“Dads don’t take sick days.” We’ve all heard the line, most famously in a series of NyQuil ads. But the lighthearted comment and commercials hide a darker reality about paid leave for working parents in the United States.

Six years ago, my wife and I wanted to have our first child. I was a successful public high school teacher in one of the nation’s largest and wealthiest school districts. I had worked hard to get through grad school and earn a solid middle-class career. When I asked my supervisor how much paid paternal leave I’d receive for my son’s birth, I was shocked.

Three days.

Considering we were in the hospital for two days, if we’d had him during the school year (we didn’t, for this reason) I would have received one paid day off when we got him homes. One day to bond, adapt to late night feedings, support my wife, and say goodbye before I had to be back in the classroom the next day. Even worse, I was told I was welcome to take far more time off — as much unpaid time off as I desired, but I shouldn’t expect a job when I return.

Unfortunately, my situation was not unique. Actually, it was more generous than many other working American parents receive.

U.S. dead last when it comes to paid leave

The United States is one of the only industrialized nation that offers no national paid family leave at all. No maternity, no paternity, no paid time to take care of sick or dying relatives, and absolutely no time to take care of ourselves. No paid leave for working parents — period. The one guarantee most working parents in America have comes from the federal Family and Medical Leave Act, which states employers with 50 or more workers must allow parents 12 weeks of job-protected leave annually to care for a newborn — in many cases the leave is unpaid.

Suddenly, the line “Dads don’t get sick days” sounded a lot more insidious. (And for the record, moms don’t get sick days either).

I ended up doing OK when our son was born. We planned carefully, had him over the summer, and I didn’t work my normal summer job. But it’s just one example of how tricky a situation can become. According to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Compensation Survey, nearly three in four workers do not have paid family leave through their jobs, and three in five lack access to paid medical leave through their employer. While a few states and some employees do offer paid leave for parents, they are an exception not the rule. What’s more, this problem is truly American. Only the United States and Papua New Guinea, out of every industrialized nation on Earth, offer no weeks of paid leave. There’s an excellent documentary called Zero Weeks available to stream that highlights this issue.

Now it is more important than ever to change that disappointing statistic. We’re living through the worst public health crisis in a millennium. Every time I stand in the long lines for the state-sponsored COVID-19 tests I have the same panicked thoughts. I don’t care about being sick or feeling discomfort. I just worry about my kids. Even if it’s a mild case, who will watch them? Who will help take care of them? Will my wife be able to take leave?

Making the case for paid family leave

According to data pooled by the Kaiser Family Foundation, the temporary paid leave policies in The Coronavirus Aid, Relief, and Economic Security Act (CARES Act), signed into law March 27, 2020, directly impacted workplace health and seemed to correspond to large drops in COVID cases. However, these provisions expired in September. Once again, there’s zero paid leave. If you’re sick, you have to hope your employer offers some type of paid leave for working parents, but there’s a good chance they don’t.

Admittedly, many U.S. employers are starting to notice the issue. However, many small employers cannot afford to offer paid leave, and many larger corporations tightly restrict and limit what they do provide. In every other nation, this problem is subsidized by their government and public-private relations that ensure paid leave for all be it for personal illness, caring for a newborn or loved one, or handling a death in the family.

A month ago, I called my two U.S. senators. I’ve never done something like that. I vote, but I’m not very political. Yet, here I was on the phone with my senators (it’s quite easy to find their numbers), telling them what I was thinking. Paid leave for working parents is something both parties are discussing. I told them the story about those three days I was offered. I told them about the tears and frustration my wife, and I shared figuring out what to do. And I told them I was sick of seeing America listed as the only industrialized country without paid leave for its workers. That’s how you make change in this country. Not by jumping into fights on Facebook or Twitter, but by talking to your elected representatives.

We’re dads. We don’t get sick days.

But we should.

Everyone should.   

Photo: ©Vitalii Vodolazskyi / Adobe Stock.

George Floyd died at the hands of police officers just over two month ago. Breonna Taylor was shot and killed in March. Justice in each case moves slowly, if at all.

Significant racial progress, I say out loud during a recent newscast, is taking a long, long time.

