Fatherhood Freestyle: Not Your Average Baby Daddy, Part I

My mother raised me and my older sister by herself. We had little means, lived in public housing, and like all parents, she always wanted and expected more for us. Throughout my childhood, I observed my mother as she ripped and ran, worked up to three jobs simultaneously, and developed no healthy romantic relationships (that I can remember, anyway). So as a kid, I made a commitment to myself that I was never going to be anybody’s “baby daddy.” Oh, how the universe has a way of telling us that we are so not in control. Well, kinda.

At 31, I am a single dad, but my story has a twist –a twist that has statistically become more common these days. I am the ballet and gymnastics dad, a man in a room full of middle-aged suburban moms who drive minivans. I set up play dates, I help other parents (usually moms) pick up their kids, and I arrange that expensive, draining, and anticlimactic birthday party every year. Hell, I even brought my daughter to get her first pedicure and sports bra….and I did this all as a full student struggling to make ends meet. Yup, these experiences as the custodial father of a nine-year-old girl have truly given me insight into my mother’s life as the prototypical single mother.

Although I am extremely comfortable in my role as a single father, there is one question that I am inevitably asked and still makes me squeamish: “So, what happened to her mother?” And, of course, there are always those who declare, “I do not see how a mother could leave her child. A little girl needs her mother.” Now, as a PhD psychologist with a dissertation on and specialized training in nontraditional parenting and youth development, I have plenty to say to those who truly believe daughters need their mothers more than their fathers, but I will refrain from doing so for the time being. Instead, I’ll tell the story about how I became a single dad, and why the process has made me a better man.

Imagine a 20-year-old black male studying abroad in the Dominican Republic with one more year of college. Now imagine this guy in what was supposed to be a fling with an American woman. That woman becomes pregnant, and now this man is less than a year away from becoming a “baby daddy”. That wasn’t me, only because I refused to be the average “baby daddy.” The rest is definitely me. However, my plan to avoid being labeled had one huge snag — I wasn’t in love with her. I told myself I would do anything short of marrying her in order to keep my promise to myself, even if it meant being in what I knew would be an unsatisfying relationship that was destined to deteriorate over time. So, she graduated a semester early, moved to the South where I was working on my Bachelors degree, and we shacked up while I took classes. A few months later, our baby was born, a beautiful little girl with an instant bond with her daddy.

I must admit I was a great father, but a horrible boyfriend. I was a willing participant in multiple “minor indiscretions,” and I was dismissive and uncaring toward her. I graduated soon thereafter; and even though I was not happy, I dragged her to a different state so I could attend graduate school. Our relationship suffered for a year or so and shortly after being laid off, she finally decided she’d had enough. She lacked emotional and social support, and she wanted to “be around family and friends” back north (her voiced desire to be closer to “family” is still quite ironic to me). Ever the negotiator, I convinced her that our then two-year-old would be better served by remaining with me. After all, I had purchased a home, my daughter was attending a great Spanish immersion preschool, and we were becoming part of the community. Furthermore, we both knew my daughter had a stronger bond with me. The feelings of elation and freedom I experienced as she walked to her car to make that long trip back home remain salient to this day. Also, I will never forget my daughter (what appeared to me to be) gleefully waving goodbye as her mother drove off in a packed car, only to turn to me and say “Daddy, I hungry” as I closed the house door. At that point, it seemed clear to me that my daughter could still have a “normal life” with me as the primary parent. In fact, I’d argue that she is much better off not having to grow up in a house where unhappy and unhealthy relationships are normalized and modeled. It was just my daughter and me, and I was excited to be the best dad I could be.

It is now 2009, and I cringe as I sit here writing about how I was in the relationship with my daughter’s mother. I have apologized, and sometimes I believe she forgives me. At other times, I am sure she hasn’t. After countless hours of reflecting over the past seven years, I have learned so much about myself — the good, the bad, and yes, the ugly. However, I believe I am a much better person, father, and partner because of it. And my daughter? Well, she is a well-adjusted, self-possessed, and opinionated “normal” nine-year-old girl.

As I navigate through single fatherhood, I realize it has been anything but easy. However, I am happy I can tell this story and confidently inform the naysayers that little girls need their fathers too.

Fatherhood Freestyle: When Do You Introduce “The Next”?

