MamaSpeak: Honor Thy Absent Father

Another Father’s Day has come and gone, and judging by some of the blogs and message boards I read, this was one of the most controversial ones I think I’ve ever experienced. From mothers not wanting to be wished a Happy Father’s Day (even if it’s just to say have a happy day), to religious teachers spreading the Good News that the Word of God forbids us from calling any man father, to adult children lamenting a father’s absence during their childhood. There’s one thing for sure, the day set aside to honor dads doesn’t come with nearly as much pomp and ceremony as the one when we honor moms.

So, why is it so hard for many of us to wish the man whose DNA is woven into the fibers of our being a Happy Father’s Day? Why can’t we just do it? I wish I had an answer, but I don’t. My best guess is that some daddies are just easier to love than others. For some, that may have something to do with the fact that he stayed. While, with others, it may have a lot to do with the fact that he left. Either way, there’s no denying the effect his absence–or presence–plays in our lives well into adulthood.

My father was one of the ones who left. And to this day, I love him truly, madly, deeply. But, admittedly, there was a time when that love came from a sense of duty I felt for his being responsible for my existence. As I’ve evolved in love and as a person, I now know that I love him just because. I love him because he’s not perfect—and neither am I. I love him because he’s made mistakes—and so have I. Nevertheless, having his blood running through my veins never generated an automatic emotional bond or connection to him. That probably explains why when it comes to determining who I’ll send a Father’s Day greeting to, I find myself bypassing him, and going straight for the men who have had the most influence on me: brothers, cousins, uncles, ministers, co-workers. It’s never a conscious effort to omit him. It’s just that when I think of fathers, these are the men that come to mind. They’ve mentored my children, stepped in to be a surrogate dad in the absence of my own, and modeled the behavior and attributes that I want my husband to possess.

I called and sent text messages to all of them, while my father received nothing. And I’m okay with that, because I’m over the emotional tug-o-war of should I/shouldn’t I: Should I let him walk me down the aisle? Shouldn’t I have called him on his birthday, even if I didn’t remember? Whether my decision is yes or no, neither is an indicator of whether I love him or not.

I harbor no anger or bitterness toward him for anything that he did or did not do. Love does not demand its own way, and it does not keep a record of any wrongs. I hold him in high respect, which doesn’t include the Father’s Day fanfare of greeting cards and ties. I love him the way that I choose. And that’s more for me more than for him. And it’s because of this peace that I’m able to give and receive Eros love with a mate in spite of not having grown up with my daddy.

I know how difficult it can be to honor an absent father. We must all love and honor them in our own way. And our decision can’t be based on a scorecard that we’ve been tallying all the hurts and wrongs on. Honor him by letting go of the fact that he wasn’t there. If not for him, then do it for you.

MamaSpeak: Mothering Beyond Biology

I met Tammy during her freshman year of high school. She showed up at my apartment one Friday after school when she rode the bus home with my daughter. And, in typical teenage fashion, she had not made plans for how she would get home.

I was cold. I was tired. And all I wanted to do was turn up the heat, throw on some sweats, and curl up under my electric blanket. But, my plans were thwarted when my daughter came dashing out the patio door before I could open it. “Mom is it okay if Tammy spends the night”?

“Britt, who is Tammy, and what have I told you about having people in the house when I’m not here”?

As it turned out, Britt had met Tammy that day, and decided that, as new friends, they should hang out together after school. “She’s not in the house; she’s out in the hallway.”

As badly as I wanted to lay into my first born, I knew this wasn’t the time. But I cut her a look that let her know I would deal with her later. As a mother, my first priority was to get this child—somebody’s daughter—inside. My second order of business was to contact her parents to make sure they knew where she was.