My son, who is Black, sits next to me as I lament. He sighs and looks up from his phone, “Yeah, actually I had forgotten about the Black Lives Matter stuff until I saw the NBA and MLB players kneeling on Opening Day.”

His gaze retreats back to his phone.

I do not reply. I just sit, quietly frustrated.

His comment made me think of the dogged, lengthy efforts of past Civil Rights titans, like The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and John Lewis, making the mission of racial equality their life’s work. I then thought of the protest my son attended with my wife after Floyd’s death, and the way that day make him stop and think about the need for systematic change.

A few months later, though, he’d lost that feeling of urgency.

I suddenly find myself wondering, “Does this generation of children have the same grit to carry this movement onward?”

With protesters continuing to take to the streets in several American streets, there is no question the Black Live Matter movement has feverish support from adults. These rallies, though, have gotten fringier, less kid-friendly and downright nasty in places like Portland or Seattle where government-affiliated troops routinely use force and tear gas to disperse crowds.

I am selfishly thankful my son is not subject to that sort of chaos. But is familiarity with such unrest, though, necessary to garner the type of passion that success in this struggle will require? As parents, our mission is to protect our kids. My children’s relative lack of bumps in the road to this point could be construed as modest progress.

I tend to harp on to my son about him having no limits, that the only barriers to his success will be those constraints he places on himself. I have drilled that mantra into him from his earliest ages and, I think, he believes it. But I wonder if because he has been taught that nothing is out of reach regardless of his skin color is part of the reason why the urgency of Black Lives Matter has waned in him.

Complicating this issue with young people and persistence is that many children like mine do not have to wait for anything – not for food, not for a text back, not for Instagram likes, not for commercial breaks. Kids, if made to wait these days, tend to stop, quit, complain or just move on.

The grit required to rid the world of racism will be immense. While no one wants to hear phrases like, “it will take time” or “justice will come” or “progress is slow” about today’s racial climate, they have all been proven to be real. In the world of apps and instant gratification our children have been raised in, have we parents adequately allowed them to grind through a hard task for long periods of time for a coveted outcome that made the dogged effort worth it?

I dread that these realities are inciting passionate adults at the fringe and turning off children like my son who are maybe not equipped for the long tussle required for monumental change. Parents may be well-meaning in shielding their children from the racism’s ugly stain, but in protecting our children I can’t help but think we have not done a good job of explaining that other families are not so fortunate. My son’s indifference to the continued fight for Black Lives to Matter, I think, is proof.

So now, months removed from the awful imaginary of George Floyd’s death, the Black Lives Matter movement may open our eyes to other ignorances like our children’s lack of access to plight, to fortitude, to communities that look starkly different than our own, and to the concept of persevering for a cause that will take great perseverance to achieve.

My son may lack grit. I need to do a better job of displaying its importance to him because grit is required for Black lives, like my son’s, to matter.

Photo: © DisobeyArt / Adobe Stock.

EDITOR’S NOTE: City Dads Group is working with longtime partner Dove Men+Care to create “how to” videos for the grooming products company’s “Dads Care” campaign. We will be featuring the videos and scripts our members appear in. This one features Jason Greene of our NYC Dads Group talking about how to get your children involved with causes and activism.

Before I had children, I was on that social trajectory of looking at the world differently and wanting it to be better for everyone. Then when I had kids, I not only had a desire to see the world become better, but to be part of the change that pushes it forward. There’s a long road ahead of fighting against racism, homophobia, and for gender equality. They are not problems that will be solved overnight. One way to fight for these causes short term and long term is to get kids involved. I don’t want my kids to rest comfortably in their white privilege and I want my girls to have the same opportunities my boys have. And I want them to feel safe in their classrooms. So we march, protest, and challenge people to change.

When I speak to my kids about racism and gender equality, I hold little back. Their black and brown classmates, friends, and neighbors don’t have the luxury to hold back and my kids shouldn’t either. When I take them to Black Lives Matter protests, they aren’t raising their fists and chanting because their daddy makes them. They’re going because they know the names George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Marbery, Eric Garner, Michael Brown, Tamir Rice, Treyvon Martin and too many more. They know that 1 in 3 women experience abuse. I’ve told them women on average make less than men for doing the same job. We’ve talked about the long history of violence towards the gay and lesbian community.

