I am tired. I mean I am so worn out, but it’s a productive worn out. This week I feel as though I’ve gotten some items accomplished. Some, for the good and some for the well for the sake of being in motion. Let’s begin with Monday. Regrettably, but again out of obligation I made another payment on the furniture which I cannot use. I also paid my phone bill and stocked food in the pantry and fridge. Additionally, I am happy to say that I was able to bring my checking account to a positive status. Again, the recovery process is not about the giant leap, but instead, the preparation and practice required to successfully make those giant leaps. After picking up Red Chief, we did our father son activities, I got him ready for school the next day. Tuesday. This was one of those leap of faith days. I planted myself back at my virtual office and constructed the cover letter of cover letters to get my job back. When the posting became available, I figured what the hell do I have to loose. In fact, part of me feels that this was a good exercise preparing for other potential job opportunities. I completed the letter, filtered it through the multiple series of error checks and I have to say, I was impressed with my effort. I will have a job by July, end of discussion. I will have a job by July. I don’t mean a nickel and dime (though it too would be nice) but I mean getting back to what I do best, taking the weakest of minds and putting them in flight. I am going to go back to teaching and research. I have a little boy to feed. Just as important, I have a grown man to feed. I have a car that requires gas and of course the payments associated with it. I can’t say that I have fought hard but I will say that my spiritual force is reemerging and is the process of re-imaging my visage de vita. I don’t know where or how, but I feel myself gaining strength back to face the world again. Here’s an example. Tuesday, as I was heavily absorbed in writing my cover letter, I lost track of the time and forgot to reschedule my appointment with my therapist.. One of two shrinks I keep on my payroll. I called and left a message on his answering service, apologetic, asking to reschedule our meeting but also hoping that he would cut me a break and not ask for the full payment (his cancellation penalty). Well of course he calls back and takes the offensive believing that I was attempting to maneuver around the payment of his cancellation fee. Again, this is where I could feel my voice going from being sheepish to one of being equally direct yet being calm and controlled. Realizing the dynamic, in this case, I, being the customer am paying you for your knowledge, skills and abilities, took charge. The tonality of my response said, “I recognize that I did not call you as per our stipulated agreement, that said I did call you not because I was negligent, but I am looking for a job to support my family and if you still wish to be on my payroll, then you will cut me some damn slack.” See, what I am noticing here is that, being that my back is pushed to the wall, I am now in a position where I can no longer allow myself to be pushed. In fact, I had an aunt tell me of a possible job. I got her text message about it, politely said thank you but I can’t apply for this job. Instantly, a return text came up with a big W-H-Y. My response, unapologetically was this, the job is in Charlotte. Again, I didn’t go into detail, I just kept it moving. But now, I think I do want to go into some detail. The operative phrase here is, consider the source. I know my loving aunt was trying to be as supportive as she could. I really appreciated her concern. But again, from my perspective, this is something I have to do on my own. That said, after looking at everything that has happened to me, in retrospect, I have fought too, damn hard to be in my son’s life, only to now, just up and turn and leave him. I have spent, inordinate amounts of mental energy, thrust into the throws of a court system, that would just as soon leave separated fathers dead in a ditch, with the swing of a gavel. I vehemently refuse to contribute to the fodder feeding the myth of the problematized absent black father. Red Chief is my son and I will not abandon him, even through death. I refuse to be ejected, alienated from my son be it by the means of my co-parent, my family, or anyone else. In reading one of the many books now I have put in my library on divorce, separation, single parenting, co-parenting etcetera, they all share a common denominator. Dads too, can be caregivers and custodial parents, just as well as moms. Revisiting my family history, the considered source here, is a single mom, who successfully raised her daughter without the presence of her dad. So in my mind, I see my aunt’s standpoint as a single black mom being quasi valid. I’m a traditionalist. I strongly feel it takes two parents to raise a child. The two parents may not be in the same home, and that is ok. Maybe the mother and father weren’t equally yoked. That could represent a host of opportunities for the child provided the parents do the right thing. Blended families are more common now than the single parent. It would be nice if