As Tammy stepped inside, I immediately noticed her stoic demeanor. She wasn’t disrespectful at all, just reserved and standoffish. Little did I know there was so much more going on with her, but I wasn’t able to connect the dots. When I asked about her mother, she politely, but firmly stated that she was not in the home right now, and that her grandmother could pick her up in the morning. I then told her that I needed to confirm that with her grandmother, and asked for a number, for which she obliged. Tammy’s grandmother informed me that due to her eyesight, she didn’t drive at night and wanted to know if it was okay for her to stay with me, and she’d come get her first thing in the morning. We agreed that Tammy could crash at my place, so I made sure the girls had what they needed for the night, and I turned in.

The following morning I was well rested and better able to process the previous night’s events. I still wanted to know what “my mother is not in the house right now” meant. Was she serving overseas in the military, working out of town, or on vacation? No. She was none of the above. She was serving time in prison. Wanting to respect Tammy’s privacy, I didn’t probe, but my daughter told me when I grilled her about this new friend. That moment marked a turning point in my life. It is when I accepted my role as den mother, something I had resisted for years.

For some reason, my kids’ friends always warmed up to me. Many of them called me Ma and loved having an adult who would listen to them, something they didn’t get at home. They saw my home as a place of refuge where they could come after school to do their homework or a place to hangout on the weekends. I admit I wasn’t always comfortable acting the role of “play” mom. I was barely 30, and saw it as a position more suited for someone more matronly than myself. I also felt like the real moms needed to step up to the plate and connect with their children themselves.

Tammy changed all of that. I learned how to reserve my judgment until after I knew at least part of a child’s story. Some of them had a mother or father in prison, while others had mothers who were deceased. Like Tammy, some were being raised by their grandparents, while others were being shuttled from house to house in the foster care system.

They say that people come into our lives for a reason, a season or a lifetime. Tammy came into my life to teach me compassion. Looking back, I’m happy to have played such a significant role in these kids’ lives. All of my children and their friends have reached that adult milestone of 18, and many of the kids still see me as a surrogate mother, of sorts. They take me to out to eat, and invite me over for Christmas dinner when I’m in town. I have also earned the title of “Grandma Lisa,” to more grandchildren than I can count.

They say that parenting locks you in for 18 years, but I say it’s like serving 25 years to life. Once a mother, always a mother, even if you didn’t birth the child.

MamaSpeak: Too Much Unfinished Business

For most people Thanksgiving is a day to enjoy food, fun and family. But this year, a day that brougt one Florida family together also ripped it apart when a relative shot and killed his sister, an aunt and a 6-year-old cousin after thanksgiving dinner. Relatives say that as he walked away, r turned and said, “I have been waiting 20 years to do this.”

I don’t know what made this man kill there generations of his own flesh and blood, nor do I know what he had held onto for 20 years before he snapped. But I do know that this man’s story is not an original script. No, I have never survived a family ambush. But, I have had a front-row seat at family events where relatives showed up with anger and resentment in tow from some past transgression, only to isolate themselves and sulk instead of mingling and having a good time.

The wounds of childhood can take a lifetime to heal, if ever. And left unchecked, these feelings of resentment begin to fester and cause one to distance themselves not only physically, but also emotionally. Some say time heals all wounds. But I say time heals nothing. This gunman is proof that unfinished business doesn’t heal itself. I’ve also witnessed it in my own family.

My parents grew up in the same Mississippi town. Their families were close, and for the most part everyone got along. But with 23 children between them, there were bound to be conflicts from time-to-time. And although they’re not quite the Capulets and Montagues, there is some ongoing bitterness between between them that should have been dealt with and buried a long time ago. But it’s like the elephant in the room that no one is willing to sink their teeth into to start a healing process. If not for them, for their children.

As a child of divorce, my mind was polluted with information about why my father left and how my mother’s family drove him away. I heard things from aunts and uncles that should have been labeled “For Grown Folks Only.” I didn’t care about it then or now, because those are their issues, not mine.

When I found myself going through a divorce, any issues I had with my ex-husband or his family were dealt with directly, and not by way of the children. It wasn’t always easy for me to not bash him, even in truth sometimes. But I took the high road, choosing to keep our problems between us.