My hope is that my kids will not be the way I was growing up and that they’ll be better and more socially evolved. That when they hear a racist joke, they will speak up against it. I want my boys to respect women and my girls to be respected. When they see a person threatened because of who they are attracted to, they become the person’s advocate. I want them to be brave and address the many faces of intolerance.

Whitney spoke the truth when she sang, “Children are the future.” When I go to rallies and see kids participating, it gives me hope. It causes me to think we’ll be in good hands. For now, we make posters, they go with me to vote, and we learn the names of people.

To answer the question at the begging of this video,” How to get kids involved in activism?” You lead them. Activism starts in the home. If there is an injustice, you say something and do something. Kids will see that and learn from it.

A version of this first appeared on One Good Dad. Father / daughter at protest march photo: ©Halfpoint / Adobe Stock.

The racial divide in the small western Kansas town I grew up in was very evident. Our community was practically 50% Hispanic and 50% white. When many whites would reference the Hispanic community and their culture, it was never Hispanics, it was almost always the pronouns “they” or “their.” It was almost as if by not acknowledging the race, it didn’t exist beyond the many Mexican restaurants sprinkled along the main street in our small town.

I knew this racial divide existed, but internally this divide was never there. My best friend growing up was Hispanic. I spent many afternoons with him and his family. I never saw him as a different race. To me, he was just a person who I really enjoyed hanging out with.

When I look back on how race played a role in our schools and within our community while growing up, I regret that I didn’t take a stand then. I stood idly by watching this happen and wonder why. Any time the reference of “they” came up, and knowing who was being referenced, I didn’t say anything.

Why can’t people be treated like the people they are?

As I watch my oldest grow up, I see a bit of myself in him. His best friend is black in a largely white Kansas suburb. He has spent many afternoons over at his friend’s house playing, laughing, and enjoying being in his presence.

I vividly remember when I was my son’s age, sitting in front of my third-grade class during our school geography bee. I couldn’t tell you the question our group was asked but it was about current events. Each participant down the line did not know the answer until it got to me.

“The Million Man March,” I answered.

I was right.

It shocked many in the class, including my parents, that I knew this answer. It is one of the first news stories I remember as a kid. I remember watching the black community march on the National Mall to make a difference.

Recently, I was scrolling through YouTube and a thumbnail caught the attention of my 9-year-old. It was of one of the recent Black Lives Matter protests and showed man holding a sign.

“Dad, what does, ‘I can’t breath’ mean?”

It was at that moment I realized how much we have shielded him from the current events of our day. At his age I knew what the Million Man March was and stood for. Yet, he had to ask me what that sign meant.

At that point in time, I was still processing what I was witnessing on TV. I knew what was happening with the Black Lives Matter movement was exactly what needed to happen. Their voices needed and still, need to be heard. But inside part of me was wondering what I could do as a 30-something white guy who has what many call “privilege.”

I explained the death of George Floyd the best I could to my son. I explained that the black community, while free in the United States, is still fighting to have their voices heard and to feel as accepted in our nation as the rest of us.

I told him that one of the things that makes me proud to call him my son is that his best friend is black. That he doesn’t look at the color of one’s skin as something that makes them different than him or anyone else.

Without skipping a beat, I told him to do exactly what I wish I had done when I was his age: stand up if he sees someone being treated differently because of their race, sexuality, religious beliefs or for any reason. I told him that we will be seeing people standing on the corner in coming days, holding signs and protesting the injustices against race. We will honk and we will stand beside them to show our support for those people still fighting to be treated equally today.

“I know, Dad.”

That was all that I needed to hear. I just needed to that reassurance. That simple, “I know, Dad,” gave me hope that maybe there will be a day when all of this racial injustice will only be a part of the history taught in schools — a history that will make kids ask themselves much like I am today: Why?

Racial divide photo: © Natalia / Adobe Stock.

Protesters shouted from my TV. As I watched, my stomach moved its way up into my throat.

I watched more. Tears rolled down the cheeks of people I didn’t know.

I watched. Cars were overturned.

I watched. People walked together and chanted.

I watched. A young man shot. A man choked and dead. And I watched.