I’ve been single since 2000, and in that time my kids, current ages 26 and 19, have been introduced to a total one of my girlfriends! Have I only had one girlfriend? Heck no! But, only one made the cut to actually meet my kids. Let me clarify that. Early on I decided that there would be no revolving door of dates/women/boos or spoogies that my children would come to know while I searched for the next great love of my life. I remembered movies like Claudine, Kramer vs Kramer and even The Parent Trap. No one was meeting my kids unless they were someone–someone special, someone who would be around for the long haul.

I remembered my own childhood with my mom’s string of suitors…”This is Mr. Joe,..This is Harold…This is Uncle Bobby – who was clearly no relative I’d ever seen. I remembered that they all were of no significance to me; they were just the one at the time. I did form attachments to some, the ones who appeared to take a genuine interest in me, and who weren’t too creepy. But, even that became something for me to temper and be cautious about, because just ‘cause I liked them didn’t mean that my mom would keep them around. So, I’d meet and greet, superficially interact and watch to see how long they would last. And, I resolved that my kids would not have that experience.

The reactions to my position were varied, much to my surprise, ranging from agreement,–“I fully get that and support you”; to not so subtle manipulation–“I’ll know you love me when you introduce me to your kids”; to flat out rejection–“I’m not going to be second place behind your children.” Keep it moving, Sister! These experiences were confirmation for me that I’d made the right choice. I needed to keep these women at bay until I met Ms. Right, the one who would be my next wife.

So six years went by before I met and attempted to introduce my kids to a woman who met my criteria. On several levels I thought it was time, six years had gone by, several candidates had come and gone, and I was ready to broach the subject. In fact, my son had given me permission two years back saying, “ Dad, if you and Mom aren’t going to get back together, I think you should date; ‘cause I want you to be happy. In fact, how about her?” as he pointed to some attractive woman at the ATM. My son, gotta love him. So, when I met X who I felt was special and could be the one, I decided to act. I called my ex first to inform her of my decision and put her on alert for possible reactions from the kids. I also felt this was the right thing to do out of respect. I didn’t owe this and I wasn’t asking for permission, but this was a decision that would affect our children for whom we both cared. I then told both of my kids I had met someone and wanted them to meet her. They agreed, and we arranged to meet for dinner.

As the time drew closer, and I called my son to tell him I was on my way to pick him up, he admitted to me he was a little anxious about this and asked me to take my time. Five minutes later he called to say he was ok and ready. He was obviously nervous at first but appeared to loosen up and relax. On the other hand, my daughter, who’d agreed to meet us at the restaurant, never showed up. She didn’t respond to calls or text messages, and it was months before we came to some resolution on this matter. Without going into the details, it was clear that time alone hadn’t healed all wounds.

The incident validated my fears about how my kids would accept being introduced to another woman. But are my fears valid? I accept that the introduction of a third party to children after a divorce can be and usually is a slippery slope, but does delaying contact help? My rationale had been to delay and wait until there was someone significant. But another reason was my own fear of screwing up the delicate peace and appearance of balance I had with my children, as I lived outside of ‘their’ house.

I don’t believe I was wrong for waiting and limiting my kids’ exposure to the ups and downs of my dating experiences. But,I wonder if I also created a ‘that’s my daddy monster’ in the process. I’m beginning to feel that normalizing the reality of mom and dad having other people in their lives through discussion and maybe even addressing it in counseling, if that is appropriate, could help.

In case you hadn’t figured it out yet, I’m no expert; I don’t have THE answer. In fact, I’m looking for as much dialogue and input as I can get. See, I’ve met the next Ms. Right and I…well, you get the picture. Please offer thoughts, opinions, comments, I’ll even take bad advice…

What/when do you think is the right way to introduce ”The Next”?

Fatherhood Freestyle: Tales from the Fortress

Not long after my divorce and the early adventures of my initial separation, I came to live in the first place of my own. I was in the lower 9^th Ward of New Orleans, a place previously known as one of the poorest and most segregated sections of the city. After Katrina, it became an icon, a symbol of all that went wrong with New Orleans and the federal response to that catastrophe. But that’s another story for another blog. Believe it or not, my house was a dream, a two bedroom shotgun, completely renovated inside, polished hardwood floors throughout, ceiling fans, exposed brick fireplaces, 12-foot ceilings and 6-foot windows with wood slat shutters. On the outside, old faded wood, chipping paint, just the appearance you’d want in that neighborhood so as not to scream, “Come and break in!” to my not so gainfully employed neighbors. Inside I felt safe, at peace and for the first time since my divorce, really comfortable when I came home from work.

