me. I thought it was just one of those quirky aspects of my personality. I rationalized it. And it wasn’t until I briefly mentioned it to a colleague; only to be met with a “WHOA…. I thought it was just me…” did I begin to realize that many Black men felt this way. And each time I made the connection, the Black man I was speaking to, also thought it was just him. Each. Time!

I didn’t know what to make of this. I generally understood that the weight and emotional load and psyche of men, especially black men, are grossly unknown or misunderstood. I knew that black men became hardened through silence, or being silenced. I knew that our fathers were either absent or present; and that’s about it. I knew that all of the fathers I knew were being intentional about being active, loving, emotionally available, AND present. I also knew that Black men were in hiding. We hid our emotions from our spouses. We hid in bathrooms to take breaks; hid while doing yard work; hid while taking long trips to get the cars cleaned; hid while smoking cigars and drinking bourbon with other men in hiding; we hid from persecution from getting the wrong salad dressing or drying the blouse labeled dry clean only. We hide behind closed mouth grins and shaking heads. We became masterfully and comfortably hidden.

But still… Why couldn’t we see ourselves with grey hairs, or walking our daughters down the aisle, or playing with our grandchildren. I don’t really know. I rationalized it as…. well I grew up in the projects, rap music, evenings news, every single study about men dying before women, police brutality, messages in the media, every movie, every TV show, blog, study, twitter, Biggie, Pac, Big L, Pun, MLK, Ray-Ray n’nem, …. Kobe.

It’s times like these when I can almost rationalize why star athletes are paid so much money. During those times when we were hiding… those athletes were either hiding with us, or bringing us joy. They didn’t judge us. They provided us with examples that we use to raise our kids. We learned from their mistakes; or at least tried to. They create scenarios that allowed us to brag and feel better about ourselves. They represent the hometowns we abandoned, or that we were hiding in or from. Their actions on the field, court, or pitch had the power to shift our narratives. And that within itself, is priceless. The men I know are working hard to come out of hiding. And each generation will do more and better. That… to me… is worth its weight gold.