My 10-year-old son emerged from his bedroom as the news played across the television. He stopped behind my right shoulder, watching as Eric Garner held his arms above his head and a police officer choked him and pushed him to the ground. He watched as Eric Garner gasped 11 times, “I can’t breathe.”

“What’s this,” he asked.

“The news,” I responded.

“Is this happening here?”

“Yes.”

“In America?”

“Yes.”

Usually when my son comes out at night to ask a question, I answer and tell him to go back to bed. But I didn’t this time. As homeschooling parents, we try to present a full picture of history and current events to our children: Columbus’s arrival resulted in the slaughter of millions, the Declaration of Independence was written when all people were not treated as equals, slavery didn’t end with the Civil War, the Civil Rights Movement didn’t stop with Martin Luther King Jr., Stonewall shouldn’t be overlooked, and torture is wrong. And so my son and I watched together.

We watched and we talked. We talked about how justice in this country often tilts away from African-Americans and people of color. And as we talked, I thought of Eric Garner and his children. His children will never have another conversation with their father. They will never get to hear his advice or his recounting of a story. I have always told my kids that if they are in trouble or lost, they should find a police officer. But would a black parent give their kids the same advice? Would I if I were black?

I am not anti-law enforcement. My wife and I teach our children to respect and honor police officers and there are many good officers (some who are close friends and neighbors) that take seriously their pledge to protect and serve. The problem is not with individual officers; the entire system is broken. And even individual officers who are otherwise blameless shoulder the guilt of a system that is unjust.

Now I know that often times liberal white men (like me) love to preach against racism from our white privileged couches. We act as though we are Jerry McGuire yelling, “I love black people.” We want everyone to see us and say, “There’s a good white guy.” And I don’t want to be another white guy writing about racism as though I know what it feels like to be a person of color in America. There is no way that someone like me can fully comprehend it.

But that doesn’t mean that my heart doesn’t ache for those who experience the pains of racism. That doesn’t mean that I have nothing to add to the conversation. When we ride the subway in NYC, you’ll hear over the speaker, “If you see something, say something.” My blog is my outlet. My blog is my voice. I have something to say. I have somewhere to say it.

I don’t want to watch while injustices are happening around me.

My family recently joined marchers in New York City. One of the things we shouted as we marched was “Black lives matter!” As a white dad raising white kids, it’s my job to teach this to my children. That all people are created by God in his image and are equal.

The pessimist in me believes racism will always be here. That nothing will change. But the optimist in me hopes – hopes that racism will end someday. For that to happen, we have to teach our kids to value all human lives. We have to teach our children that justice matters and that, as The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. said, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”

A version of this first appeared on One Good Dad. Photo: © Sabrina / Adobe Stock.

My oldest started high school football practice recently, but we have talked more about his team’s pregame routine than touchdowns or tackles. Instead of X’s and O’s, Yosef and I are commiserating over whether he will kneel or stand during the national anthem. I wonder if other dads of third-string placekickers are spending time doing the same this summer.

Former NFL star Colin Kaepernick, who cost himself millions of dollars and a promising football career after kneeling during the anthem, has been back in the news in recent weeks. And with the ongoing protests and marches in reaction to high-profile instances of police violence against black people, the racial cavities that divide us are proving vast as well as immediate.

Taking a knee before a high school football game might seem relatively meaningless in the whole scheme of things, but I understand why it might seem noteworthy in the mind of an incoming freshman like Yosef, who my wife and I adopted from Ethiopia about 13 years ago.

I do have some strong feelings on the subject. I want to be careful, though, about projecting my views onto my son. In fact, during this time of boiling, racial turmoil, I wanted to take the opportunity to have a deeper discussion with a kid who’s usually tough to engage.

When he asked whether he should kneel during the national anthem, I asked him four questions. Yosef’s answers, I think, provided a blueprint for anyone wondering the same.

Question 1:  Why are you kneeling?

Kaepernick knelt to shine a light on a social issue that, in his opinion, had little advocacy. If Yosef chooses to kneel, what issue has compelled him to do so?

Choosing to kneel during the national anthem must start with an issue – not necessarily the  same one Kaepernick has – that you are passionate about. If Yosef doesn’t have such passion, or if he seems solely to be succumbing to the pressures of other black teammates or the significance of such a gesture to many others, I’d advise him to stay standing.