But the drive home from anywhere was always depressing; the 9^th Ward was, and by all accounts, remains one of the bleakest parts of New Orleans. As I drove home I would see the poverty and the kids hanging out, sitting on porches or abandoned cars, just waiting to see what would happen next, who would happen next. It was also on the opposite edge of the city from the rest of my life– work, friends and the better attended parts of the city. All of these facts contributed to my new digs having very infrequent visitors. Other than my son on weekends, (my daughter was away at college) there was seldom a reason to dirty a dish or glass other than my own.

So, I gave my place a name it deserved, one I found fitting in many ways: the Fortress of Solitude. For those of you not blessed with geekdom in your childhoods, this was the name of Superman’s home in the North Pole. It’s where he would retreat to ponder problems and reflect on his experiences. It was his sanctuary. It was in this sanctuary of mine that I truly began to grow up. Never mind the fact that I was already 40ish, had been married for 19 years and had been a part of raising two kids.

During my childhood I was ‘forced to mature’ in some ways by my mother’s chaotic life style, as a single parent with an off and on drug abuse problem and by the absence of positive male role models, notable exceptions being my Uncle John, and one of my mom’s suitors who took the time to teach me about manhood and respect and chivalry. It wasn’t until I was in my twenties that I realized that he was a Heroin addict; I thought he was just a sleepy guy. In some ways, my circumstances of caring for and co-parenting with my mother in managing our house and raising my younger sister robbed me of a ‘normal’ childhood. The irony is that it also set me up for an abnormal adulthood, a point of contention I couldn’t see until my time at ‘the Fortress’.

When I was married, I had in my wife a co-scapegoat, someone to share in the blame for failures, unmet responsibilities and problems in general. I could point out her lack of support for my not meeting a deadline at work, or my not realizing my full potential in my career. But when I lived alone, one fact kept popping up; I was responsible. I was responsible for getting up on time. For washing, ironing and keeping up with my clothes, keeping food in the house. For remembering to pay the bills in a timely fashion ‘cause when you don’t, the power, water, cable and phone go OFF!

It’s easier to point the finger at anyone besides ourselves for our problems and lack of progress. It requires someone other than ourselves to blame and their willingness to engage in the debate with us. They don’t even have to fully accept blame, just be a willing participant in the dialogue! Living on my own exposed many of my issues and started me on the path to identifying and working through them. I feel it’s helped me in my relationship with my ex and been invaluable in helping me to be a better parent to my kids. And here, 9 years later, I’m clearly still a work in progress (as I’m sure many would be too happy to point out!) but progress is being made.

So here’s a question for you Super-boys and Super-girls:  How many of you have spent/ could benefit from some time in “the Fortress”?

Fatherhood Freestyle: Mamas, Are You Getting in the Way?

About two weeks ago, it was close to midnight and I was getting some food on my way home from the office. Because it was late, I was the only customer and while I waited a young man with a bandana over his face, busted in and robbed the spot. The young robber pressed the gun to my head and demanded that I “get down!” I continue to be shaped by that evening.

After that incident, a good friend suggested I spend some time with my daughter and really just love on her. My daughter had no idea what happened to me and I will not tell her until she is much older. No need to give her unnecessary anxiety. However, my friend encouraged me to really connect with my daughter, because although she had no idea what happened, she almost lost her Daddy.

So, I took the advice and that Friday, after my daughter’s half-day, I picked her up and told her, “Today is all about you Babe. Whatever you want to do, we’re gonna do.” And, we did. We spent a day filled with dad-n-daughter activities that eventually left us exhausted and ready to relax in front of the TV show of her choosing. There we were relaxing and watching T.V., when the doorbell rang.

After not having seen him for eight years, I was shocked to see my father standing at my doorstep. And, after having the gun at my head just a week earlier, this surprise visit added to my surreal experience and caused me to ask, “What is the Universe telling me?” I was not only surprised by this unexpected visit…I was confused.

I let him in. We talked. He met his granddaughter. He had met her when she was three, but she didn’t remember and I don’t think his memory was much better. Nonetheless, he stayed with us for a few days and then took the two-day journey back home.

It was in those three or four days that my Dad and I reconnected, While we did not dwell on the past or his extended absences in my life, we did touch on the topic. And, I learned some things about his perspective that I certainly did not know. While I may have disagreed with many of the decisions my father made while we were growing up, it turns out that he may have made a real effort to be a presence in our lives, and that perspective had never been shared with us. He explained the difficulties he encountered with my mother as he tried to have a presence in our lives. He told me of the times he would drive to our school and watch from outside the fence as my brother and I played at recess. He told me how he would “cry like a baby” while he watched us from a distance. I never knew this, and learning about it at age 38 gave me a new appreciation of my father. I am not taking a position on whether he should have or could have done more to be present in our lives, but I now know he did try and had the desire. I am also not taking a position on how difficult or easy my mother made it for my dad to have a place in our lives.