My ex played more of a victim role than me. His way of dealing with me was in much the same way that my folks dealt with each other, through the kids. Although I don’t believe he acted maliciously, that doesn’t alter the long-term effects it could potentially have.

My children will deal with the divorce as an adult differently than they did as children. I can already see how they are processing it through a different lens. An adult lens. My prayer is that they know that we did the best that we could with what we knew how to do, even if we fell short. And if they have any resentment, we don’t have to let this go on for 20 years. Let’s finish that business now, so we can come together in peace and harmony.

MamaSpeak: Guess Who’s Not Coming to Dinner

I love spending time with family. Holidays, reunions, weddings, and even deaths, have their way of bringing us together. And, like most families, we have a love/hate relationship where we love each other harder than we fight, fight for one another more than against each other, and yearn to be together when we’re apart. I just wish all this love didn’t come with such a high price or any feelings of obligation.

Family love has made me sometimes spend money I couldn’t afford to spend, buy gifts I didn’t want to give, and travel to places I didn’t want to go. All because I knew saying, “No,” would require an exhaustive explanation, replete with a list of why I couldn’t do it, only to be met with a rebuttal of why I should. A simple, “I can’t afford it,” would never suffice. So I’ve never offered. But, this year it’s a must.

I’m making a lot of changes in my life. As an empty-nester who put herself on the backburner to raise her children, I’m learning to be single. And, alas, I’m back in the city where I’ve always wanted to return. My relocation caused a temporary financial setback from which I’m still recovering, but making the sacrifices necessary to accept a job that pays 200% more than the highest bidder in my previous city made perfect sense to me. As an added bonus, I get to live in a place that I love. But to those who can’t relate to living life on one’s own terms, it is illogical. They say that surely, I must be chasing a man. And that’s okay, because on November 26, 2009, I will be a Thanksgiving orphan—no explanation needed.

Although money is an issue, I know that it is not the only issue. If it were, I wouldn’t keep having flashbacks to places of unfinished business: a father who wasn’t—and isn’t—around, a mother—MY mother—picking up her infant daughter from her mother-in-law and asking about a child of the same age lying on the same couch (It was later learned that it was my father’s child with another woman.), and an aunt’s voice yelling at me after my mother was admitted into the hospital for the last time, saying that the reason my brother was so angry is because my mother always criticized my father. I still find it peculiar that, out of seven children, he’s the only one with whom she had those private moments of criticism.

My tone may sound angry, but I’m not. In an ongoing effort to take back my power and reclaim my purpose, I must learn to function from a place of love and not duty. In order to be emotionally whole, I must process the pain and move on. An honest conversation would be nice, but since my mother isn’t here to defend herself, I’m not even interested. On top of that, I’m tired of folks trying to rewrite history with lies, even with the things I witnessed firsthand.

Unfortunately, my kids are having similar experiences. They made tremendous sacrifices to spend Thanksgiving with their dad’s family last year, and he didn’t show up. He simply said that he had other plans. The children were very upset, but I didn’t comment either way, because it’s important that I allow them to own their feelings. He and his brother called a couple weeks ago and said they’d like for them to come again this year. They all declined, opting to enjoy the holiday together with their friends. In a perfect world, they would be excited about spending time with their family. But in that same world, my ex’s family wouldn’t make spending time with them feel like such an obligation.

MamaSpeak: Etiquette Tips for Our Sons

I recently moved to Washington, D.C, and one of the nice things about being here is that I can listen to Steve Harvey in the morning. Steve is a funny guy. But along with his comedic flair comes a softer, gentler side that’s passionate about teaching young men to act like men and helping women make a love connection.

Last week Steve’s show sent 29-year-old “Lirpanla” on a date with 27-year-old “SELDOM1.” After the date they came back on the show to tell how it went. And you could tell by their tone that it didn’t go well.

Lirpanla called SELDOM1 immature and childish because he opened her car door and made her scoot over, so he could get in. And, then he didn’t walk on the side of the sidewalk closest to the street when they were walking to the restaurant. SELDOM1 called Lirpanla high-maintenance because he had never heard of a man walking around to get into a car after letting the woman in, nor did he know that a man should walk on the sidewalk closest to the street as the first line of defense, if anything happens to the woman.