Kneeling is the outcome of a burning desire to make a difference, not vice versa.

Question 2: How are you sacrificing?

When Colin Kaepernick elected to kneel during The Star-Spangled Banner, he made several burdensome sacrifices. Kaepernick gave up, by some estimates, up to $100 million, yielding himself unemployable by NFL standards, and turned himself into a political lightning rod.

The ashes of Kaepernick’s career as the backdrop, I asked Yosef: What might you be sacrificing if you kneel?

Might Yosef alienate himself from some other classmates and parents? Yes.

Might his coach, in an act of retaliation, sit him on the bench? Very possibly.

Suddenly, Yosef might suddenly find himself to be “that pot stirrer” rather than “that skinny freshman.” No athlete who kneels will EVER pay as steep a cost as Kaepernick has – certainly not my son. There will be a price to pay, though, and it might be significant to a kid entering a new school in the fall.

Without a good understanding of what sacrifices could be demanded of him, there is no way for a kid to assess whether kneeling pregame is the best personal choice.

Question 3: Are you prepared if you face retaliation?

At one point, my son asked if I’d thought his coach might take notice if players kneeled during the anthem? My answer was a question: “Do you care?”

If players care that they might lose playing time if their coach disagrees with their stance, they should not kneel. A willingness to trade activism for a starting spot is a kneeling non-starter.

Question 4: What are you going to give?

Lost on many in the story of Colin Kaepernick is that he has made good on a pledge to donate millions to causes that share his passion for ending oppression. So as our discussion continued, I asked Yosef, “So, if you kneel, you’ll be planning to donate to charity, right?”

My son looked confused. He didn’t connect the dots between activism and support, financial or time-wise. If my son kneels, I want him to do so for a cause important enough to demand his resources.

Kneeling, particularly at a high school game, is meaningless at its face. The only lasting impact is in devoting time or money to local organizations that champion the reason for the kneeling.

As long as he’s ready to give, he can consider kneeling.

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I am glad I chose to create a dialogue with my son rather than dismissing him. Asking those four questions helped me learn more about his thoughts – and let me wade through mine, too.

I learned that Yosef cares deeply about the same issues that Kaepernick knelt for. Yosef explained to me his feelings about the Black Lives Matter protests, and his role in changing the underlying injustices have stained American history. My son, I believe, will be a starting point for a more inclusive American future.

Yosef, though, showed me that he lacked the maturity to connect activism and activity. He saw kneeling during the national anthem as little more than symbolic – an act that might convey a disgust in the status quo. To him, that symbolic gesture was it – he did not need to do anything else.

He didn’t plan to donate his allowance. He wouldn’t think of volunteering.

Yosef certainly was evaluating whether  he’d be benched while determining his pregame routine. And whether he was OK with that.

I did not forbid Yosef from kneeling. I did not tell him to respect the flag and those who’ve sacrificed. I refused to dismiss him as only trying to get attention.

And, because I asked him those few questions, he may now have a more adequate answer.

Photo: © mezzotint_fotolia / Adobe Stock.

As I started getting dressed for a Black Lives Matter protest march, my son asked if he could go with me. To be honest, I like keeping it as real as possible with my kids but for this one, I was torn.

Should I take him or leave his behind at home?

He’s a mature 13-year-old. He’s also the son of a dark skin Puerto Rican and black man. However, he is also my baby and all I could think about was his safety.

We all have seen the riots, the beatings, all the negative things in the media and that the government have been pushing.

But how about all the positive things protesting brings?

The positive things outweigh all the negative thoughts I had about marching with my son.

He wanted in, I wanted to educate him and that’s exactly what happened.

We focused on the positive side of Black Lives Matter march, the people that pushed the equality message “One Together, All Together!”

These marchers chanted for peace but also had the fortitude to stop actions against others who didn’t want us protesting. We saw that a few times but not as much as TV reports would have us think. We only had three instances where someone, got tough with us for no reason. They handled them with peace and love.

Marching for equality with my son and, eventually, my whole family will go down as one of the best choices I have ever made in life.

We were marching with over 1,000 Staten Islanders and our voices would be HEARD!

