As fathers, and as parents, we know that whatever is within us is imposed upon our children. Whether it’s our jacked-up DNA or the baggage we carry from personal traumas, we can’t help but infect our kids with who we are – who we REALLY are. This is an involuntary imposition. Most of us want to share the good and excise the bad inherited traits in our kids.

But parenthood doesn’t always work that way.

I’ll start with a confession: I’m chronically anxious. I am afraid of everything and nothing all at once. I know that sounds impossible, but the things I should fear, I don’t. It gives a false impression of courage and confidence, but it’s just unhealthy. Rational fears have almost no place in my life. The irrational, the improbable, the highly unlikely, the complex web of “what-ifs” — those cripple me daily.

Over the years I’ve put genuine effort into keeping my inner struggles from impacting my children. For a while, I was sure I was succeeding. I made a lot of changes, and if I may boast a teeny bit, I made amazing progress. Sadly, it wasn’t enough.

As my oldest child’s personality began to emerge, my attempts to change the outward expression of my inner struggles clearly worked with her. The same struggles were embedded inside my daughter. It was the betrayal of DNA.

She becomes quickly discouraged by a simple task, seemingly overwhelmed by very minor obstacles. She latches onto a feeling and it overwhelms her and consumes her, leaving her unable to keep herself from spiraling. Too many variables can crush her forward progress. What for others is a quick decision — grab the thing and go – for her is a quagmire of possibilities with no clear path forward. She gets stuck.

Just like her dear ’ol dad.

Hope never gives up

For example, tonight is supposed to be her first sleepover. Last night she was shaking. Panicking. Terrified of the sleepover. In her fits and worries, in her frustration and anger, she asked if she could see a therapist.

It’s heartbreaking to know this is my fault. What broken strand of proteins have I cursed my daughter with? It’s clear she has the same poisonous voices in her mind. Her brain leaps to the darkest outcome for the darkest reasons – just like mine. It feels like an unbroken connection to ancient Celts on forlorn, rocky shores cursing the gray skies, fearful they may not survive another harsh winter.

But as parents, there’s one thing we can never do. It’s an option we discard when we embark upon this great adventure of parenthood: we can’t give up.

There’s no time for belly-aching. Our kids need our help now. Right now. We can be honest about our failings, and gentle in our solutions, but there’s no retreat here. We only get to move forward. Not trying is the only way we truly fail them.

I wish my pessimistic mind was able to gaze toward a horizon I believe to be filled with rainbows and chirping birds, but I know there’s no solution to this problem. There’s only learning how to cope. My brain will forever be this way. I’ve done the therapy and I’ve done the work. I’ve discarded the indoctrination that blamed invisible forces existing in imperceptible realms. All of these tools have been transformative, but the storms remain.

My hope is these words don’t discourage my fellow parents. My goal is to encourage, to empathize, but above all, I hope this acts as a reminder about the sacred oath to our children. It’s our job to raise them to be superior to us in every way. We must accept we can’t “fix” them, in the same way we can’t fully “fix” ourselves. We can be a little better every day and so can our kids.

I’m going to break the fourth wall here a bit. (Yes, I know, it’s a bit of a hack thing to do, but I don’t care.) A few paragraphs ago, I mentioned my daughter was having a mild panic attack regarding her first sleepover. As I’m re-writing and editing this, it’s the next morning. She made it through the night! I was unable to do the same at her age.

See, there’s hope, fellow parents. There’s always hope.

Of course, my daughter’s strength may come from her mother’s DNA.

Ahhhh, dammit …

Inherited traits photo by Anna Shvets via Pexels.

I reclined on the bed of the CT machine, ready for a close-up of my heart. I’d been waiting for this moment since August when an ultrasound failed to determine if I had inherited my family’s history of heart defects. A better picture was needed.

As the machine spun around my chest, I hoped the resulting image would show nothing faulty with my ticker. After all, just three days prior, I had completed a 5K race, and last year, a half-marathon. If something was amiss with my heart, wouldn’t I have known by now, after nearly half a century of living?

