The TALK

Two weeks ago one of my student soldiers told me that a black teenager carrying only a packet of Skittles his hand had been shot dead by a white male who thought he was suspicious.

Right there, I told the young man the following:

“If you look closer, you’ll find that this adolescent is from a middle class family. It wouldn’t even dawn on him that he was doing something wrong walking in his own neighborhood. A lower class black kid knows better and wouldn’t do that, unless he’s up to no good.”

I suddenly felt a punch in the gut. The naïve kid I was talking about represented my own sons, and also the soldier in front of me. He was born and raised in the US from African parents, academics. Just like this soldier at some point in his life and most middle and upper class black boys throughout the country, my sons are growing up, moving comfortably in their environment and interacting with their friends and neighbors, oblivious of yet another insidious danger to their well-being.

I felt guilty. Throughout their lives, my children have heard their father and I parrot motivational speeches to success, blistering criticisms – of course laced with love – and veiled warnings about lurking predators. “Never play at Johnny’s house when he’s not there,” I’d often say when I really meant “beware of Johnny’s dad, even if he’s Johnny’s dad. Who knows if he is a dirty mind?” But I didn’t realize that our children and us, never had what a black mother on NPR today called “The Talk,” a conversation African-American parents have been having with their sons since way back, to warn them of the dangers of being black men in America.

 

Like this soldier’s parents, having been born and raised elsewhere in the world made me either oblivious or dismissive of certain undeniable realities. I was going to have the talk with my sons, to begin with, with my seventeen year old, exactly Trayvon Martin’s age. I decided to handwrite him a letter first, in case I trip over my word during the conversation and lose some of the crucial words streaming through my brain right this moment. 

Read letter next...

Children belong to the father...or do they? Part 2

Before sundown that day, the dust-covered minivan carrying Hawah pulled into a swarming auto station in the town of Kani, toward the northern edge of Cote d'Ivoire. She climbed down and hung her luggage straps to her shoulder. It was a single satchel containing all she now owned in this world, two sets of clean clothes, an additional pair of shoes, her national identity card and a CFA 500 francs bill safely tucked in the folds of a weathered clutch. In the clutch, she also carried a folded envelop, a letter from her in-laws - ex in-laws - to her parents.

She walked the three mile distance to her parents' home where her unexpected arrival sparked a joyous clamor quickly followed by concerns. She showered, ate and remained in the room she once shared with her sisters. It now served as a storage and occasional guests room. Right after sunset prayer her father sent for her. She reached for the letter in her clutch and inserted it into her bras. 

Outside, a small assembly had already formed. Her mother and her sister wife - her father's other wife - sat side by side, a similarly afflicted demeanor on both their faces. Beside them, Madinah, one of Hawah's aunts mouthed a greeting and invited her to the stool near hers. Her paternal uncle was present along with another man from the community. 

"I invited you people here today as family and also as witnesses because I think something grave has happened," Sirima, Hawah's father began. 

"May God protect us," his brother replied. 

"Ameen!"

"Hawah has arrived here earlier today. I haven't heard from our in-laws ahead of time and none of us has called for her. So something is going on." Sirima paused and turning to his daughter, he asked, "Hawah, did they commission you with a message?"

"Yes," Hawah mouthed. Slowly, she reached for her camisole and pulled the envelop out.

"You are the literate one, so read it!" her uncle said.  

Hawah's arm folded reluctantly back toward her. Her trembling fingers fumbled and scrunched the paper until it finally opened. She cleared her throat, planted her elbows into her lap to gain control over her tremors, then she began. 

Children belong to the father...or do they?

Note: The following is a short story I'll deliver in a couple of short posts. It needs no special foreword only that I'm interested in your comments and your opinion on who children belong to should it come to picking one parent over the other. How is this matter decided in your culture? Stay tuned!

"I'm prepared to leave but I need my son," Hawah murmured.
"Who? Your son? Sedi is going nowhere," Bakoro, her mother-in-law cried out.
"But I can't leave him behind."
"Oh, you sure will. You're being divorced. Sedi is staying with his family."
"But I'm his mother, Bakoro."
"My son is his father." Bakaro's words fell, blunt like the open palm she raised and dropped down like a hatchet.
Hawah's eyes puddled with tears. From the wooden stool she crouched on, she had a profile view of her husband, Manda, languid as always. Never spoken up for himself since she'd known him. He sat there without a word even at his own divorce hearing. He was the epitome of the submissive child, now submissive man. He grew up in his parents shadow, especially his mother's. He toed the line even when she blinked. She decided what he needed and obeyed. He was debilitated by his self abandon to her that most people thought he was mentally handicapped. So when his parents found him a wife, he went along. Hawah showed up, tall, light skinned with a finely sculpted facial structure, freshly pull out of school by parents who believed that the dignity of a woman was in marriage. He was so intimidated that he always acted clumsily with her but somehow he managed to have a son by her, throwing one more being under Bakoro's rule. His hunched back remained of stone as his mother ranted on.
"My grandson isn't budging. Did you bring a child with you when you came?"
"Bakaro, please, calm down." The man who spoke was one of three elders who came to settle the divorce. They shared the divan with Hawah's uncle. Across from them, sitting beside his father on a bench, Manda still gawked at the ground beneath his feet. "Ndeh, my daughter, everything has an end but Almighty God's reign. It is the conclusion of this assembly that it is the end of your marriage to Manda. You'll have to return to your parents' house. The boy will stay here," the man added, caressing his short salt-and-pepper beard. His words were calm and serious.
"Eh, Bah, please beg them not to do this to me," Hawah wailed.
"Ndeh, children belong to their father. That's our custom," he said - his voice slightly cracking in the face of her pain.
Hawah slid to the ground. She moaned the sound of a wounded soul. Her pleading eyes ran to Bakaro sitting by the living room exit. This woman she had cooked and cleaned for day and night sat, lips curved in despise. Beyond her, she could see other women in the midst of their usual conjectures by the well outside in the courtyard. Her world was crumbling around her. She crawled toward her mother-in-law.
"Ndeh, there is no point in this. God's will is greater. You need to accept it," another one of the elders said. "Get ready, a taxi will transport you to the bus station."

AT THE OTHER END OF THE STREET

The above was the prompt in our class a few weeks ago. My piece went like this:

At the end of the street was a narrow alleyway. We were not allowed there as children. Most adults didn't go there and none wanted to be seen in the vicinities. Some did venture behind the formerly white cement wall now rendered ochre by the flying dust from the unpaved road nearby.

They were men. Oftentimes, they went there at night but sometimes they did in bright daylight. They all acted the same way. They'd appear to wander past the compound, with no mind to the dusty walls and what bellies behind it. But you could always tell by the way they casted furtive glances to their surroundings. Then they'd suddenly turn into the gateless courtyard through a small entrance.

I knew it. I saw them. Like most children I watched the comings and goings of those men and I giggled. My mom hated them. She said that they needed to learn to control their pants. I wasn't sure what she meant but I think I knew. The mini skirts behind the mysterious dusty wall were telling.