It took 44 years to come to this understanding

When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things......

1 CORINTHIANS 13:11

*Warning this may be a little long and drawn out but requires some context so bear with me......

Anyone that knows me, beyond superficially, understands that I am equally Black and White. My father is African American and my biological mother is White. I am not mixed(i.e. confused), bi-racial, mullato, or any of that other bullshit. I am equally Black and White, simultaneously. That said, the woman I call Momma is the woman who has been married to my father for the past 35 years as I refer to my biological mother simply by her name. There are many reasons for this but ultimately that is what it is, so let's move on. 

Just last week I was down at my parent's house, in the semi-rural community they inhabit, roughly 35 miles outside of "progressive" Austin. This area is from which they hail and from which the Black side of my family originates, so even though I was raised within inner-city Dallas and Austin I still have an ancestral fondness. Ironically, as a kid, I despised visiting my Black family and therefore did so sparingly and reluctantly. Part of that reason was my paternal Grandmother whom I also perceived did not like me. I wasn't sure why, my Whiteness I presumed, but our interactions were far from loving. In my mind, she clearly preferred my all-Black cousins that resided with her due to my Auntie's deterring AIDS. These visits to the middle of nowhere were always prompted by Joyce (my biological mother) and the tension between her and my grandmother was apparent even as a young child. Even in the late 80s and into the 90s Taylor Tx was a sundown town. Coming from East Dallas and Oak Cliff this always felt like a punishment and a step back in time. 

So as I sat in my parent's garage, in early July; in the Texas heat; with a box fan blowing on me for "coolness"; a conversation occurred that made me re-examine a few longstanding beliefs. My parents are genuinely happy but their relationship was far from what we would, by today's standards, say as easy. They are both from Taylor and even though my Pops is a few years older they knew each other from grade school. To be fair to the women readers I'd have to go as far as labeling my father as a ho, plain and simple. To this day I have at least one sibling I have never met. In fact, I've grown to understand my mother was just a side piece in the equation. The hurdles faced by my father and his wife are astonishing.

When I was born in June of 1977 my father was already in prison. Those who know me a little more intimately are aware of this, but few including myself know the whole story. In fact, it's such a heavy topic that my father and I have never really had a full discussion about it. We have alluded to the happenings but the pain and wounds it is likely to stir up are just unnecessary. Long story short my father was convicted of murdering my sister. They were separated at the time and my father was attending college up here in Dallas, which is how he would inevitably meet my mother, however my father had a wife and two young girls down in Austin. The woman he was living with at the time was openly jealous and on occasion made threats against the wife and kids. In what I see as fatal judgment, my father brought my sisters up here to Dallas with intention of spending time with his kids and while he was out at the store the jealous White woman, who was pregnant at the time with the sister I'll never meet,  drowned the oldest of the two in the bathtub as my other sister watched helplessly. To be honest, I still hold my father culpable for that loss to this day. Some have openly asked how I could still associate with my Pops after knowing this and my answer comes down to plausible deniability. In a way, I do not want to know the whole story. The continued association with my father has in fact driven a wedge between me and my older sister, who is still shaken from witnessing such a horrific act, and we have not communicated in years.

When I have revealed the fact that I see Joyce as a side piece folks have questioned how I could be so disrespectful to the woman that gave birth to me. Those people do not truly know me. Truthfulness and bluntness, regardless of feeling, is a character trait I have always aimed to personify. I'd rather stand on truth and fact than be liked.  Joyce was pregnant with me while attending his trial. My earliest reckonings of my Pops all take place in a Texas Department of Corrections behind a 3-inch thick plexiglass. She was convinced of his innocence and was determined to stand by this man of questionable ethics. I'm sure that to this day Joyce feels justified in her actions but that environment was not one for a young child. The images of TDC guards in towers with rifles aimed at you will be permanently etched in my psyche. The sounds, lewdness, and flat-out racism of a prison camp I was exposed to as a toddler are unacceptable. As a parent, I could not fathom exposing my children to this, even if her intentions of me knowing my father was well placed. I honestly feel as if I should not exist. My father had been kicked out of the Army, during the height of Vietnam at all times, for selling weed and then you meet him and decide to fall in love with a man accused of killing his own child. WTF? And I speak as someone who was head over heels in love with and married the first woman I ever slept with, so I have a PhD in doing dumb shit for love. Even from that perspective and considering all the love in the world for a person I think the healthy response would have been to walk away and find whatever she was desiring elsewhere. 

That is the context for which I weigh this conversation that emerged last week in that hot-ass garage. Unbeknownst to me, my father and momma actually dated in their HS days. This was contrary to my previous understanding that they just happened to run into each other after he was released from prison and still married to Joyce, for which I still harbored childish emotions. Now the math works out to my biological mother being the barrier to their happiness. Turns out my mother is the villain in this tale, a fact that she will eventually go to her deathbed denying but as I mentioned earlier I value truthfulness over feelings, and I as I look back as an adult have to concede this fact. My father and Joyce's post-release relationship and marriage were contentious AF. As a young boy that yearned for a father in his life, I was genuinely relieved when my father left the home. They would argue, fight and cry most of the just under two years they were together. Almost immediately upon his homecoming, it was clear to everyone that I and my father weren't on the same page. I had been raised by a woman, and a White woman at that, and an evangelical White Christian woman on top of that. My worldview and his clashed hard and the assholeness of my personality didn't make things better. Even though I was relieved by his eventual departure my world would begin to change almost immediately. My mother, who already had questionable sanity, mentally broke down. In the brief time my father was in the home he knocked my mother up with two more kids. So now not only was I the man of the house and big brother I was actually being parentalized. It was now on me to take the Food Stamps and go to H-E-B. I had to physically go with my mother to ACE Check Cashing and cash her AFDC check and then follow thru paying the bills. This period in my mother's life lasted indefinitely so needless to say my being a momma's boy was over. The community around me also shifted their viewpoint. Prior to his release, I was looked at as some nerdy White momma's boy. After everyone got used to seeing me with my father and that side of the family I was then held to an unwritten Nigga standard. With my size and appearing older than I actually was I was somewhat prayed upon by the older cats in the neighborhood. Slanging, banging, and balling were not a choice for me. When I was jumped in at 10 it was due to a fued I was having with another neighborhood boy. The OGs got tired of that shit and gave me a choice of red or dead, beat my ass to be down, or just beat my ass. The little sway Joyce had over me was totally absolved almost overnight. In truth, I think my father secretly approved of the road I was now going down but once he left I say good riddance and we did not communicate again for 17 years.  

In this aforementioned conversation in the depths of the garage, Momma revealed that she knew my father was the one for her since childhood, but she recognized they wouldn't have made it at the time. She told him to go sole his oats and getting all that behavior out of his system before attempting to be with her. Momma also recognized this within herself as well. Did my grandmother also see this was meant to be with her own two eyes? As parents, we always want the best for our children but often we have to allow them to grow in ways we don't appreciate with the hopes that their paths will become self-evident. Was this the source of contention all along? Maybe it had nothing to do with my lighter complexion. Was it the fact that my existence served as a flesh and blood reminder of the path not chosen? In my childish attempt to put the pieces of lineage in order did my lack of nuance perpetuate the tension? 

As it stands today we are the definition of a blended family. My father had 6 kids, including me, before finally settling down. Momma also had a marriage that yielded 3 daughters and an older brother, so collectively they have 10 kids. This was somewhat typical for that time period and based on today's numbers maybe there was a net positive. Stats today show us a great disparity between available men and women in the Black community, yet I've literally been spit on because of my lineage. We can find all types of articles now about the decline of our community, yet we still focus on individuality over the health of our community. Now before someone points out the atrocious treatment of women 40 to 50 years ago believe me I am not overlooking that. Hell, my grandfather had two distinct families in different cities. Was my grandmother happy about this, I doubt it? But I think women of her era had a fundamental collective ideology. Trying to view history through the lens of something as fleeting as "happiness" just is not intelligent, due to subjectivity. Would I dare tell my Grandmother she should have left my Grandpa for her happiness? Not if I valued my teeth in my mouth. That lens can only be classified as passing judgment from an external viewpoint, and that my friend is the definition of disrespect. Noisy folks have seen the relationship I have with Momma and attempt to juxtapose it with the relationship I have with Joyce. Stop that. Momma has grassroots earned that adulation. After the divorce I went once or twice to stay with Momma and my father, it was contentious, to say the least, but she never treated me badly or differently than her other kids. In fact, I suffer from acute asthma and got deathly sick during my time there. She took care of me and even jumped in my father's ass to go out in the middle of the night back to Joyce's house(some 30 miles away) to retrieve my meds. Even now knowing that my oldest 3 kids are not biological she stays on me in regards to her grandbabies. I mentioned I want to kick my oldest out from living with me and don't you know she got in my ass for even saying such. Obviously, there is an underlying character aspect there that comes into play and I wonder if most of our communities' problems today stem from a lack of. Notice I say "communities" as in plural because I now see this demise as an American social issue and of course with the context of Black folks we tend to catch the flu when America catches a common cold.

I am twice divorced now due primarily to my actions. For the record, I take sole responsibility for both splits. With that said it was pointed out that the understanding Momma and Pops had could meet the definition of an "open" relationship, which is something I've tried and wasn't grounded enough to make work. So the fundamental question I'm asking is one I am personally wrestling with. I am guilty of the same self-centeredness trait I am pointing out. Why am I being so open with my past? Since joining Farrakhan and getting my X at the age of 17, the child of a white woman at that, I have been concerned with the greater community. Elijah teaches us that once you take the X you are no longer living for yourself. As an unmarried FOI I was daily reminded that I was married to the "mosque", meaning that if it came down to it I was expected to risk my safety for the advancement and well-being of the collective. This is the primary basis for Nationalism. When I decided to informally adopt my first wife's niece and nephew as my own this was the deciding factor. I could put on a suit and tie and sell Final calls on the corner or I could put my values into action, so I did. Politically I am right of center, so folks take that as a double down on individualism. This is a misnomer. I, as a part of the universe, look towards balance and this quasi-rant has been pointed in such a manner to achieve such. As the patriarch in waiting of my family, I must employ this viewpoint even if it's just limited to my loved ones. Doing so honors the sacrifice of those that came before me.

Just food for thought and I apologize for being longwinded................