Monday, September 18, 2017

Struggle

I got paid at midnight.

At 12:01 am, I was heartbroken.

Why do I put myself – and my family – through this mess every two weeks? It can’t be because I like my job which I detest daily to the extent my skin shudders when someone utters my employer’s name. It does have me bent over a barrel since I am picking up our health insurance via biweekly deductions and trying to plan for the biggest pipe dream of all in retirement is the biggest fallacy known to mankind. If I could afford to, I’d drink myself silly yet staring at the bottom of an authentic Mexican tequila would only compound the problems in my life along with the mounting monthly bills.

Times like these are times which I think about putting on that trap jersey; consequently, I cannot get back in the game due to the real losses my franchise would accrue to one misstep:  getting raided or robbed, or worse busted by the law. Then there is the real possibility of applying for one of those medicinal sales licenses, and again that comes with two caveats:  The high cost of entry, and if approved, I would have to surrender my Second Amendment right in this state.

If making fifteen dollars an hour is the best I can expect in the prime of my working years, I’m out.

Why the hell did I spend so much time in school only to land dead-end roles that the HR recruiter must repeatedly cajole herself into selling as steppingstone positions? I should’ve noticed their poop-stained grins of building a bright future within the organization a long time ago; that “foot in the door” is all it ever will be. I’m overworked and grossly overqualified, vastly underappreciated, and I won’t enter the paltry pay as a part of the discussion. What a shining reality this has become – where are my shades to block out the searing sun rays?

The more I write about this, the more my frustration with the company simmers. I should’ve gone full-time with the catering business when I had the startup capital and opportunity; ironically enough, I paid off some localized debts instead.

Someone from the Swishahouse told me there ain’t no 401K in hustling and the way this job is treating me confirms the factoid.

Here I am giving serious thought about picking up a second job for the first time in over five years considering upcoming preschool expenses. The issues that come with that are twofold:  1) I am rarely home as things stand; and 2) I never have been much of a “people” person. In the pursuit of providing the best lifestyle possible for my family, the price of not being around for timeless memories could become too great. Why would I have surrendered living during my twenties if only to repeat this cycle again for the next thirty, forty years or so of working twenty-hour days to get by?

How is it that people whom I know are nowhere near as qualified as I am getting these plum jobs making serious jack and I’m living on Ramen and pork-and-beans?

In case you haven’t been able to figure it out, I need a better-paying gig that will help my ambitions of a comfortable retirement as well as get us through the mundanities of life.


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Writer’s Block

This year has been one extended session of writer’s block. For each blog I’ve written, I’ve had the hardest time maintaining the juice and continuing to push out new material. I know it was pretty easy to either glean from my own life experiences and/or the news cycles and simply find a quiet room for a couple of hours to write freely, but 2017 has presented its own obstacles toward any semblance of consistency.

Most of you know I used to post weekly to AD&AD and with all the things that have transpired since January, it’s a miracle that I had been able to churn out high-quality stuff for as long as I did! After two years of mostly sharing the Dad Chronicles, the greatest thing (for me) has been rest – and playing a more active role in my daughter’s childhood and being a halfway decent husband to my wife. Of course, setting Word aside for those sporadic moments when I can compose without an interruption has resulted in my intentional living; it also helps that Heritage* isn’t requiring my body to show up in the office 72 hours per week anymore.

As a professional writer, the time away comes a price: Anything worth having requires regular usage and that uncanny mastery of the written word is no exception. While it is certainly easier to tweet a rant or present historical content in 140 characters or fewer, I still need to remain up-to-date on APA, MLA, and other business formats of writing in addition to regularly reviewing past works for relevance and the occasional misspelling. Then there are the weeks of emptyheaded ideas and rough drafts that somehow evaporate between my mind and the time I can put them either to physical paper or my favorite notepad apps thereby nixing any possibility of monetizing opinions and tutorials.

Besides, what is exciting about discussing potty training a girl?

I won’t share the frustration, but whoever told me girls would be easier than boys must be dragged behind the shed kicking and screaming for a severe beating. 