I simply learned an important lesson from listening to my Dad’s saga. This is a message for my sisters out there. I know you may be hurt. I know separation is hard. I know you may have been wronged by the father of your children. However, you still have a lot of influence over whether your child’s father is present or absent in that child’s life. I am by no means excusing any lack of self-responsibility; but, I have seen too many men making sincere attempts to have a place in their child’s life only to be thwarted by an embittered and hurt mother. I want to encourage you to get through your pain so that you can create a situation in which the father can stay present in the child’s life.

I have not reached a conclusion, but I wonder if my mother prevented my father from having more of a presence in my life. My father’s absence was a significant experience for me and one I spent a lot of time reflecting upon and absolutely ensuring would not be repeated. If your child can avoid the questions he or she may have because of an absent father, so much pain and confusion will be avoided. For your child’s sake, create an environment that allows the father to be involved with the child.

Jerry Maguire may have said it best, “Help me help you!” Help the father, help the child!

3 Words of Advice on Parenting from the “Other” House: Just do it!

I am the product of what was once described as a broken home, not an accurate label since something has to be whole before it can be broken.  My parents were never married; and for the first 9 years of my life, I had few if any thoughts of who or where my father was.  I remember a few questions which popped up when I compared the lives of my classmates to my own, but these questions were usually brushed off by my mother, and in truth, I wasn’t that interested in the answers.  And, when my father did make an appearance, it was more about seeing his old flame than his not-so-new son.

As I grew and became more observant and aware of my life and my mother’s past, I began to feel the void of not having this figure in my life.  Or, more accurately, I had this shadow figure in my life–the hint of a presence but nothing I could put my hands on.  In the interest of making this long story short, let’s just say that from the events and feelings I had about my upbringing and childhood, I made a commitment in my early teens that no child of mine would have to repeat my experience. There would be no absentee dad, occasional visits and less frequent presents.  I would be there to be the best parent that I could.  So, when my high school sweetheart and long-time girlfriend and I became pregnant, despite some flutters of doubt, getting married was not much of a question. I’d made my commitment in the midst of all those raging hormones and teen angst. What else could I do?

Twenty years and a few marriage counseling sessions later, we were divorced. The picture that I had dreaded and worked so hard not to have was realized in full color. My daughter and son were in one house, and I lived in another.

I made an effort to see them as often as time would allow. There was no schedule or regular pattern to be followed. I would drop by during the week after work, pick up my son, who was nine at the time, every weekend, take my daughter to the movies, and play chauffer on her dates.  I called and tried to be as strong a presence in their lives as I was when we all lived in the same house.  But as I’m sure many of you in my situation have discovered, that is an illusion as elusive as an oasis in the desert; in sight but out of reach.  And, while my ex and I weren’t involved in a battle royale of who’s the better parent, using the kids as chips or pawns, we were clearly not on the same page on several issues.

One of my biggest frustrations was the sharing of information, or lack thereof. As the custodial parent, my ex recieved all the conference notifications, permission slips, party invites, etc.  This hit me more than you might imagine, because prior to this I proudly bore the title of ‘Snack Dad’.  Every month, when the kids had to provide snacks to the class, I was the one spreading peanut butter on the rice cakes, making sure that everyone got seconds, making sure that the celery was well cleaned and that the various fillings, cheese, dressing and the old standby, peanut butter, fit neatly and looked appealing.  I was a hands-on dad being pushed, exiled and condemned to the sidelines.  And, I couldn’t seem to get her to understand how I wanted to be given a copy of everything!  It was the least she could do to allow me to still feel like a parent.  Despite my awareness of my feelings and real efforts to be the father I envisioned, I would feel the pain of competition for my kids’ affection or worse their acknowledgement of my existence and relevance to their lives.

But, as I learned to work through my feelings and continued to strive for some sort of balance, I achieved what I was looking for by just doing it… In a moment of clarity I finally realized that you can’t just want to be a parent–you have to actually do it! You are and never stop being a parent. It’s up to you to define what that looks like.  I didn’t just pick up my son on weekends because I could or should, but because I wanted to. And, when we were together, it was like we were home in that place of the past; we played, talked, ate and cried.  When I brought my daughter to a date or appointment, we spoke and discussed the same things we did in her bedroom or in our old living room.

