Lupus?! A wha dat?!

Just another emcee who gets free. Vessel of philanthropic vision fueled by theophilic purpose.

Tag: parenting

Explaining Death

My little ones have seen a lot of it for their ages. At least I think so. I compare it to my time as a chaplain at a K-8 where parents would call frantically “our goldfish died and Johnny doesn’t know yet! Please advise!”

I didn’t have a chaplain to explain that our cousin Cam, who my boys just met for the first time at 4th of July, is gone. We just went to the funeral and tried our best to explain why everyone is sad and why we have hope that we will meet Cam again. I remarked to my wife, “They’re taking this really well. I hope that’s a good thing.”

We relied on this experience when Dat died in January. We were again on the road going to another funeral. The boys, now old enough to remember these sort of things for the rest of their lives, seemed to embody hope for the rest of our mourning family. Something about youth at funerals helps you remember that life goes on.

I remember my Granny Louise dying when I was five or six and being angry because I couldn’t fly to Jamaica again to say goodbye. My grandmother went to bury her mother by herself, as far as I knew, and I wanted to be with my friend. I was really sad because I had just met Granny Louise in the summer of ‘92. I’ll never forget the warmth of her hugs and the smell of her hair. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt safer.

My sons were still awake when the news of Chadwick Boseman arrived. In my stunned state I still wished to shield them, soften the blow of this mortal wound. “The man that plays Black Panther isn’t alive anymore. He was sick and we all didn’t know. He was even sick while he made those movies! We will miss him so much. Let’s watch his movies tomorrow and give thanks for his life.”

So today we will watch Chadwick’s work as T’Challa. We will see him portray James Brown and Jackie Robinson. Thurgood Marshall. At some point I will watch him portray an officer who has the power to shut down all the bridges into Manhattan. I will see him be the living conscious of veterans trying to pick up the pieces.

Watching Chadwick Boseman portray T’Challa in Black Panther is the happiest I have ever felt in a movie theatre. Ever. I am forever grateful. God bless your life.

Source: Instagram @chadwickboseman

I’m hurt. I think I’ve always been.

I’m hurt. I think I’ve always been.

It first hit me when I was singing on the choir. The Children of Hope were a main attraction every Sunday. We stood in our robes, the pride of our parents’ eyes. One Sunday another child asked me, “Where’s your Dad?” I knew he wasn’t there but never thought about why.

I first spoke to my father on the phone at the age of five. I remember the conversation was brief; he told me not to take orders from any woman. Years later, I learned that our conversation was followed by my grandmother telling him about himself, “Yuh wutless!” she cried. I hope it’s not hereditary.

Every birthday, in spite of my mother’s best, oscillated between bubbling sadness and a fight against solemnity. Happiness was slippery. Accomplishments were punctuated by the absence.

Middle school taught me the importance of appearances. I learned to say my parents were separated even though they never married. I fashioned my father as a farmer, man of the people, whose agrarian will and political mind would usher in a new era in the postcolonial world.

In eighth grade he sent me fifty dollars a few times. Each time I felt rich and allowed myself to have pride. We would speak on the phone frequently, conversations ending abruptly when the credit ran out. I finally met him in person that summer, spending the whole day together, laughing with both parents, feeling complete.

I would not see him again until the summer I turned sixteen. I met so many people, good friends of his, who were surprised he had a son. I left Jamaica and was sure that this was going to be our new normal. Phone calls were frequent but still ended abruptly. He visited the next summer when I graduated high school. I realized the depth of my grandmother’s love when she behaved herself and sat next to him at my graduation dinner.

College would be another silent period in our relationship. He was always on my mind. Every accomplishment, any moment of success, filled with the reminder that he was not there.

I would not see him until I got married and I have not seen him since. Life moments have brought us together. We had a good run of phone calls after I nearly died. He called a couple times after my son was born. I had a lot of hope that my own fatherhood would make us closer, give us something else to talk about. Admittedly, becoming a father has made me angry. A younger me made excuses for him but now his negligence is unbelievable. I look at my son and think, “How could anyone not do this?” How could anyone feel the weight of responsibility and not press in? The thoughts spill my rage.
I don’t like to think about this often, much less talk about it. I worry that no matter how right I am, my silence is unforgiving. So I pray. “Lord, I’m hurting. I think I’ve always been.”

Brian Mooney

Educator, Scholar, Author

The Nerds of Color

Pop Culture with a Different Perspective

Love Dance Hall

Feel the riddim.

Decolonize ALL The Things

The UNsettling reflections of a Decolonial Scientist

Lupus?! A wha dat?!

Just another emcee who gets free. Vessel of philanthropic vision fueled by theophilic purpose.

HIP Literary Magazine

A great WordPress.com site

Soli Deo Gloria

Follower of Jesus Christ. Disciple. Husband. Clemson Alum. Living life in light of eternity.

David Mura · Secret Colors

Writer :: Speaker :: Performer :: Teacher

Mommy CEO

Working and living the Mommy CEO life!

Pro Bono Pastor

Totally free thoughts from a lawyer turned pastor

Different By Design Learning

with Shawna Wingert

Fix-It With Fran

All Things Faith, Family, Food, Fun and more!

black flag theology

a radical approach to theology and politics

%d bloggers like this: