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Black Dads, Black Daughters: Burdens and Bravery
When I publish something (anything) that talks about race, I brace myself. I know it’s coming. Not the thoughtful critiques, which I respect. But the ones that are so familiar to women and people of color, the expletive-laden missives calling me the n-word, the b-word, the c-word (or a combination), wishing I’d die, wishing I’d never been born, etc., the ones rank with misogyny and racism, air-horning a view, which, yes, we’re all entitled to, but not a thoughtful, considered one, not a humane one, not one you’d likely voice to my face.
And not one you’d voice in front of my dad. He died four years ago, but when he was alive, and before age shifted his physical presence into something quieter, more delicate, he stood six feet and four inches, weighed three-hundred-plus muscled pounds, had broad and wide shoulders, hands that could palm a basketball like an apple, feet that could shake the porch when he came up the steps, and intelligent eyes, kind and bright brown eyes, eyes the color of Hershey’s bars, but eyes that could also, when needed, go cold, go fierce, tell you go ahead, make my day. His eyes were telling the truth. He could fuck you up. Put you in the hospital. Land you both in jail. He could terrify you. The biceps, the rifles, the prison tattoos, the Black Panther vibe, the sense of noble and near-blind loyalty that governed his relationship to…
