Age 12 is a pivotal time in a boy's life, maybe for girls as well, but most definitely for boys . It was for me. That was the year of my "talk" with granddaddy , mama's daddy.
He spoke of many things, but mostly about his own life, while I sat wide-eyed and open-eared at the end of the bed. Granddaddy had led a sporting life of horse-racing , booze, cards, and women, and he is told me about them all.
I have never forgotten that talk or that great man, who so profoundly impacted my life that day, in 1963.
He lived in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. There he had worked at the Allis-Chalmers Plant, among many Pollocks, whom he called "hunky." These he had to fight all the time as he sought to earn his living.
He drove a new Buick, powder blue, white-walled tires, with a novelty: automatic windows, power steering and brakes. On the weekends, after getting off work, he would "get clean," and would drive down to Chicago, Illinois, from Milwaukee, 80 miles, to have fun. Granddaddy had had a lot of fun.
Wherever his fun began, whether in Mississippi, his birthplace, whose mnemonic spelling he taught me as ("I-crooked letter,crooked letter-I-crooked letter, crooked letter-I-hump back, hump back-I,"), or elsewhere, it continued in World War II. There, he and fellow Navy corpsman had run a Chinese junk up and down the river filled with prostitutes, as a money-making sideline, he said. I was fascinated.
He also referred to himself as an Ethiopian, saying "I ain't no nigger." He also referred to mama, his only child, as "black girl." When I asked him why he called mama by that term. He replied, "because that's what she is." Mama just laughed and laughed when he called her that, taking no offense, just love!
This 1963 trip was granddaddy 's second time visiting us on our Big Bend Blvd location in Kirkwood, Missouri. The first visit he had brought along a friend, some very beautiful 21-year old, fair-skinned, women named "Faye." When I asked about her on his second visit, 5 years later , he said she was "doing fine" and he moved on.
Granddaddy was not pleased with our living arrangements in that too-small house for our burgeoning family. We were monthly tenants, not owners. He told mama and daddy his displeasure, I later learned.
To help them get into their own home, he had sent them goo-gobs of money, that they assiduously stored between the mattresses on their bed. I had seen it one day, when straightening their bed, then had shown it to my sister, Schleria.
Granddaddy also introduced me to fried, breaded, shrimp, the best food that I had ever tasted! He would buy frozen boxes of it, that we would feast upon as a family. Granddaddy also liked to drink Old Crow whisky, "dirty bird," as he called it, yet he was never drunk.
I offer these glimpses into my own life in the hope that they may help others in their lives, especially when dealing with the "talk" with their black boys in puberty, a pivotal time when wicks must deftly ignite other younger wicks. Bring your presentation "straight down Broadway" with no sugar-coating is my recommendation. Bring it true, directly from your own life, if you are a man, or from the worthy life of a trusted near-male relative.
Sincerity, honesty, and love are the three vital ingredients. "Rites-of-Passage" programs are okay, too. But, right before you is the chance of a lifetime to mold your own son or grandson in your image who are in need of your initiation, in need of your unique, cultural inculcation.
The spirit of the boys will draw light and warmth and insight from your own testimony. Books are great, so too are tapes, seminars. But the best ingredient is you and your life; or if you're lucky, his granddaddy's!
Tuesday, March 15, 2016
GRANDDADDY'S "TALK"
GRANDDADDY 'S "TALK"
Age 12 is a pivotal time in a boy's life, maybe for girls as well, but most definitely for boys . It was for me. That was the year of my "talk" with granddaddy , mama's daddy.
He spoke of many things, but mostly about his own life, while I sat wide-eyed and open-eared at the end of the bed. Granddaddy had led a sporting life of horse-racing , booze, cards, and women, and he is told me about them all.
I have never forgotten that talk or that great man, who so profoundly impacted my life that day, in 1963.
He lived in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. There he had worked at the Allis-Chalmers Plant, among many Pollocks, whom he called "hunky." These he had to fight all the time as he sought to earn his living.
He drove a new Buick, powder blue, white-walled tires, with a novelty: automatic windows, power steering and brakes. On the weekends, after getting off work, he would "get clean," and would drive down to Chicago, Illinois, from Milwaukee, 80 miles, to have fun. Granddaddy had had a lot of fun.
Wherever his fun began, whether in Mississippi, his birthplace, whose mnemonic spelling he taught me as ("I-crooked letter,crooked letter-I-crooked letter, crooked letter-I-hump back, hump back-I,"), or elsewhere, it continued in World War II. There, he and fellow Navy corpsman had run a Chinese junk up and down the river filled with prostitutes, as a money-making sideline, he said. I was fascinated.
He also referred to himself as an Ethiopian, saying "I ain't no nigger." He also referred to mama, his only child, as "black girl." When I asked him why he called mama by that term. He replied, "because that's what she is." Mama just laughed and laughed when he called her that, taking no offense, just love!