Sidebar:  Ten years ago, I began AD&AD as a venue for me to escape a rough patch in my personal life: After I moved home to Arkansas after living cross-country, employment (and to an extent, the meager social opportunities) dried up yet I had tons of creative stories I needed to release. All I had in my pocket was $1 and a dream I had been chasing since college; sadly, I also had a mountain of car payments and that godawful student loan staring at me neither of which unemployment checks were sufficient enough to cover without serious piecemeal. It was then that I realized living hand-to-mouth was for the birds and although I wanted to be happy, the bills had to be paid on time. Eventually, I ended up working two jobs to not only catch up but also plan my next moves – and be able to afford to date someone. It’s kind of hard to get a woman to buy-in when all I had were an unrealized dream and a pair of low-paying jobs that combined barely provided any wiggle room for fun; thankfully, my girlfriend (now wife) believed enough in me to allow the pursuit of the written word. Getting recognition for being able to tell a story or convey a persuasive argument is nice, but I also like eating three meals daily and not having to worry about how monthly utilities (gas, water, lights, internet) will be paid for. In other words, I like payday.

If I write one or a hundred more blogs this year, all of this will be sufficient as long as I can push writer’s block out of the way.

Anyone with expertise in monetizing blogs, don’t hesitate to inbox or email me.  

*The story behind Heritage:  Rineco Chemicals was sold to Heritage Environmental for an undisclosed amount way back on March 1. So far, all 300+ of us still have our jobs and as we are integrated into the HES family, some growing pains are expected. I am not at liberty to say how it affects me personally, but stay tuned to find out what happens in the future.




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Sunday, August 13, 2017

You Own This. Don’t Try to Hide Now and Act Like This is New.

My own recently re-elected US Senator sent out a tweet feigning compassion over the events in Charlottesville yet he was silently complicit on the campaign trail last year when the opportunities arose to speak up for all of us and consistently declined to visit with all of his constituents throughout the state only choosing to see the moneyed or sugarcoated religious folks among us. I didn’t see ‘conservative Christianity’ from anyone in the state of Arkansas until most residents played stupid about the well-known alt-right member from Dover (or Mountain View?) wearing the Arkansas Engineering t-shirt; I know they were the same folks who were butthurt about Brother Colin Kaepernick taking a knee and his reasons or the young sisters who knelt during the preseason college basketball game last season, one of which I am personally connected to.



Ever since the advent of integration (not that long ago – Dad graduated from an all-white high school and Mom’s school integrated in the fifth grade only to become virtually pitch-black a few years later at her 1975 high school graduation), the powers that be consistently have changed the goal posts to suit their dastardly means. They have traded in their hoods and robes for suits and ties; striped button down oxfords and dark washed jeans for polo shirts, and standard fit khakis from the Gap; and burning torches for Tiki candles and anonymous Twitter accounts. What a lot of people don’t know is that the Religious Right’s rise to power has nothing to do with Roe v. Wade:  the original fight was ‘forced’ integration of their schools. See the South for the rise of the private academies since 1965.



Truth of the matter, I’m tired of being the moral compass of this place. Excuse my foul language but understand the context of what I am saying:  You don’t give a damn about my black ass unless it’s to make your pussified life easier via the heavy lifting AND even then, I don’t get due credit or compensation for my timely truthful intellectual thoughts.


For far too long and in too many blogs, I have continually pointed out the hypocrisies of flawed arguments both conservative and liberal as I am told that I am the racist for poking holes in your theories of supremacy. FUCK EACH AND EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU, if that is the case. I mean, where can I start? Trayvon? Mike? Eric? Jordan? Colin? Barack? The Charleston Nine? Walter? Terence? Rekia? Renisha? OJ? I’m here all night.


Fuck it, I think you need to hear it from someone who looks like you. But that won’t happen because you’re so damn complacent in calling it a lone wolf crime when the perpetrators are white – if it were me mowing protestors down in my crossover or using inciting language, then the thugs, n*ggers, and every other insult in the book would’ve been hurled my way. However, if you put my family in this and there will be no limit to how I move heaven and earth to send you to hell!

Putting a nice name on something still doesn’t wash away the ugliness of it.

You’re a nationalist/nativist/supremacist/alt-right, right? You’re still a trashy-ass racist, no matter what you look like on the outside and that won’t change until you change. Speaking of which, your boy 45 and continued silence is all you need to keep hiding under the veneer of what America is.

You certainly don’t represent what God’s Kingdom looks like and is all about.

How can you love and worship a man you’ve never seen yet sprint across the street clutching purses and dragging children away when you see a man of a darker skin walking toward you on the same sidewalk faster than Usain Bolt in the Olympics? 

You surely cannot worship the same God I do.


Because the media (which is going to shock you, but it’s largely owned by conservatives) is going to tell you the truth, right?

Because the high schools you attended and slept through the lessons on cognitive thinking are indoctrinating the students with wild leftist thoughts and questioning Creationism in their biology classes?