Equality was the premise of this Black Lives Matters march but — wow — did other lessons pour in. I didn’t even have to prompt my little man to discuss it. The energy of the crowd, the chants, the solidarity, all of that was taught through the crowds’ actions.

Should attend a protest march with your kids?

Calling for equality alongside people of all colors, ethnicities, social classes and more was enough to prove that I made the right decision.

If you want to take your kids to a protest or march, do it! The fears you have are real but, in my opinion, the chances of them occurring are slim to none. Don’t ever let fear stop you from doing what’s right in your heart.

You can never guarantee that everything goes right but that’s a risk we take every day leaving our homes. Instead, focus on making yourself comfortable:

• Find a protest march that’s happening during the daylight hours as I did.
• Don’t bring little children (under age 11 or so) or ones who tire easily. We only covered four miles in three hours and we were both exhausted.
• Come dressed to create change, not for a photo opp. Mask up!
• Most of all, come with an open mind. We did and we will never forget.

I was worried about bringing him with me due to his safety, that’s a big worry. However, not taking him would have been one of the biggest mistakes I ever did.

We came together, we marched together, we learned together.

Note: You can listen to more of James’ experience marching with his son on his podcast. Scroll to the end of that post to find it.

A version of this article previously appeared on Cool4Dads. Father / daughter at protest march photo: ©Halfpoint / Adobe Stock.

“Father’s Day Taken,” the latest pro-fatherhood fundraising initiative by our longtime partner Dove Men+Care, remembers the thousands of black dads who have lost their lives due to racism and violence, and the families left behind. DM+C established the the Fathers Day Taken Fund to invest $1 million to support these families in need.

The movement began with the public airings of a video showing Minneapolis police on May 25 kneeling on the neck of George Floyd until he stopped breathing. Floyd was in the process of being arrested on a charge of passing a counterfeit $20 bill.

The Father’s Day Taken effort is raising money through a GoFundMe page at FathersDayTaken.com. It is asking people to join by donating at least $5 – the cost of a Father’s Day card. All donations will benefit the fund.

Additionally, to honor the memory of the black fathers taken, DM+C is asking people to send a Father’s Day card to a dad in your life through the website.

Dove Men+Care is asking people who want to support the effort by sharing its message to use hashtags #FathersDayTaken and #TooManyToName.

About our partnership with Dove Men+Care

Dove Men+Care has long been committed to shattering stereotypes about being a man and a father. Some past campaigns City Dads has worked with the grooming products company on include advocating nationally, including on Capital Hill, for universal paternity leave and recognizing father figures. City Dads Group and its many chapters have also partnered with Dove Men+Care for many fun events and promotions such as March Madness parties and tickets and promoting father-child bonding through free haircuts during the holiday season.

I’m finding it difficult deciding what to write about, my friends. It’s not that I don’t have ideas; it’s just that I don’t know what might be best or how to make sense of what I do know.

I have written here about baseball a few times. I guess I could again, even without games being played, big or little league. Baseball memories linger long, as you know. In fact, I just came across an image from a Little League game some years back. It was taken from behind the backstop showing one of my twin sons crouching in too-big catcher’s gear and the other twin on the mound, his left arm just coming down after the pitch, a slider it looks like. Between the two, the ball hangs, fuzzy in its movement, like a ghost in flight between one memory and another. It was the first time for a “Peebles battery” and the picture brought the moment right back to me.

However, without a season currently, the memories seem to hurt more than console.

I’ve written on faith for you in the past, sometimes unpopularly, I should add. I could, I suppose, go there again. I’ve been thinking a lot about gratitude: the sheer simplicity of it, the inherent humility in it, the wonder at witnessing it in others, especially my now teenage sons. I know how it helps my faith, which, if I were honest, needs all the help it can get right now. I guess I could ponder that, as well. Stumbling and getting my knees scraped up as I careen and crash down my faith journey could make a good story.

But I haven’t been to church in months. I’m not sure my heart would be in it. Also, I can only hear my cries for gratitude landing on so many who have so little to be thankful for right now, which feels a bit insensitive, I guess.

Beginnings, endings make more sense than present

You have indulged my baffling fascination with what I’ve called “beginnings” and “endings.” Thanks for that. I think a lot about timelines and where we are on them, in whose time … it’s difficult to explain.

