Our longtime partner Dove Men+Care is teaming with the National Basketball Players Association in an effort to better society for Black men.

The Commit to C.A.R.E (Care About Racial Equity) Now Initiative will showcase, honor and celebrate the humanity of Black men while addressing issues such as public safety, safe and fair voting, community engagement and the accurate portrayal of Black men in media.

“Black men and our community have been suffering far too long from the negative portrayals that have been built into our society, which is why we are honored to partner with the NBPA to help drive transformative change and amplify the voices and work of the players,” Esi Eggleston Bracey, chief operating officer of the men’s grooming products parent, Unilever N.A. Beauty and Personal Care, said in a news release. “We all have a responsibility to advocate for racial equity, including challenging the misrepresentation of Black men to help save lives. This partnership will help us work towards a brighter and more just future.”

The Commit to C.A.R.E. Now Initiative asks people to help by doing two things:

1. Sign the Commit To C.A.R.E. Now Pledge

The pledge says signers will:

• Educate themselves and start courageous conversations about racial injustices, particularly with Black men.
• Take personal responsibility to stand up against racism, lead by example and spread the message.
• Be an advocate for the cause by supporting legislative change that will help save lives.

2. Sign a petition for The George Floyd Justice in Policing Act

The petition encourages the U.S. Senate to pass legislation (H.R. 7120) that offers a comprehensive approach to hold police accountable, end racial profiling, change the culture of law enforcement, empower our communities, and build trust between law enforcement and our communities by addressing systemic racism and bias to help save lives.

Black Men Care video released

A recently released video for the initiative features pros Chris Paul, Donovan Mitchell, Aaron Gordon, Jaylen Brown and Danny Green promoting their work to correct the depictions of Black men in media and culture that too often rely on harmful stereotypes.

“Our partnership with Dove Men+Care is groundbreaking because it emphasizes the humanity of our players and calls on the world to see them as men – not just as athletes. We are eager and committed to systemic change that will make the world more equitable for them and for all Black men,” Payne Brown, president of THINK450, the innovation and partnership engine of the NBPA, said in a news release.

The Commit to C.A.R.E. Now Initiative is one of many Dove Men+Care has taken over the years to try to try the public’s perception of modern fatherhood. City Dads Group has worked with them multiple times on campaigns to champion men in their roles as fathers, such as the fight for paid paternity leave. This year, the company has placed more of an emphasis on matters of racial violence and injustice.

In June, it launched “Father’s Day Taken,” a pro-fatherhood fundraising initiative to remember the thousands of black dads who have lost their lives due to racism and violence, and the families left behind. DM+C established a fund to invest $1 million to support these families in need.

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.

I knew in advance of the interview that the question would be asked, but it still startled me when it was. Few Black fathers have a ready-made answer to: “When will you speak to your child about race? And what will you tell her?”

This question came about in February, three months before the police killing of George Floyd, as part of a project I participated in exploring Black fatherhood. In the months since, it has echoed in my mind as the Black Lives Matter movement has commanded global attention and my daughter hits a new milestone: her sixth birthday.

With each passing birthday, my daughter moves closer to the age I was when my mother sat me down to have The Talk, that unfortunately necessary conversation — the first of many — that Black parents often have with their children about race, racism and how to navigate a society that does not always see you as fully human. That this is a familiar rite of passage in Black families speaks volumes about the systemic and generational dehumanization that African Americans endure.

The Talk defined and in practice

The Talk covers all manner of indignities and scenarios: the first time you were called the n-word; what to do when you’re pulled over by police; how to respond to being followed by a store employee who suspects you’re a shoplifter because of your race. The list goes on.

In my case, nothing particularly dramatic had happened. My mother must have sensed it was time for me, at the age of 8, to be introduced to the concept of racial difference given the two worlds I inhabited in 1983 as a third-grader: the predominantly Black neighborhood of South-Central Los Angeles where I lived and the then predominantly white suburb of Northridge in the San Fernando Valley, where my elementary school was located.

During the week, I’d ride a school bus 40 minutes from South-Central to the Valley in pursuit of a better education. My mother decided to have me bused under a voluntary Los Angeles Unified School District program to integrate schools. The program, which effectively dismantled mandatory busing, allowed minority parents the option of busing their children to predominantly white schools. My mother seized the opportunity. At its peak in 1984, about 23,000 students were bused under the voluntary program. I was one of them.

My mother, born and partly raised in the Black neighborhood of Greenville in segregated 1960s Mississippi, later told me she believed the educational opportunities in the Valley superior. She also she wanted me to gain exposure to people of different cultures.

But she also apparently wanted to be sure I was grounded in my own.

I recall my mother sitting down with me in our apartment and explaining that the shades of skin tone among the people in our neighborhood — brown sugar, coconut, honey iced tea, golden yellow — reflected the diversity of those who identified as Black, our racial-ethnic group.

“You’re Black,” my mother said, as if preparing me to understand how other people might first see me.

“No, I’m yellow,” I countered, using the word my family often used to describe my fair skin tone. She laughed.