Because we’re supposed to never forget September 11, 2001 when slavery and Jim Crow segregation were a long time ago and we need to get over it already?

Because our churches are little more than PACs than meeting places to worship one Living God meaningfully?

Because All Lives Matters really is intended for me to shut the hell up about Black Lives Matter?

Every time you excuse bad behavior of one of your own yet slam a minority group for the same thing as genetic attribution, you’re really doing yourselves no favors.

Vanilla ISIS, with Tiki candles spewing hate

The pictures of White ISIS (I don’t know what they’re mad for – they’ve had most everything handed to them prior to 1968, and in some respects, still wallow in a privileged mentality) carrying Tiki torches is laughable only if…they weren’t our neighbors, coworkers, politicians, pastors, teachers, firefighters, police officers, doctors, webmasters, Little League coaches, managers, fashion designers, comedians, electricians, and so forth.  I guess when your voice is the only one that is heard for so long, when others finally take a few seconds at the microphone to speak, it seems like discrimination instead of the actual equality that it is.


You own this. Don’t try to hide now and act like this is new.


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Monday, July 31, 2017

Coming Out the (Diabetic) Closet

I am a lot of things to a lot of people and hopefully most of those descriptors are good things.

I am a child of God.

I am unapologetically Black.

I am a loving husband and hyperprotective father.

I am a fairly decent friend and neighbor, from what the people on/off Next Door think have seen in our subdivision and what most of you already know about me.

I am pretty laidback yet extremely passionate regarding my interests.

I am a reliable team player at work although I spend twelve hours at a time alone in my office.

I make some really good barbecue, some of which I hope you would sample a bite or two, or even purchase the sauces. 

I can go all day long with this but there is also one new description that comes into play:

I am diabetic.

Type II to be exact, but it doesn’t matter which diabetes (Type I or II) it is because untreated, it can lead to permanent damage.

I was diagnosed five years ago with Type II diabetes and once that sunk in, my stomach wasn’t as cast iron as once was and devouring almost anything at will was no longer permissible. Combine that with simultaneously finding out that I also have high blood pressure made me want to throw something up against the wall – or at the very least, curse my genetics. Of course I moped around to my wife about the changing health status yet I also decided to read up and kick this disease’s ass by any means necessary because simply griping about it does no good except for the few seconds used venting about my new life and its upcoming challenges. Fortunately, I’m not so far off the deep end that I have to resort to using the insulin pumps or pricking my finger throughout the day to check my blood sugar levels.

Upon hearing my doctor tell me that my diabetes and high blood pressure combined were the byproducts of “eating like a kid” and lousy sleeping patterns, I began to imagine the worst:  having to treat my everyday meals like the bland ones you’ve eaten at Luby’s or some all-you-can-eat place where clearly the love wasn’t put into the cooking. For a burgeoning pit master/caterer, I wanted to know how that would impact my flavor profiles [on pork specifically ribs, butts, and shoulders, it’s the Big 6 dry rub seasonings that I won’t tell; beef, chicken, and others, I may share BUT only if you ask politely].

Beyond moving fork or sandwich from plate to my fat face, what else could I do? I was lost with no path homeward. I hurt my back several years ago at work and instead of proper rest and rehab, I was fed a steady diet of Flexeril which guaranteed eight hours’ sleep and an escape from recurring bouts of pain that would eventually cripple me. I didn’t know where it was coming from, so I quit playing basketball and running as an attempt to eliminate the pain. Yet it came back sporadically – and with a vengeance when it did. Several years ago, I signed up for men’s city league basketball and played relatively well for my health issues and being away from the game for so long until my back acted up following another Sparkle Motion loss. I missed those two late-season games – it wouldn’t have mattered, as we were blown out in both contests and limped into the playoffs with a 3-8 record. Here I was, once the governor of the paint and well-known rebounding machine, reduced to a shell of myself; the subsequent weight gain from recently getting married and slowing metabolism rate didn’t exactly help. I could patrol the lane but for one reason or another, I found myself a step slower than the guys I guarded and out of breath more frequently.

Then I suffered from sugar cravings:  I couldn’t leave those damn honeybuns alone.

Say what you want about how much I like drinking craft beer – those Little Debbies are my real kryptonite.

I should have noticed that I was going to the restroom more often and how much liquid sugar I was punishing daily, but I dismissed both. Ditto for the migraines I occasionally suffered after waking up from the afternoon nap before work. What did pounding copious amounts of Dr. Pepper or Full Throttle have to do with anything concerning my body or waking up every three or four hours to pee? More than I knew.