Anyway, I currently live a life that seems to simply be the present. I’m sure many others feel that way. Asking ourselves to consider what is ahead or closely examine what was just behind us is, if you’ll forgive me, untimely. Literally, now, this now, is not the time.

I could fall back on my folksy, narrative style and tell a story. Like this one: I was standing in my kitchen with my hand in a deli bag of sliced salami — as one does — when one of the boys walked in and said, “I don’t know what to do.” I guess he was bored but the question seemed more weighted than that alone. I immediately handed him a slice of salami and said, “You do now.” He took the slice, thanked me, and wandered off. Maybe I could vamp on that a bit, rhapsodizing on the notion of how, sometimes, all you can do is the next right thing, but I’m not sure it would be very genuine and, honestly, I’m not sure I know what the next right thing is anymore.

I guess that is the root of the problem here, isn’t it? The things I used to feel were so right, don’t seem to make as much sense anymore.

Should I write of a pandemic that is killing so many, wrecking the economy, and ruining the daily lives of families everywhere? I could but, I’d probably have to leave out a lot. Like that this time has definitely brought our family together just as it was beginning to fracture into the busyness of high school life. There would not be so many games of Scrabble or euchre or hearts, far fewer movies and dinners together and cooking sessions. I would not have the opportunity to watch our sons face the stress and adversity that remote learning and social distancing has placed on them. They’re 15, and, well, would most certainly rather be among their peers, especially girl peers.

Honestly, I’d probably be tempted to brag about them, tell you how proud I am of the grace and pleasantness they’ve exhibited through all of this. I am not sure that that sort of message would make sense when I know parents everywhere are having a very hard time with their teenagers — children in general, I’m sure.

Showing my age, privilege

Should I write about protests and racial injustice? I am an old white Boomer and fear I am as much the problem as solution, and I am sure my thoughts are less than relevant.

I could tell you about my feeble attempts at explaining all this to my sons, my years of explaining our privilege as whites in an uncomfortably “undiverse” community and school district — a subject they are better equipped to advise me on than I them.

If I did try to write on this subject, I’d have to admit that I am not a protest kind of guy. The energetic and emotionally charged crowds truly frighten me. I want my sons to know they are free to protest, march and voice their disdain, but I’d be afraid for myself and afraid to look the fool to them, honestly.

What of the lack of leadership I see at the highest levels in our country? I could justifiably rant for thousands of words on this alone. My guess is, I don’t need to. Integrity, decency, honesty, humility are all not hard to spot — and the lack of them is even easier to discern. Also, the final one-word answer to that is simply this: VOTE!

There is one thing, though, that I truly don’t want to write about: my anguish.

Sometimes the suffering and pain I see overwhelm me. I sit in my cozy home, surrounded by a loving family where I watch the world burn with a literal and figurative fever that rages in a way I have never seen before.

On the news, I see images of courageous healthcare workers behind masks and gowns, and see only the burden and sadness in their eyes.

I watch videos of these huge marches and see only the individuals behind the posters and raised fists, and I feel the bitter, justified anger in each face. But I also see the hope in the same faces and choke back a sob at the two emotions so painfully entwined.

I look for leadership, direction, encouragement, and comfort from those in power. Instead, I get nothing but rhetoric and mixed messages and my anger turns inward metastasizing into deep resentment and, honestly, debilitating rage.

I would like to apologize for my lack of courage. Other writers here have found theirs and have written on these very subjects with great eloquence and strength.

So, that’s where I am at right now, any advice would be welcome.

As always, peace to you,

Bill

P.S. I forgot to mention, I’ve got a pretty good piece about teaching the boys to mow the lawn:  rules, and advice, stories, that sort of thing. That’d probably be best, don’t you think?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bill Peebles left a 30-year career in the restaurant business to become a stay-at-home dad to twin boys. He writes a blog, I Hope I Win a Toaster, that makes little sense. He coaches sometimes, volunteers at the schools, plays guitar, and is a damn good homemaker. Bill believes in hope, dreams, and love … but not computers.

Make sense of world in crisis photo: © funstarts33 / Adobe Stock.

My 13-year-old son, Yosef, is Black. I’m white. Most times, we’re too busy to take notice of the difference.