At that point I did have some compassion for the man, and especially after I read an article in Sports Illustrated about Miami Hurricane’s coach, Randy Shannon, talking about taking etiquette classes at 17 to learn how to open a door for someone. I guess I just thought it was innate. Maybe that explains why I have friends who have never had a man open their car door. It could also explain why my children’s friends would come into my house, and my son would have to tell them to take their hats off They don’t know, because they’ve never been taught. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve dined in restaurants and seen teens wearing caps and hats, and the adults they’re with say not a word.

Some men consider opening doors and pulling out chairs outmoded. And some feminists find it offensive. But, chivalry is not dead. As a true Renaissance woman who knows what makes me a strong black woman, there are some things that will never go out of style, nor are they signs of weakness for me or my male companion:

• When going down stairs or an escalator, the man goes first. In case the lady trips, he can catch her.  When going up stairs or an escalator, the man follows for the same reason.
• When entering and exiting an elevator, the man holds the door open and lets the woman enter or exit first.
• When entering a building, the man opens the door for the woman so that she may enter first. (Except when entering the house. A man enters the house before his wife and kids.)
• When exiting a building, the man goes to the same side of the woman that the door hinge is on, reaches around her, pushes open the door and holds it while she exits.
• For revolving doors, let the lady enters first.  Gently get the door moving; step into the next “stall”, and continue pushing, so she doesn’t need to.
• When walking down the street, the man should be between the lady and the traffic.
• Always open a car door for a woman. After you open the door, walk around and get in. Don’t ask her to scoot over.
• Go to the door to get your date. Never sit in the car and honk your horn.  After a date, a man walks a lady to her door.
• If a woman drives to a man’s place, the man walks her to her car when she is ready to go, opens the door, and helps her get in.
• A man respects a woman’s boundaries. “No” means “no,” even if he thinks it’s probably “yes.”
• A man never calls a woman out of her name.
• A man never…E-V-E-R hits a woman.
• A man never tries to buy love, because he’ll never finish paying for it.
• A man ALWAYS pays for the first date.
• A man helps a lady with her suitcase.
• A man remove his hat upon entering a restaurant.
• A man pulls out the lady’s chair, and helps her get seated before he sits down.
• When the lady needs to go to the restroom, the man stands up and pulls out her chair.  When the lady returns from the restroom, the man stands up and pulls out her chair.

Mamas, we might not be able to teach our sons everything about becoming a man, but we can certainly join Steve in teaching them how to treat women.

WeParent Family, what do you think we should be teaching our sons?

MamaSpeak: Sex and the Single Mom

I found the Sex and the Single Mom DVD while shopping on eBay a few years ago. I’ll admit that it was the title that caught my attention at first. And after reading the description, I decided it was worth the asking price.

The movie stars Gail O’Grady, who plays Jess Gladwell, a single mother who has to come to terms with her own hypocrisy when she carries on an out-of-wedlock affair while preaching celibacy to her teen daughter. It’s a realistic look at the natural desires and specific temptations faced by a divorced mother. The consequences are burdensome, and eventually cause a rift between Jess and her daughter.

By the end of the movie, Jess is pregnant with her married lover’s child, as he breaks off the relationship to return home to his wife for the sake of his children, with no knowledge of Jess’s pregnancy.

I watched the movie in awe that someone had taken what I thought was an original script of my life and transformed it into a beloved Lifetime movie. I had just ended a clandestine relationship with a married, but separated minister. And like Jess, I was alive, and my lover had done that. But, before long, I was questioning the double standard I was living, teaching my children one thing while living another. My message was loud and clear: Do as I say, not as I do. And the subliminal message was that it is okay to have sex and not be married as long as you don’t get caught.