Like I said, I’ve been diagnosed as diabetic for a few  years, so I’m still learning how to beat this devil – and at the very least, manage it well enough that it is a minimal part of life. With the regimen of medicine I have to take every day, I do feel a little like a junkie (I know it’s not politically correct to say junkie, but that’s how I feel with six separate pill bottles and a glass of water every day); consequently, this is a part of my new life. I slowly have also rededicated myself to at least walking through the neighborhood and shooting hoops in the driveway; as I get my moxie back, it may include an abbreviated game of one-on-one before I try to hold my own with the AAU crowd. Initially, I had lost twenty-five pounds (and since have regained it back and then some - thanks, Rona) yet despite my dietary backsliding into the drive-thru windows around the region, I aim to beat this thing.

How do I beat something that I am genetically (and culturally) predisposed to?

I have two strikes against me:  the genetics and the culture. It doesn’t mean lay down and do nothing; living in a new world which Metformin is going to send me to the toilet if I even gaze at a slice of pizza too long presents new obstacles to good health. Genetically, I knew I was screwed:  both sides of my family are battling high blood pressure and diabetes, and there are some of us who do have to use the insulin pumps and pricks daily. It could be worse, but hopefully nipping it in the bud early will be the catalyst in changing not only what we eat but how food and drink are consumed. As for the culture, I am not solely talking about Black culture:  I am a son of the South and a summer cookout is not the same without fried catfish or chicken, grilled hamburgers and hot dogs, smoked spareribs or beef brisket, or some sort of sugary goodness!

In other words, I LOVE TO EAT. We ain’t snacking on vegan anything over here.

In this day, I need to learn how to eat to live, not live to eat. My grandparents have all made it to their 80s and one even saw age 90 before she passed away, so whatever they did health-wise is worth taking a look at. Then there is the one still-living grandparent who turned 94 in October who my daughter is fortunate enough to meet and know – Grandma’s dad (my great-grandpa John) lived to be 101. As far as I can tell, moderation and exercise are the keys to living such a long healthy life; applying those tips can perhaps help me.

Another way I can conquer diabetes is by actually listening to what my dietician says – and that includes following the notes she recommends. Trust me when I say that big bowl of Golden Grahams isn’t there to help me get to where I want to be. Does it taste good on the way down? Hell yeah it does! Do I really need the sugary goodness each morning? Not really. Therefore, I’ve given myself an arbitrary weight goal of my wedding day weight, but what matters more is being able to keep up with Little Miss Sunshine and her boundless energy without doubling over and grabbing basketball shorts for a deep breath every couple hundred feet.

Being diabetic hasn’t been a death sentence like I expected back in February 2017; it instead has become my wakeup call to change some habits for the better while I have my good health.




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Monday, July 17, 2017

No, Man

The most interesting thing about watching my daughter grow up is the moment I realized how effectively she uses language at the tender age of two better than some adults ever could.

I’m not saying that Caeli is already reading the Magna Carta – but since she is my kid, don’t doubt it for a second. In the meantime, I have to endure the one- or two-word phrases and assorted aphorisms as she learns how to convey her wants to something more understandable. Even in the most innocent tone known to mankind, there are only so many times the words eat-eat should come from a toddler’s mouth before we step it up and teach her how to ask for what she wants to eat. At the present date, the word C-O-O-K-I-E needs to be spelled; can you imagine the sheer pandemonium if someone slips up and says the word only for a swift denial?

This is even beyond the video of Caeli getting her ears pierced for the very first time and the extra care we have to take in keeping them clean and free from all infections. Just four hours earlier, she skinned her knee for the very first time in the driveway and shook it off as if it was nothing!

The little one gets her ears pierced


On an odder note, I think I may have accidentally taught her how to code-switch:  for the uninformed, code-switching means doing one thing for her familiar group, and switching to a different routine for the same thing around others. How? She gives the kinfolk on both sides of the tree, church kids, fellow deacons, the associate minister, and family friends dap but the neighbors get “skin”, aka the high-five. Nothing wrong with that except I’m sure Ryan or Madison next door want dap every now and then and sometimes Brother Carl would rather have skin before giving her a bag of potato chips as a snack.
Already got that strong low post game at the age of 2

Caeli has a strong low-post game and is already a better shooter than her daddy ever was. However, basketball (or sports in general) will not be her sole meal ticket to winning in this life. This is why we read, count, and doodle daily with her; an exposed child will be a more educated and culturally aware child in better position to take on whatever is thrown at her as she enters adulthood. Yes, I’m thinking that far ahead. For the first eighteen or so years, I’ll dive in front of many of those darts and lay on the grenades dug underground or tossed casually in her direction.
Knowing how to finish at the rim

In typical two-year-old fashion, the word “no” is getting some serious play – especially at bedtime.