Being out of the house is not the same as being in the house. But in, out or wherever, we are all still parents, for better or worse, and our kids reap the benefits or carry the burden of our actions. So, just do it!

Say “Yes” to “No”

I think most people would agree that each generation should be better than the previous.  As parents, I’m sure we all agree that we want to give our children a better life than we had.    Personally, I know I do.  Growing up, I was given a tremendous amount of love from my mom and siblings; however, we struggled financially.  Four children and a single mother was difficult.  What my mom was not able to give me materially, she gave me in discipline, drive, problem-solving and determination.  Therefore, when she wasn’t able to pay for college, I was able to get scholarships, loans and work for the rest.  I had the ability to work my way through college and law school.  There is no doubt that those were challenging times, and I do not want my daughter to have to experience the same thing.  However, those tough times developed character which has served me well as an adult. 

So…my predicament.  How do I instill a work ethic in my daughter without her having to struggle so much?  I assume I am not the only parent grappling with this issue. 

Well, I had the great pleasure of attending a lecture recently that provided me with some insight into this issue, and I thought I would share it with you.  Psychologist, David Walsh, presented a lecture at my daughter’s school about the benefits of learning to tell our children, “No!”   Here’s some of what I learned:

Our children are being raised in a culture in which fails to promote self-discipline.  With the advance of technology, there is an emphasis on more, fast, easy and fun.  Because more, fast, easy and fun run rampant, our children have to learn how to say, “no” to themselves.  There are numerous studies that show the ability to wait (self-discipline) is a predictor of success and happiness.  Some of you may have heard of the “marshmallow” study.  If not, look it up and check out the results. 

A study conducted in 2007 showed that 1 out of every 2 teachers leaves the profession by their fifth year.  The primary reason was children’s behavior!  Teachers are now passing students, and in some cases giving good grades, to students who just attend class and don’t misbehave!  Yikes!  It was discovered that many of our children are so used to video games and technological stimulation that when they get to class with a human teaching them, they are simply bored. 

Because things have become easy for children, they tend to throw their hands up when presented with a challenge.  So, we have to help them develop that self-discipline.  On this point, Dr.  Walsh asked a very direct question.  “How many times do you do things for your kids that they should be doing for themselves?”  I didn’t like my answer. 

He went on to talk about the development of the brain.  The last part of the brain to fully develop is the Prefrontal Cortex.  This is the part of the brain right behind the forehead and it controls reflection, impulse control, and consideration of consequences.  This is the part of the brain that says, “Stop, look and listen!”  Because this important function is not fully developed until the late teens, it is fundamentally important that we focus on developing these abilities in our children by encouraging the behavior we want to increase. 

He concluded his remarks by giving us 10 suggestions to help raise our children.

1. Learn how to say, “No!”
   
2. Support, don’t rescue.
   
3. Encourage, don’t coddle.
   
4. Give kids what they need, but not everything they want.
   
5. Back up teachers and schools.
   
6. Visit www.mediawise.org.
   
7. Have clear and high expectations.
   
8. Expect kids to do chores.
   
9. Set and enforce limits and consequences.
   
10. Expect kids to volunteer and help others.  

This was a very brief overview of a two-hour lecture on the subject.  I encourage you to research this more on your own and evaluate your own style of parenting and discipline.  I know I have, and I am learning how to say, “No!” 

If you would like to get the unfiltered information, visit Dr. Walsh’s website at www.sayyestono.org.

Love your children, love yourself!

On Being Absent…

I was 22 when I became a father on the eve of my graduation from college.  The birth of our daughter was a mixed blessing, shrouded by uncertainty and disequilibrium: how was I going to afford myself, much less a baby without a career and no savings? After college graduation most people have a brief
incubatory period where they return home for a bit before making the next
power move: job interviews, applications to graduate school, and what have
you. I didn’t quite have this option. The thought of returning to my
family’s crowded two-bedroom apartment in White Plains, New York was beyond
unbearable. I needed a job fast. With a degree in English I had two available options: I could go directly to the Department of Education in New York City
and get a job readily, but it wasn’t likely that I would be able to afford
an apartment and utilities on my own in NYC. The next best option is the one
I took - I applied to Teach For America, a national teacher
recruitment organization that places teachers in historically hard-to-fill
teaching positions in urban and rural communities nationwide. I went to
Houston, Texas, the summer after my graduation to train with TFA. Then I began
teaching middle school in Baltimore, Maryland that Fall.  My daughter, just a
few months old, lived in New York with her mother.

Yes, I had made the
decision to be an absent father.

My daughter’s mother and I separated before she was born. We tried briefly
to rekindle our relationship for the sake of our child, but this was an act
of foolhardy aspiration at best. We barely knew each other, dated only a few
short months before we got pregnant and separated immediately after.

I never imagined that I would ever make the decision to separate from my
child’s mother, because I had been raised in a single parent home and had
vowed early on in my life to not repeat this pattern. My mother was the first born in a solid, Pentecostal marriage. I was determined to build a good life for myself, imbued with the values and commitment that I witnessed in my grandparents’ marriage. 

My father was absent my entire life. I knew him, saw him
often while I was growing up in a small village in Nassau Bahamas. I bore
his name, knew where he lived and knew all of his children–my half -brothers
and -sisters. One hot, Summer’s day in August, 1986, I saw my father’s truck
lazily crawling up a street where I was sauntering home after work. I was
twelve and worked as a “packing-boy” at a local grocery store. I hurriedly
crossed the street before his truck reached me, anticipating that he would
see me, stop his truck and maybe…. I didn’t need money, I just wanted …?

He didn’t stop. He drove right past me, leaving me behind in a cold cloud of despair, which quickly dissipated, with a violent surge of rage that took years to squelch. This single life event propelled me to excel in school and to pursue an upstanding life with inexorable tenacity. I aimed to recover my self-respect, to create a person in myself who was worthy of a
father’s love.

With this experience in my package, how could I then choose to take an absent role in my child’s life? I didn’t quite have an option. My daughter’s mother had flatly stated, “We come as a package deal. You can’t have one without the other.” She was embittered by the dissolve in our relationship and was determined  to make me pay. Immediately following my graduation, before I had even landed my first job, I was in family court establishing what my bi-weekly child support would be. When I arrived in Baltimore, Maryland, my very first paycheck reflected a 17-percent deduction for child support–and every check since. Although this presented a serious financial strain, it neither demoralized me nor keep me from legally pursuing my rights as a parent. 



My daughter is now 13 years old. We have a strong relationship that has survived some hardships– some of which I’ll share in the future. In the coming months I’ll continue to share some of the difficult decisions that I made, including being absent from my daughter’s life for months at a time. Ultimately, I hope to express one value–when parents separate, it is exceedingly important to put their children first, even if they don’t
particularly like each other. Everybody looses if one or both parents is unable to keep the focus on providing the best possible nurturance  they can for their child/ren.

The best part of my story is that despite our hardships, my daughter is emotionally and academically sound. She is my only child and I am exceedingly grateful that I had the good gumption to fight for my place in her life.

Dorald Knowles

Born Tuesday, March 27^th, ‘73 in Foxhill Village on the Island of Nassau, in the Bahamas. Island boy for the first 14 years, New Yawka ever since.  Poet, artist, father, son, brother, uncle, Principal in the Boogy Down Bronx.  Love, laughter, movement bring me joy.

I was law school bound when I joined Teach For America, a national corps of young people who commit to teaching in urban or rural school districts where teacher recruitment is a challenge. The Plan was to teach for two years in Baltimore, Maryland then move on to study criminal law or public policy. I had a fantasy of someday working alongside Morris Dees and the folks at the Southern Poverty Law Center. But plans changed once I discovered that education was the REAL FRONTLINE where the granular work for justice and civil rights gets done. Subsequently, my two-year commitment turned into six - during which I picked up a Master’s Degree in Education at John’s Hopkins University. I grew immensely homesick and I couldn’t stand one more train ride north to make my court-scheduled visit to see my daughter, so I transported myself back to NYC.

I landed a fantastic teaching job uptown in Harlem where I enjoyed going to work every day for three years until I grew unbearably restless. I wanted to sink my teeth deeper into the work at a level where I could actualize change and inspire others to achieve – no excuses. I linked up with the New York City Leadership Academy, survived the rigor of their program and landed my first job as principal in a tough (understatement, trust me) neighborhood school. This is what I told myself I wanted, and I remind myself daily as I dress to step foot into a new day of wild, exhaustively unbridled possibilities. I am raising the level of student achievement in a small middle school in the Boogy Down that I love beyond words. It’s treacherous work, but I love the challenge and, moreover, I love working for young people ‘cause nothing else gives me hope. 

Next Page »