There was no denying that I was a bible-toting, Jesus-loving, Christian woman who had abstained from any and all sexual activity for years. There was also no denying that I was a woman who craved the companionship and touch of a man, including sex. But while I was in my relationship, I asked myself what would I do if I got pregnant? How would I “spin it” for my children? How would I tweak my testimony for the church, and make it seem like God had ordained me to conceive a child with a married man of the cloth? Would my lover rush to a divorce court, get a docket number, and then hurry back to me for a shotgun wedding as a cover up?

I broke off the relationship when I realized there were more things wrong about it than right. I wanted to model a healthy, loving relationship before my children with a man who was all mine, because that’s the only way my parental advice would be effective.

A few years passed before I heard from my old flame again. He’d had a child, born during his marriage, with the mistress who followed me. While he explained to me how God revealed to him during our relationship that this woman would have his child, I lifted my hands towards heaven and thanked God that this Hagar testimony wasn’t mine; I’m glad I’m not part of the First-Lady’s Husband’s Baby Mama Club.

A few months ago I was hanging out in a forum on a popular social networking site when a woman asked for help on how to deal with her 14-year-old son. Apparently, he’d heard her and her boyfriend having sex and sent her a text message telling her so. My son is 19 now, and I don’t even want to imagine what he would think about me now if he had heard me having sex when he was 14. Her situation was a stark reminder of how single parents must exercise discretion while dating. Throwing caution to the wind may seem exciting in the heat of the moment with a mate. But it has its consequences when it comes to dealing with impressionable children. They are more discerning than we give them credit for, and can often see right through our hypocrisy.

WeParent family, what policies do you have in place when it comes to sex? Are you practicing what you’re teaching your children? Have you adopted a no sex in the home policy, or are you abstaining from sex altogether until you’re married? Are the rules different for single dads than they are for single moms?

Being Right or Having Peace

It’s been eighteen years since I sent fear packing and conjured up the courage to walk away from a marriage that had me mentally exhausted and emotionally depleted. It was a huge leap of faith. I had four children in tow. The youngest was six-months and the oldest hadn’t started school. I had just been furloughed from my job, and I was three-months pregnant. But, even though my circumstances looked bleak, my future looked brighter than what I was leaving behind.

When I told my husband about my plans to move, he protested and told me I wasn’t taking his kids anywhere. He knew how strongly I felt about raising our children in a two-parent home, where the mother and the father were married to each other, so he constantly reminded me that whoever left would be the one who broke the pact. I didn’t want to let my kids down, because I was raised by a single mom, and so was he. But at the same time, I could no longer stay at the expense of my sanity. We were living a lie, and I was tired of the façade. What good was it for us to keep up the image of happiness when the disdain we felt for each was about to make one or both of us go postal?

After he told me I wasn’t taking his kids with me, I called his bluff. I knew he had no intentions of keeping the kids, so I reiterated that I was moving – not the kids. I told him when I was moving out and where I was moving to. And over the course of the next few weeks I went about the business of buying things for my apartment. Thank God I did because three days before I was scheduled to move, he came home and announced that he was moving that night. Not only did he move out, but he took everything but the kids: the furniture, the TVs, and the car. When I asked if he was taking the kids, he said he only had a one-bedroom and didn’t have room for them.

So, why did he need the kids’ beds if he didn’t have room for the kids? The only answer he gave me was that he knew somebody who needed them.

I was disgusted, but not surprised. I called my cousin and told him what was going on, and he told me that he had a sofa and loveseat for sale. Perfect! I needed to buy them. He also agreed to move me, so that was another thing I didn’t have to worry about. Plus, my mother had a bed in storage that she let me have, and I went to a furniture store the following day and financed new canopy beds for my daughters. Life was looking up.

It took a few months for me to get on my feet, but I eventually got my bearings. Bureaucratic rules held up my unemployment check for two months, and my husband was determined not to help out. My mother sent money when she could. And I’m forever grateful for friends who comforted me when my son was born stillborn, gave me food when I couldn’t afford to buy any, babysat for free after I went back to work, and gave me a ride to work until I bought a car.