The path to this moment began in June when my uncle was hospitalized. My mother started talking about our family history of heart disease and defects. I knew the stories of disease (mostly the result of lifestyle), but tales of abnormalities present at birth were news to me. She even casually mentioned she had an extra heart cusp, a disclosure that triggered my decision to get checked out.

It’s about your heart

I needed to know if I’d been born with a congenital heart defect known as a bicuspid aortic valve (BAV). As the Mayo Clinic explains, “The aortic valve is the main ‘door’ out of the heart. Blood flows through the aortic valve to exit the heart, and supplies oxygen and nutrients to the rest of the body.”

A normal valve has three leaflets or cusps. Some people are born with one, two or even four cusps (like my mother) on their aortic valve. But the most common abnormality is an aortic valve with two cusps—a bicuspid aortic valve. This condition occurs in about 1 percent of the general population and accounts for more premature deaths than all other congenital heart diseases combined.

For better or worse, we receive a multitude of inheritances from our family. Some take the form of heirlooms like an antique pocket watch, a well-worn family Bible, or vintage family photographs. Others are intangible yet no less real. Think cherished family traditions, oral histories, or the cultural rituals that tether us to our ancestors.

But there’s also the messiness of our genetic inheritance. This legacy passed down through generations includes physical traits such as eye color or height, as well as health conditions, like a congenital heart defect. This inheritance is a reminder that our bodies are not merely reflections of our own choices; they are also the result of a genetic lottery in which we have little say.

Searching for congenital heart defect

During the CT scan, a cool sensation enveloped my arm as a contrast dye coursed through the IV port in it. This technique would enhance the visibility of organs in the images. Soon after, a wave of warmth swept through my body, signaling the end of the procedure. That evening, I received the results.

My aortic valve was healthy, devoid of any signs of coronary artery disease. But there was a twist.

The genetic lottery had struck again; my valve was also bicuspid.

No one wants to hear there’s something defective about their body, especially when it involves a vital organ. My first reaction was a mix of emotions, from gratitude to having lived this long with no heart issues to a sense of concern about the implications of this diagnosis. Would I have to make any lifestyle changes? What’s my likelihood of requiring surgical intervention in the future? How soon should I have my daughter screened?

Thanks to a cardiologist (and the privilege of having access to medical care), I have answers to these questions.

Inherited condition not a destiny

In the meantime, it’s just a matter of wait and see. As I age, my defective valve could begin to degenerate sooner than expected. It may eventually leak and/or narrow causing my heart to work harder to pump blood to my body. If left untreated, this extra work could increase my risk for heart failure. But with regular check-ups and proper care, I can expect to have a normal life expectancy, as most people with this condition do. Genetic inheritance is not neccesarily one’s destiny.

At 49, I’m acutely aware of my own mortality. I’ve likely seen more days now than I may see later. I’ve witnessed friends fall ill, some recovering, others passing away. I’m watching my mother age gracefully and have shouldered the responsibility of caring for my father, who died in July. I take my recent diagnosis as another reminder to live fully in the moment, to not delay dreams and passions, to seize the present.

As fathers, we often reflect on the legacy we’re passing down to our children through our choices and actions. While we can’t change the genetic traits we’ve inherited, we can choose how we manage and navigate them. By staying on top of our health, we enrich our lives and set a profound example for our children, modeling the importance of self-care, resilience, and the determination to live to the fullest.

That’s an inheritance any child would be proud to receive.

Operating on congential heart defect photo by Olga Guryanova on Unsplash

My family has a lot of stories. Happy, sad and funny stories. Whether they’re true, apocryphal or greatly exaggerated, I’m sure many families have stories that come up when everyone gets together. My Uncle Steve, for example, always used to refer to the “Spaghetti Incident” as something hilarious that happened when my mom was a teenager.

One of my favorite family stories from my childhood is about how my brother and I, along with all our little friends, would easily and regularly climb up on the elementary school roof. There were concrete blocks sticking out about half an inch in intervals that looked like a perfect ladder going up to the top of the one-story building. We would climb it like mountain goats to retrieve basketballs, footballs or just to look around.