The words our toddlers pick up and repeat constantly are the ones we use the most – or the ones we shouldn’t use, like cusswords. Don’t ask me what happened when Caeli started repeating the s-word; I bet I had forgotten something or found myself annoyed at something. Any count, I have to be really careful of what impressionable ears hear and what comes out of daddy’s mouth:  This is why I gave Caeli her very own Spotify radio station. Otherwise, those ‘shaking my head’ moments become more frequent and could get her in serious trouble elsewhere such as daycare or worse, kindergarten.
Linguists understand how we use local color in our speech to somewhat pinpoint where we are from or at the very least, identifies the dialect from whence we communicate in. For example, New Englanders say wicked-awesome when something is really great and car=cah.


Here in the Natural State, Caeli is very likely to pepper in a contraction such as y’all here and there instead of “you guys” as well as call every soft drink a Coke. She’s acquired the way I say “no, man!” with the emphasis on man. In an older dictionary found in my parents’ house, I recall seeing a dialect map denoting where and who uses certain phrases most frequently. The word “man” in this context is used most by African-American men in the South dating back to the Jim Crow era of calling each other “man” due to segregationists insulting them as “boy” even at very mature ages! In her case, I know Caeli has heard me say “what’s up, man?” more than I can count and now she invokes it because it is easy to say. She is too young to understand perception and crutch words as a hindrance, yet it is a pretty good idea to minimize my own overreliance on a particular term.

Being a smart cookie is one thing, and it is another to sound like an intelligent child. Keeping a vigilant watch over the words we choose to say – good, bad, crutch, etc. – can go a long way in our little ones’ communication skills. While speaking only the King’s English is ideal, we parents must acknowledge that our children converse best in the environments they are placed.




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Sunday, June 18, 2017

Lord, Forgive Me for Clapping Back


The Urban Dictionary defines clap back as “returning an insult as such as to retaliate in kind because it may be justified.” 

 I’ve done it. 

 You’ve done it. 

 Even Jesus clapped back on those fools and hypocrites in Matthew 23. 

 When you read the word fool in the Old Testament, consider how harsh of a slander it was to be labeled as such back then. For example, Proverbs 26:4-5 reads in the Contemporary English Version like this: 

Don’t make a fool of yourself by answering a fool. But if you do answer any fools, show them how foolish they are, so they won’t feel smart. 

 In other words, don’t feed the trolls. You and I know people [supervisors, in-laws, social media lurkers, etc.] who thrive on getting under your skin because apparently they have so little going on within their own lives that paying attention to yours in anathema to their existence.



 But, it’s so easy! Why should I ask for forgiveness for clapping back? 

 Simple: there are people watching us. As black people in Trumplandia [that space of conservative white America with some liberal pockets and the occasional black person such as Uncle Ruckus from the Boondocks proclaiming #AllLivesMatter or pretending to be colorblind], they expect us to act up so we eventually become permanent memes or WSHH stars – or worse – land a recurring role on the Real Housewives of Atlanta. Even beyond that moment of witticism, what does clapping back teach the babies? That responding to name-calling and bullying is a crime and they should take barbs lying down? Riiggghhhht. 
More Biblical examples of the clap back: In 1 Samuel 20:30, King Saul effectively calls his some Jonathan a SOB and a MF [In the context of stereotypical Christian speech, I am not going to spell out the acronyms for you already know what they are]. Over in the New Testament, Paul’s clap back skills are on display in Galatians 5:12 when he writes about his theological opponents who were pushing for his circumcision, writing “I wish the people who are bothering you would castrate themselves.” In other words, he hoped the knife would slip and take out their members. 

 Again, Paul was saved and delivered into this role. It didn’t mean he was meek and mild overnight; the man was still a certified G and he let everyone know it. 

 There will be a time when I don’t have any more cheeks to turn and the second I take a swing at you, I’m going to jail for assault or worse, manslaughter. I am forgiven, but I am also a work in progress. Don’t let the chambray shirt, bow tie, and clean suit fool you into thinking otherwise; I’m still a product of Friendship Road despite being away from the ‘hood for the better part of the last twenty years. I’m going to ask for forgiveness after I clap back – just in the meantime, understand that the words coming out of my mouth are timely and deserved. 