As time went on, my husband did ask me what I planned to tell the children about our breakup. To be honest, I really hadn’t given it much thought. I’m sure what he really wanted to know was if I planned to make myself a victim and sing them a somebody-done-me-wrong song. But, what would I get out of that? I was so happy to be living in peace, that I had no desire to prove who was right or wrong in the marriage. And as far as I was concerned, we were equally at fault for not being able to make it work.

As a self-proclaimed daddy’s girl, I wanted my kids to spend time with him and develop a strong father/child connection, even if I felt like he was a pitiful husband. I didn’t want to sway their opinion, like my mother didn’t sway mine. My dad never provided emotional or financial support for us, and I still have an exaggerated perception of him. I know he was no daddy of the year, but my mother never said a negative thing about him. She was phenomenal. She stayed when she could have left, bridled her tongue when I’m sure she wanted to burst, and allowed me to form my own opinion about the man I call Daddy.

And I did the same for my kids. 

Teaching My Son about Violence

I was stunned when Chris Brown and Rihanna cancelled their Grammy appearance because one was in the hospital being treated for bruises from a domestic assault, while the other – her accused assailant – was being booked for beating the woman he loved. And in the days that followed, my emotions ran the gamut: sadness that Brown had already been tried and convicted in the trial of public opinion, befuddlement as to how a man could inflict bodily harm on a woman he loves, and confusion as to why so many people – men and women, young and old alike – felt like Rihanna brought the attack on herself.

Like most people, I saw this as a teachable moment for my daughters. As a woman who has never been hit by a man, I grapple with my understanding of how a love affair can go so wrong that a heated exchange of words can escalate to a point where someone – the man, the woman, or both – is left bloodied and bruised. My girls need to know that there is never an excuse or a reason for a man to hit a woman. And they should also know that that knife cuts both ways; they have a duty to keep their hands to themselves.

But no sooner than Brown could post bail and cause another media stir about a much-rumored reconciliation with Rihanna, Gospel megastar BeBe Winans was arrested for allegedly shoving his wife to the ground when he showed up at her house, and the two started arguing about custody issues. And, once again, the blogosphere was ablaze with comments that Winans’ wife must have made him do it. That’s when I realized that these incidents were teachable moments for my son, as well.

Girls can be dramatic

I’m a reformed drama queen. Just ask my three older brothers, and they will tell you about how I would get out of bed every morning and pick a fight, knowing they couldn’t hit me. I’m not talking about us having a physical fight; my tongue was my weapon of choice. And there was nothing I liked more than a fight, than another fight. So, even though my daddy had a strict rule against my brothers hitting their sister, at the very least I wanted them to return my verbal assaults. But, nooo, they ignored me. And that annoyed me. But as time went on, I was the one who gave in and eventually had to come up with other ways to get attention.

That’s the same thing I want my son to do. If he finds himself in a heated situation where he feels like he’s being pushed to the point of hitting a woman, I want him to let cooler heads prevail and walk away. That’s not the time to be prideful. I want to assure him that his pride will still be intact after he cools off.

Roughhousing can land you in jail

My son is a 6’3”, 325 pound man. He’s 18 now and was always a big kid. I had to constantly remind him that he couldn’t play with his classmates the same way that he played with his sisters. (They’re as rough as he is.) Now that he’s a grown man, I tell him that his size is already imposing, and that he really needs to be mindful when engaging in horseplay, because horseplay between adults is not child’s play. A simple shove or push can land him in jail.

Violence doesn’t equal strength

I think it’s unfortunate that so many young men define their manhood by violence. I will teach my son that hitting a woman – or a man for that matter – doesn’t make him a man. I think it’s really important that he understands that respecting women will make him a much stronger man. When he was younger, I used to tell him to impress me with his intelligence, not his stupidity, and that his mind is his strongest weapon. The same holds true for him now that he’s an adult. There’s nothing impressive about a man using physical violence to prove his strength. That’s stupid. He’ll get far more kudos and accolades by exercising self-control and self-restraint…And in doing so, he’ll also avoid a run-in with the law.