The Innocence of Children...The Rage for their Fallen Souls

(This essay was originally written in 1992 shortly after the death of my father. It appeared in its original form as an essay for a local newspaper. It was revised in 1998 after the birth of my first child.)

The beauty of children is their innocence—their naivete to the evils and scourges of society. The fondest memory of my childhood is the security I felt with my father’s presence. He was bigger than life. Though five feet eight inches tall, approximately one hundred ninety pounds, his personality was maybe two or three times that size. And that presence—that strength—comforted me. I would sit up with him late in the night, reading my picture books as he read his more technical manuscripts. Then, as I got sleepy, I would move to his lap. Sitting in his lap, Daddy sang to me:

Take me out to the ball game,
Take me out to the crowd,
Buy me some peanuts and cracker jacks,
I don’t care if I ever get back!
At it’s root, root, root
For the home team.
If they don’t win, it’s a shame,
Cause it’s One! Two! Three strikes,
You’re out!
At the ole’ ball game….

Something to that effect. The songs would be different each time. Daddy was no Nat King Cole. His voice would crack as he reached a high note and break as he gasped for air. But this was irrelevant. The song was for me. Following each song came a short monologue. Most of it, I did not hear. By then I was drifting off to sleep. But, I was conscious enough to hear his final words, “Daddy loves you,” and feel a warm kiss on my forehead.

In those days, Daddy was “god” to me. He embodied all the protection, knowledge, and discipline that I look upward and inward for today. His words were gospel. Sacred. The truth. Why not? Daddy was everything! And I was Daddy’s little boy. He frequently told me that I would be successful. “You will go to an Ivy League school: Harvard, Yale or Darmouth.” In those days, I had no idea what he was talking about. Where were these places? All I knew was that if Daddy said it, then it must be good. Moreover, it must be the truth! I was destined, driven by a force that I believed was locked inside of me. No one need question me, because I would prevail. Daddy settled that matter long ago.

Daddy created a “monster” in me—an ego, a confidence. One that demanded that I be heard. I felt no barriers to my abilities and skills. I challenged everyone about everything. Frequently, Daddy had politically conservative, white men as guests in his office above our garage. Daddy would always call for me to make a sandwich and soda for him. Yet, after I had completed my task, he never asked me to leave. I was always curious as to their conversations, but I felt that I should leave so they could get to their business. I stayed anyway, acting as if I had some other business in his office. Invariably, these guests would have something “stupid” to say, and out would jump the “monster.” There I was challenging men four, five, six times my age in subjects I knew little about in comparison to them. In all of my remarks, good or bad, Daddy never stopped me—not that I would have heard him. He allowed me to speak my mind and gave me validity through his silence. In retrospect, I think he was proud to see his son challenging white men so vigorously. When I finally left—tired of dogging these white men, he probably politely apologized to them for the interruption. But, I know there was a certain pride for an African American man to see his little, black son challenging—intellectually—the ethic, norms and values of white folks in a small, southern town.

My Daddy is gone now. As an adult, I now know Daddy was human…that I was naïve about his omniscient power and mortality. I sit up late at night thinking of him…My sleep has never been as restful as it was as a child. As long as I could see the faint light of the “television room,” hear the clanking of Daddy’s pipe against the ashtray and theme music to “Kojak” in the background, I felt a sense of protection. I think about how his mere presence eased my fears…How his positive words made me believe in myself.

As I look into the faces of little black boys and girls today, I seek that sparkle of untamed challenge, brilliance and innocent curiosity for understanding. I seek the light of hope, the resiliency to adversity, the capacity for infinite wisdom and for the “savior” of the world.

I think we all look for happiness in the eyes of children. Where else can happiness and agape find refuge—except in their eyes? We also see a reflection of our former selves in those eyes. We remember our lives before our corruption. We long to have that innocence back. We vainly attempt to protect those untainted eyes with all of our strength from their inevitable destruction. Upon the realization that we cannot shield them, we close our own eyes, turn our backs and shout louder in church. We are much too afraid…much too fearful to acknowledge that their sin is our own handy work.

Since my father’s death, I have involuntarily intensified my watchful eye. As Daddy saw hope for change in the idealism of his contentious son, I seek these same attributes in the youth I see. Maybe that is why I was subconsciously drawn to youth development work and teaching. As I walk the streets, malls and church pews, I gaze longingly into the eyes of children. I look for the innate brilliance that hides right beneath their eyelids…their potential greatness…but also our potential exoneration. I seek their refuge because they are my redemption, my hope. We have long ago been lost to the world and its materialistic trappings, evil, greed. Since we are lost in our own realities and agendas, it is in these children that we remain hopeful for all mankind.

Today, even these innocent creatures are lost to the world before they are able to comprehend it. You look into the eyes of a seven year old, and there is no light. No happiness…no sense of hope. They aren’t even children, really. They talk like you do. They walk like you do. They dress like you do. They curse like you. They murder like you do. They reflect your fallen nature, and you become angered.

You call them insolent. But, how can you? They are your reflection.

You can’t really blame them.

Can you?

Who can you blame? Their parents?

Yeah!

Their parents are the morally corrupt ones. Are these so-called parents even raising their kids? Have their fathers deserted them? And their mothers…they allowed those children to do whatever they wanted! If those parents would have….Jesus…a little common sense…kept their pants up…Where are their family values?

Wait…don’t I do those same things? But, I feed and clothe my children. They go to good schools. Look how clean my children are. Look how dirty those children appear.

Take me out to the ball game,
Take me out to the crowd…

On Easter Sunday, in 1998, my first son was born. When he was a baby and couldn’t get to sleep at night, I would find myself singing him that same song. Born with his eyes wide open, eager to start his long voyage, my wife and I named him, Amiri, which means “leader” in Swahili. His sweet smile, his ability to find joy and laughter in the smallest things, and the restfulness of his sleep returned at least some of my hope for our children.

...Buy me some peanuts and crackerjacks,
I don’t care if I never get back…

With the smile of an angel and his small finger stuck between his new and emerging teeth, his tiny body curled to conform to mine. Turning his head, he squirmed to find the right spot on Daddy’s chest. With his arms wrapped around Daddy’s neck, he finally settled on a spot and drifted into peaceful rest.

“You’re going to be a great man one day. You are going to be a doctor or lawyer. I don’t know yet, but, I can see it in your eyes. Whatever it is, Daddy will be there for you.”

...And, it’s root, root, root
For the home team.
If they don’t win, it’s a shame.
Cause it’s One! Two! Three strikes, You’re out!
At the ole’ ballgame!

I lowered my head and kissed the crown of his head. “Daddy loves you.”

Welcome

Welcome to "I-AM Talking 'Bout Black Children," an online discussion regarding the contemporary and historical conditions facing African American children. Once per week, I will post a thought-provoking commentary or analysis regarding educational and social conditions in this country. I welcome your reviews, thoughts and ideas for future posts.

The rules are simple. We are all intellectual leaders. All of our ideas have value and will contribute to the betterment of young people in this country. We should vigorously discuss issues and solutions; we should grapple with the intellectual, creative and moral aspects of our ideas. But, this vigorous discussion should never become personal attacks. It is the ideas under scrutiny, not the person.

Again, I welcome you.