 As I realized toward the end of the last time I had to clap back on a certain thirsty politician, Matthew 10:14 explains what I should have done instead: upon departure, shake off the dust from your feet at them. 
Lord, forgive me for not controlling my tongue as I should and letting anger get the best of me. I know that in times of conflict and disagreement, my tongue can be the spark that sets off a forest fire that leaves ashes behind of the hell caused by one slip. Encourage me to speak more praises than curses and as we praise You, we were created to be more like You and less of ourselves. In Jesus’s name I pray, 

 Amen.
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The Privilege Is Mine, Caeli

I was home for two nights this week. 

  Caeli went to bed whenever she felt like it – if you haven’t heard the grievances aired out, let’s call it somewhere between midnight and 2 am. Just like most nights when I’m home with her, we watched some combination of Finding Dory or Trolls on Netflix for the fiddy-leventh time to the extent I can sing songs and quote lines from the latter film at the drop of a hat verbatim. When that isn’t enough, our evening walks through the neighborhood usually end in bath time and Bubble Guppies with a cookie. 

 That should explain why I haven’t written much this year. I can also chalk that up to a general apathy of clever wordplay and the use of metaphors/similes/my own tweets to relate to a story’s content. Then, there is the political climate in which we live in as well as ministry forcing me to wear multiple hats around the church because stuff has to get done and a number of people lack the faith to know that God’s Work is progressing with or without my physical body in the building. Those folks will never understand I work nights and have to really manage my time to the second for that is the only thing guaranteed. To them: Deal with it, or help me find a corporate role that pays what I need to pay bills, save for retirement, and occasionally have a little fun with plus provides the same autonomy I have become so accustomed to over the past five years.

 I am a father. I am also black. 

 Both of these sometimes seem scary due to the news cycles and media savaging the characters of perfectly good brothers in addition to the pressures that come with being THAT GUY. Even as a man with a solid job, mustard-seed faith, and a little bit of change put back, being THAT GUY periodically is nerve-wracking: She and my wife have to eat healthy meals every day, the lights and water (and internet – for you know, work) must remain paid up, and more importantly, the house and car payments have to be made on time. Plus, having a little girl obviously turned my world upside down to the extent of watching what I say, where my eyes travel, and a host of other things. I wasn’t anywhere near a mack/pimp/player/ladies’ man type in my younger years, so thankfully I don’t have to lie to a little boy about how I was pulling the ladies. As for my daughter, she sees the inherent goodness of most people, and she is freaking adorable! I’d better start heading to the gun range for target practice at the BULLSEYE, not another human being since some gun ranges do give target sheets of brothers who look like me without the glasses. It still doesn’t make this job any easier.

  I’ve become a better man because Caeli made me a father.

 I see the world a little bit clearer because of my daughter. 

 I am a better employee for Heritage (more on that later) now that I am a father. 

 I have also discovered PAW Patrol has absolutely no redeeming qualities whatsoever – and this is after we’ve bought the bed sheets, outfits, slippers, plush figures, DVDs, and the night light next to her bed. 

 Although every day is a work in progress, I love better and more deeply each day thanks to Little Miss Sunshine and her mommy.

 In this sin-sick world, being the blessed father to her has made me a better Christian and more attentive Baptist deacon to my own family’s desires as well as the congregation’s wants.

 You better believe I’m a better pitmaster because of Caeli! 

 Thanks to my daughter, the pink man bag is just a necessary bag that carries two outfits, wipes, Pullups, a few packets of Thick-It Too, and occasionally, my phone. My ancient tablet rarely leaves the house, and neither of us has broached the other about that upgrade - yet.

 In short, Black fatherhood is some empowering stuff and you wouldn’t believe how quickly you pick up on the nonverbal cues from one brother to another! 

 I’m still afraid of braiding Caeli’s hair due to not knowing how, and am finally learning what to do with newly pierced ears regarding upkeep and protecting the cartilage from infection, I will admit.

 Everyone who has ever read the Dad Chronicles or visited us during those 146 days in the NICU will recall that I read to Caeli at every chance possible. It’s not just because I want her to elevate to levels of success neither I nor my wife were able to accomplish (so far), but also to open her imagination to a world that exists far, far away from the suburban burg of Bryant, Arkansas where she can be the hero and create the narrative of her life story. I am just a curator for the first eighteen or so years she’s underneath our roof.

 I consider it to be an honor to be your Daddy, big girl.



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