Dr. Gray and I were to restore our marriage, but that’s going to take more effort from her perspective and that’s if she wants to do it under the proviso I want to do it. I digress. Right now, for me, I will not retreat or surrender from my parental duty and privilege. In fact I, like other dads who don’t get the credit they deserve, am choosing to embrace it and nurture it to its fullest. Again, at the advice of one of my other shrinks on my payroll, it would set a bad example for Red Chief to see his dad ship out and suddenly become a fly in dad. That to me, just represents the ultimate disservice to him. It will just jack his small world up for years to come. That’s a challenge I’m negotiating constantly. That behavior personifies the toxic which I have to shield him from. The best hiding places are these: for a book, a library, a man, a city, a leaf, a forest—a quote by the late Raymond Burr out of the fictional character Chief Robert Ironside. I can’t afford to be a man in hiding when it relates to Red Chief. Lastly, I had to also demonstrate my new courage to the mother of Red Chief, Dr. Jean Gray. Again, practicing hard to be a quality parent, I am learning it requires predictability and patience. Enter the legend of Red Chief and the asparagus spear. He and I arrived back at the penthouse last evening to begin our dinner. The dinner routine is as follows: we come in, go to the kitchen, wash our hands. After, we then get some olive oil, our magic skillet, frozen vegetable medley and tilapia. I bring Red Chief into the kitchen, give him a chair so he can watch what I am doing. I talk him through the entire cooking prep and he even asks to help. Ok, after the meal is prepared, Red Chief’s job is to set the table. So he takes his plate, his cup and his flat ware and places it at his part of the table, then he does the same for dad. Dad brings out the cooked food with the beverages in tow. We say grace and I prepare his plate. Red Chief thinks the tilapia is chicken. I’m like cool, lets roll with it. Note, in the course of our dinner, there is no television. No distractions. Its quiet time where he and I talk, laugh and learn. This night, Red Chief was going to learn a greater appreciation for vegetables.
“Can I have some more chocolate milk please,” he asks with a toothy smile. I smile back at him and say, “I am so delighted in the manner you chose to ask me for your chocolate milk. That is so diplomatic! How about we eat some vegetables and we can get some more chocolate milk, what do you say?” Now remember, this is the flesh of my flesh, bone of my bones, so I know already ,this is only a prelude to a bigger means. “Daddy, I said please.” There is a hidden benefit to having kids when you are older because as the parent, you’re quicker with the comebacks. “Red Chief, I am pleased that you said please. I need you to please be understanding. Will you please consider eating your vegetables?” Again, using parental projection, I could see his puzzled look on his face saying, that wasn’t supposed to happen. Daddy’s got skills. Let me regroup here, ahh, I know. I’ll try play. “Daddy, lets play hide and seek.” Again, I maintain, “After you eat your vegetables.” I’ll give him some cool points because he tried some deflection. He gets an A for creative strategy, but a C for actual execution of the task. Dad is not budging from the vegetable plantation. In fact, base has entered Daddy’s tone. “Boy, you are going to eat these vegetables. How you eat them, is the only position, from which you have, to negotiate from.” There are two things I find interesting here. The first being this; I refuse to allow the topic of the vegetables to exit the conversation. Three things are key at this point in time, vegetables, vegetables, vegetables. The second element in this conversation I find amusing is how I go from being Ward Cleaver to James Evans in three short steps. See at his daycare, they really try to encourage him to make good decisions. I think that is a positive approach to teaching. However, when it comes to parenting, at least in my three short years of being a dad, sometimes, a little friendly persuasion and firmness is required to obtain compliance. So what happens, eating the vegetables became a game. First the vegetables are a train going into the tunnel. Next the vegetables are a plane going into a hanger. Then the vegetables become a helicopter. I think by the time we got to the F-22 Raptor, the vegetables, I am proud to say, were in his stomach. Never let my co-parent hear me say this. That said, despite my best intentions, occasionally, just like the CIA, you too, will have to negotiate with terrorists and toddlers. Welcome to your walk on role in your version of Mission Impossible. Uggggg! So anyway, Dr. Jean Gray calls, alerting me to the obvious, she’s running late. Understanding and knowing her patterns when it comes to matters of the clock, I still allow for our family outing to take place. Committing, I’m still conflicted. In the back of my mind, it’s going on 8:30. According to my schedule, 8:30 initiates the bedtime dance for Red Chief. Logic and common sense are trumped by opportunity. What I am having to learn is that to be a good co-parent requires flexibility. Never, ever, would I ever deny Red Chief a chance to see his mom. With the power of Professor X, I easily foresee the coming future. True to form we get to the spot, the book store. Red Chief sees his mom, and before I know it, Red Chief is going home with his mom, against my wishes. But as I have said before, we as parents have to embrace the reality that our children, now take the center stage. So even though on the books, I may have a scheduled night, that can easily change on the immediate needs and desires of Red Chief. What remains essential is that the child is comfortable. Parental comfort, through the eyes of the child, simply put, is secondary. That by itself is a bitter pill to swallow. But like with any medication, it may be bitter going down. Just like a laxative, swallowing that pill enables the detoxification process to begin. Detoxing, isn’t easy, in fact, some days, it can take the form of literally being, just plain, down, right, shitty. Your shitty days will turn into some shitty weeks. Your shitty weeks may become, some sorry, non productive, shitty months. Before you know it, you’ve had a shitty year! Congratulations on your shitty achievement! We can’t let that happen. Instead, like Diogenes we have to grit in and bare it, sometimes allowing ourselves to laugh at our own mistakes. So when the shit hits the fan, visualize it more as a cleansing process. You don’t have to like it, because I sure as hell don’t. If infants cry when their diapers are soiled, think about the adult who just soiled their pants. Hell, we’ll cry bloody murder. Instinctively, you’re not going to like it. But, we have to take that approach. Why? Because, again, that is in the best interest of your child. That said; I’m still bitter. Maybe pissed is a better word because I was pouting. My lip was poked out from here to Maine. We’re only human, not the endomorphic cybernetic organisms we aspire to be. Further exasperating for me, is the fact we are out and about at 10:00 at night. Instinctively, this is flatly wrong; but guess what, I already bought a ticket for this rollercoaster ride. I’m strapped in, passed the first deep plunge down and about to go through the second corkscrew of the night. Its now 10:30 and I’m going in and out of the grocery store so we can make this abrupt transition and again, our 3 year old is in tow. By the time I get home I am thoroughly disgusted. Not at his mom, but with myself. Being a co-agent in my psychic destruction; for allowing this manipulation and usury to continue. Returning to where I find peace and solace, the dragon’s tongue is channeled through my fingertips, onto my keyboard, transcribing my disappointment, in now what appears to be, yet another episode of our serrated parental debacles. Truly accepting the cold reality that I cannot change her; for the first time in a long time, I am open to receiving the message I have fought so hard all my life. I am cognizant of where the essence of true change begins; the revolution of self. So once again, I chisel another, in now what appears to be episodic declarations, of my ever evolving, states, of independence. This one, more pointed than the last. “What happened, happened. I own up to it because I allowed it to happen. That said, tonight the past is done. Period.” I can say that now with even more confidence after attending my first parenting class. It is irresponsible on both of our parts to have our toddler son out and about at 10:30 PM at night. Its unacceptable. Contributing to my bitterness was the fact that I, in good faith was attempting to be more relaxed with enforcing my portion of our custody agreement. Chalk one up for no good deed goes unpunished. Again I see my co-parent refuses to reciprocate. Adding further insult to injury, again, to assuage her guilt, she attempts to buy me off with a box of ice cream from the grocery store. I can’t be bought out of our son’s life with a box of Bryers. Do I look like I have the word, dummy, tattooed across my forehead? To me, actions like these, represent another form of emasculation. Even worse, this ball-ectomy, is being preformed in the presence of our son. Just as there is the colonized and the colonizer, there is also the compromise and the compromiser or let me say it this way, there was. I was direct and firm and I think I even had to beat my chest for a little bit because again with my back against the wall, I simply can’t be pushed any further. I was not ever a sperm donor. I was your husband. I am his dad. You will not undermine my rights to parent and to be an active present dad in his life. Nobody, particularly, you, is going to change that. Get with the program. Get therapy. Most important; get use to it. Now in hindsight, I know putting this in writing and sending something like this via email can easily be considered cowardly. I don’t like confrontation. But what is worse than confrontation? Being emotionally, spiritually, and financially compromised. With my back against the wall what are my options? Who do you call when you can’t call on anyone else? You call on yourself.
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