Never, though, have I felt a pastier shade of white than when I talk to my son about the anecdotes of racism that dot the national headlines on what recently seems to be a daily basis.

When President Trump calls U.S. Rep. Elijah Cummings out in the context of Baltimore crime statistics and subpar housing conditions, Yosef looks to me to make sense of people calling our commander in chief a racist, asking in confusion, “They’re saying the President is racist. What?”

After the news leads with a story of a New York City cop’s firing for his involvement in the chokehold death of a Black man, I am instantly filled with dread for the explanation I’ll owe my son later that evening. Without fail, I’ll clumsily attempt to simultaneously explain the polarized outrage of the local police union for the officer’s firing and the black community for the victim’s unwarranted death.

I attempt to deflect, telling Yosef, “There is a long history of distrust among the police and the black community in the U.S.”

Yes, there is no shortage of material to showcase racism in America. And, as I pick through the various layers of all these highly charged stories from the lens of a white dad with a young, Black child, I often start out more confidently than I finish.

Yosef’s first questions are easy and informational, like, “Dad, why is saying that Baltimore is rat-infested considered racist? What’s do rats have to do with race?” Or, “Why is there a group of cops around one, unarmed Black guy?”

My confidence brims initially, saying, “Well, Yosef, cops need back up in a rough area when things escalate.”

Yosef, seemingly unsatisfied, continues, “It always seems like it’s the Black men getting a bunch of cops called on them.”

These follow-ups require more and, regrettably, I often fumble my responses as my own racial biases percolate. “It’s complicated,” I say. “These areas are bad places and, often, mostly black.  Cops have to assume the worst to protect themselves.”

Most of the time Yosef will move on and leave me trying to discern whether he’s satisfied with my answer or disgusted with the thought of his father making excuses for a white police officer sending a Black man to his premature grave.

Racism ends when conversations start

I’m a 42-year-old man who was raised in a homogeneously white community and, at times like these, bringing up a strong, Black son through the simmering racism throughout our country seems an impossibility.

I’m not perfect. I clearly carry my own racial biases – on display as I talk about race to my family and friends. I don’t know how best to talk about race. I do, though, recognize the need to fight the urge to avoid the uncomfortable conversations that racial differences require.

I don’t think I’m alone and you don’t have to be raising a child of another race to struggle with such a heavy, divisive topic.

But people like me tend to take the easy way out when race matters arise. It is far too easy to point to one’s African-American friends and claim, by virtue of having dinner together twice a year, to feel connected. Just as hollow is the idea that my son could spend a few hours with a black man to make him feel at ease reasoning through his own brushes with race. Easiest of all, though, is calling others racist without acknowledging the biases each of us have learned and maintain – those we often gift to our kids.

The conversations about racism I’m having with my son tell me the divide in America is growing. The only way to scale the widening chasm is to do what Yosef and I are forced to do in my living room while watching the news: confront our own racial biases, uncertainties and fears head-on and absent fear of immediate judgement.

At the end of one of those conversations recently, a passing comment by Yosef gave me pause. He said, “Dad, if I’m around trouble, I guess police will assume the worst in me, huh?”

Although Yosef’s tone was more sober than sad, a piece of me breaks when I realize that his world outside the walls of our home is far different than mine. That must be a heavy weight to carry. It’s baggage I should be helping him unpack and not fold into his backpack more efficiently.

Even if I don’t hide the subtleties of my own racial biases, the ability to talk openly about such emotionally charged topics with Yosef is cathartic and necessary. These discussions help my son and I try to make sense of the divisions that exist in, not only America, but under our own roof as well.

Yosef has given me many gifts over the years. The most important one, I’m learning, is the tremendous opportunity of learning from the perspective of a young, black man – a present that I’ll never fully get as an older, white male.

Airing my own views of race, no matter how ignorant, skewed or short-sided, helps Yosef and I understand each other better. I hope Yosef feels curious enough to continue these vulnerable discussions that, rightfully, make us uneasy.

Those chats are his gift to me.

My gift to Yosef is, I gather, the gradually less clumsy, less white-centric responses that signal the shedding of my own learned, racial predispositions.

That’s how I plan to scale our racial divide. I’d invite other to join us as we traverse.