My mother, a librarian at the time, explained in her version of The Talk that Black people have a rich history and culture, but are often discriminated against because they are different. As a result, they have been engaged in a long struggle for equality embodied by the civil rights leader Martin Luther King Jr. I knew who King was. As a second-grader, I was awarded the Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Award for “contributing to the spirit and the dream of a better world for all people.” I can’t recall what I did to earn this award, but vaguely recall drawing a crayon portrait of King and writing a short statement about his life.

How mother’s words changed my life

And then, with a deep sense of reverence, she described the Civil Rights Movement — what Black people were fighting for (equal treatment and opportunity) and against (discrimination and violence) and how King had a dream we would one day live in a nation where people would “not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”

I’d never heard my mother speak before with such passion. Her words made me feel both proud and angry.

Proud to be Black. Not less than. Not ashamed. Proud.

But angry at the unfairness of it all.

Both feelings are rooted in the knowledge of one’s own history, which may explain why years later in college one of my majors was history and I became a student activist.

You don’t realize the implications of how your parents raised you until you become a parent yourself. By introducing me to a racialized view of the world grounded in a history of striving and resistance, my mother inoculated me with a sense of pride against the virulent nature of racist beliefs and actions that I had yet to encounter. She helped keep my self-esteem intact.

So, the next time I’m asked about when will I speak my child about race and what will I tell her, I will follow my mother’s example.

I will speak to my daughter when I feel she’s ready to bear the burden of racial awareness.

I will tell her, “We’re all different in our own ways, but equal: equal in rights and equally deserving of respect and kindness.”

I will tell her about the history of her people and the stories of individuals within our family who overcame adversity to not just survive, but thrive.

But most of all, I will imbue her with a sense of hope that one day The Talk will no longer be necessary.

The Talk photo: © fizkes / 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.

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.

Some 20-odd years ago, I first read the play Fences by August Wilson.

I was a high schooler – a senior, I think. One of four black students in a graduating class of about 100 at an all-boys prep school. There were many reasons why I was different. There were many reasons why I felt I didn’t belong. There were many reasons why I didn’t want to be there.

Yet, there I was.

I don’t remember all of those days vividly, but certain ones stand out – one is the day I noticed a copy of that play sitting on a stack of textbooks for the school year. It had the ghost-like outline of James Earl Jones in a batter’s stance (later I would come to realize this was Troy Maxson, the central figure of the saga).

And so I read it. I was entranced.

I remember being drawn in not so much by the plot of Fences but by the characters.

I remember reading the story and sympathizing with the teenage children, Cory and Lyons, as their dreams conflicted with their father’s will and ambitions for them and his rather simplistic view of life. I remember seeing their father, Troy, as a flawed yet likable character who, even though you disagreed with his actions and many of his words, you still rooted for him. You recognized that his life was a potent cocktail of misfortune, oppression, bad decisions and tortured memories. He was a tormented and scorned Willy Loman, whose dream was deferred and he just couldn’t let that vision of what he could have been go. Instead of being a salesman like Loman, Troy was a former baseball star from the Negro Leagues, barred from playing in the Major Leagues because of his skin color. In his later life, he finds himself as a sanitation worker fighting to become the first black driver of one of the garbage trucks.

My father by no means carries the negative characteristics of Troy Maxson. However, knowing that my father worked the grounds of the school I attended when he was a  kid with a dream that he would one day send his son there – I understood and appreciated not only the plight of Troy to provide for his family but also the pressure that Cory felt because of it.

All these years later, now a father myself, I understand Troy’s desire to provide for his family and to demand a basic level of respect from the world around him. A desire to make sure people do “right by him” and, consequently, his family as well. I still don’t agree with all of his actions or decisions, but I understand him more.

Throughout the story, Troy makes multiple baseball analogies. One of his favorites is that you have to “take the crookeds with the straights.” Life doesn’t always throw you fastballs down the heart of the plate; you also have to learn to deal with the curves.

Recently I watched the movie version of Fences with Denzel Washington bringing Troy to life on the big screen. It is an amazing performance, equaled by Viola Davis’ portrayal of Troy’s wife, Rose. The strength, vulnerability, and hope displayed on the screen is exactly what I think August Wilson intended when he penned the play. Every character contains layers that seem to peel away with each scene until the core of the story reveals itself at the end.

I’m not gonna tell you what happens, but I am going to encourage you to see it if you like complex characters and good writing. Wilson’s writing is top-notch and worthy of every award Fences received a nomination for and won, as a play and as a film. Wilson paints a world that is full of laughter, tears, love, regret, sorrow, happiness, and hope. But through it all, like Troy says, “you have to take the crookeds with the straights.”

This story is personal, though. Fences is what propelled me into writing, into drama, into studying the Negro Leagues and eventually into teaching. Teaching led to coaching and directing. So, I guess I have Troy, Cory, Rose, and August to thank for helping me find my passions in life.

A version of this first appeared on Tales from the Poop Deck.