This 1963 trip was granddaddy 's second time visiting us on our Big Bend Blvd location in Kirkwood, Missouri. The first visit he had brought along a friend, some very beautiful 21-year old, fair-skinned, women named "Faye." When I asked about her on his second visit, 5 years later , he said she was "doing fine" and he moved on.
Granddaddy was not pleased with our living arrangements in that too-small house for our burgeoning family. We were monthly tenants, not owners. He told mama and daddy his displeasure, I later learned.
To help them get into their own home, he had sent them goo-gobs of money, that they assiduously stored between the mattresses on their bed. I had seen it one day, when straightening their bed, then had shown it to my sister, Schleria.
Granddaddy also introduced me to fried, breaded, shrimp, the best food that I had ever tasted! He would buy frozen boxes of it, that we would feast upon as a family. Granddaddy also liked to drink Old Crow whisky, "dirty bird," as he called it, yet he was never drunk.
I offer these glimpses into my own life in the hope that they may help others in their lives, especially when dealing with the "talk" with their black boys in puberty, a pivotal time when wicks must deftly ignite other younger wicks. Bring your presentation "straight down Broadway" with no sugar-coating is my recommendation. Bring it true, directly from your own life, if you are a man, or from the worthy life of a trusted near-male relative.
Sincerity, honesty, and love are the three vital ingredients. "Rites-of-Passage" programs are okay, too. But, right before you is the chance of a lifetime to mold your own son or grandson in your image who are in need of your initiation, in need of your unique, cultural inculcation.
The spirit of the boys will draw light and warmth and insight from your own testimony. Books are great, so too are tapes, seminars. But the best ingredient is you and your life; or if you're lucky, his granddaddy's!
Age 12 is a pivotal time in a boy's life, maybe for girls as well, but most definitely for boys . It was for me. That was the year of my "talk" with granddaddy , mama's daddy.
He spoke of many things, but mostly about his own life, while I sat wide-eyed and open-eared at the end of the bed. Granddaddy had led a sporting life of horse-racing , booze, cards, and women, and he is told me about them all.
I have never forgotten that talk or that great man, who so profoundly impacted my life that day, in 1963.
He lived in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. There he had worked at the Allis-Chalmers Plant, among many Pollocks, whom he called "hunky." These he had to fight all the time as he sought to earn his living.
He drove a new Buick, powder blue, white-walled tires, with a novelty: automatic windows, power steering and brakes. On the weekends, after getting off work, he would "get clean," and would drive down to Chicago, Illinois, from Milwaukee, 80 miles, to have fun. Granddaddy had had a lot of fun.
Wherever his fun began, whether in Mississippi, his birthplace, whose mnemonic spelling he taught me as ("I-crooked letter,crooked letter-I-crooked letter, crooked letter-I-hump back, hump back-I,"), or elsewhere, it continued in World War II. There, he and fellow Navy corpsman had run a Chinese junk up and down the river filled with prostitutes, as a money-making sideline, he said. I was fascinated.
He also referred to himself as an Ethiopian, saying "I ain't no nigger." He also referred to mama, his only child, as "black girl." When I asked him why he called mama by that term. He replied, "because that's what she is." Mama just laughed and laughed when he called her that, taking no offense, just love!
This 1963 trip was granddaddy 's second time visiting us on our Big Bend Blvd location in Kirkwood, Missouri. The first visit he had brought along a friend, some very beautiful 21-year old, fair-skinned, women named "Faye." When I asked about her on his second visit, 5 years later , he said she was "doing fine" and he moved on.
Granddaddy was not pleased with our living arrangements in that too-small house for our burgeoning family. We were monthly tenants, not owners. He told mama and daddy his displeasure, I later learned.
To help them get into their own home, he had sent them goo-gobs of money, that they assiduously stored between the mattresses on their bed. I had seen it one day, when straightening their bed, then had shown it to my sister, Schleria.
Granddaddy also introduced me to fried, breaded, shrimp, the best food that I had ever tasted! He would buy frozen boxes of it, that we would feast upon as a family. Granddaddy also liked to drink Old Crow whisky, "dirty bird," as he called it, yet he was never drunk.
I offer these glimpses into my own life in the hope that they may help others in their lives, especially when dealing with the "talk" with their black boys in puberty, a pivotal time when wicks must deftly ignite other younger wicks. Bring your presentation "straight down Broadway" with no sugar-coating is my recommendation. Bring it true, directly from your own life, if you are a man, or from the worthy life of a trusted near-male relative.
Sincerity, honesty, and love are the three vital ingredients. "Rites-of-Passage" programs are okay, too. But, right before you is the chance of a lifetime to mold your own son or grandson in your image who are in need of your initiation, in need of your unique, cultural inculcation.
The spirit of the boys will draw light and warmth and insight from your own testimony. Books are great, so too are tapes, seminars. But the best ingredient is you and your life; or if you're lucky, his granddaddy's!
