I Would Thirst Often As A Youth Cause Of You

Moms nursin self-esteem issues
Round the house it's hard to find a clean tissue,
minus her tears
To rewind this time I promise I’ll minus my years
to the day to take the pain away
Seemed sunny outside, always rained on Jay
Pop you my umbrella,
come help your son with the weather...

In order to get right we gotta deal with this wrong
And the pain I felt all my life you feel in this song
Your lack of warmth left a chill in the morn'
Your lack of love, left me loveless,
and I'm of your breath
I'm your mind body and soul, your heart, your flesh
Your alcohol, your smoke, the results I'm a mess
And dad, still I love you no less, dad
Hope you didn't think success would make me less mad
But not mad, just disappointed - we wasted years
I swear to God, may you take me away from here
If you taught me anything
The one thing you taught me is to face my fears, coward
How could you let me grow without you?
Grind in this rap game, take dough without you?
Wear my Pro Keds close to the sole without you?
Family pictures pose without you - WHY?! ..
Why shouldn't I be mad?

I can’t claim to be the author of these words. But I could have written them. I could have written them just as easily as any other fatherless child could have written them. Please, for those who read this erratic ramble that I call a blog, please drink in the desperation, the frustration and the confusion of these words. They are the formation of my years, and the foundation of my youth. And my dad was pretty damn decent, all in all.

But these are the thoughts and the feelings of each and every fatherless son in the United States today. I hope you have read that. These are the thoughts of every single young man that you know who did not grow up with his father.

What’s that you say? A grand generalization? No, not at all. The sobering, God awful (because it is awful) baseline truth. This my friends, is reality.

I mention this, because a black child has a 25% chance of being born in wedlock. And y’all know I hate statistics. But a 25% chance of being born in wedlock, to a mommy (or Mommie, as mine is appropriately titled) and dad (or Pop) is fucked up.

And the worst part of that stat is that I seem to be the only motherfucker on the planet earth who cares two shits either way. And I’ll be honest, that hurts me to my heart. If only because maybe I do owe an apology to Joy Jones. Maybe marriage is for white people. Maybe the old ways died off because they weren’t so good. What did the old ways get us anyway besides lynched, and boycotting and marching for some shit. We don’t need that shit no more. After all, niggas got New Orleans back, and they are prosecuting them whiteboys over at Duke, and OJ got off, and that Latham broad got herself her groove back with the white gardener, and Terry Macmillan and Wendy Williams has already identified that all the good black men are in jail, and the rest of us ‘chancleta and jeans’ wearing niggas is on the down low, so why even try to better ourselves anyway because the white man is out to get us and can beat us at any thing we try. Why the fuck do we even bother?

Then, in the midst of that frustration, I am reminded that we bother, brothers and sisters, because we must. We bother because we shall. We bother because in addition to Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King and Malcolm X, there were others -- who are less known -- who died for our betterment.

We struggle for Denmark Vesey, who died tring to free his people even though he himself was already free.

We fight for Nat Turner, whose belief in himself and his terrible mission shaped the laws of America for generations.

And we win for Emmit Till, who died for whistling at a white girl. Something I witness being done by brothers every single day.

And straight up and down, if that isn’t what y’all is doing it for, then I have little use for y’all. I have little use for those who don’t want to see us succeed. I have little use for those who aren’t out achieving all that they can. And I have little use for those who are unwilling to sacrifice and struggle for what we’ve been given, particularly knowing the sacrifices made to get us this far.

I’ll admit, I’ve gone soft. I guess I went and got reflective in my old age, more accepting of others mediocrity. Kindler and gentler villain, I suppose. Fuck that. We have all been hand-held too damn long, and quite frankly, my hands are sweaty.

The time has passed when our children are seen as a financial burden by their fathers, nothing more than a bill to be paid, akin to some boderline utility, like the cable bill; and a possession by their mothers, their own personal moveable lovable hugable teddy bears that can walk and talk and never judges mommy for her faults whatever they may be.

Our children are our responsibility. We aren't to be breeding best friends forever (bff's) any more than we are supposed to be breeding bills. We care for them, raise them, and teach them, so they can care for, raise and teach our great-grands.