In reality, I’d only seen one person ever climb the roof. He was a “big kid,” probably a high schooler who went to retrieve a basketball. I just remember fearing he could get caught and get in trouble. Or worse, fall and hurt himself.

All of us younger kids had the same fears — getting in trouble, getting hurt.

So, the “climbing to the roof of the school” story, while I tell it regularly and back it up whenever my sister also tells it – well, it never happened. But I will argue to the death that we ALL did it. And thatour buddy, Bjorn, ate his lunch up there. The view of the mountains was incredible.

In that same vein, I tell my child family stories about his great-grandparents and other relatives he hasn’t met. I’d like him to take inspiration from his family. It would be wonderful if I could instill pride and dignity into him from just our own, immediate and extended family members.

My son always asks for stories during our bedtime routine, something that can easily stretch into 30-minute ordeals. Some I just make up on the spot. I pick things at random, a purple elephant who went to town, a green koala, and so on. I love him, but it gets tiring.

Family tales of inspiration

One evening when he asked for a story, I started inwardly groaning. So I took a deep breath. Then, I began to spout some nonsense about a character who had four arms – when inspiration struck.

I told him a third-person story of myself as “Young Michael.” A down-and-out 18-year-old:

Young Michael was riding the city bus all around town, collecting paper applications (this was waaaay before the internet, son) and for some reason, Young Michael kept riding the bus past his house to see what was at the end of the bus line. He had never thought about going farther in that direction. What was over there? A minimum-wage job at the mall would be good enough, right?

Then, at the last stop on the line, on the last outbound route of the day, Young Michael got off the bus. He walked around to see what he could see. He turned to take in the view and saw a … car wash!

Long story short – Young Michael got a job at the car wash, at the end of the bus route that wasn’t on his list. It turned out to completely change the trajectory of his life, his family’s life and many others.

The lesson I ended with was to let curiosity be your guide. Remain determined to achieve a goal. Don’t settle for “just OK” when it comes to your life.

If Young Michael hadn’t wondered, “What’s down that way?” Or, had he said, “A job at the T-shirt shop is good enough.” He never would have met the man he considered a second dad who inspired him to get his life together and join the Marines, go on to college, earn an MBA, and become the man – and dad – I am.

This one brain flash has given me the inspiration to lionize my history and my family’s history to pass down to my son. Of course, as he gets older, he’s going to know it’s hyped up. But, hopefully, the lessons will be repeated enough to give him confidence in himself.

I believe all of us have many courageous stories to tell. Stories of yourself, and stories of your family. Why not take some time, think about how to present them, and then give the gift of your experience to your children?

I don’t see it as self-promoting, I see it as motivational speaking.

Family stories photo: ©Africa Studio / Adobe Stock.

The history of humanity is cyclical, and generally, I’ve viewed its nadirs from a safe, temporal distance. It’s a wheel of power-hungry men, only concerned with their own purposes, spinning endlessly for thousands of years. But now, as a nuclear-powered dictator attempts to march across Europe, starting a Ukraine war, I feel its crushing force.

I’ve been holding my phone, consuming too many videos on Twitter of Russians and Ukrainians at war. The wheel grows heavier, spinning faster. The lighthearted jokes about World War III aren’t nearly as funny as nuclear tensions rise and countries across the world are choosing sides.

The last time I felt the weight of war this heavily I was in sixth grade, and my brother was on an aircraft carrier in the Persian Gulf. My family huddled around the TV, watching the grainy footage of air raids in Iraq, and the once-distant world of combat and conflict was alive in my home. The sobbing of my mom is still loud in my ears while my dad and I shrugged, feeling powerless to help.

The wheel spun as I learned about Scud missiles in my sixth-grade class the morning after. The wheel spun while we purchased yellow ribbons to tie on the tree. It spun as we bought banners to hang on the house.

I felt the wheel these past two years as the United States confronted a global pandemic with nothing but ideology and dissent, sparking racial tensions, and highlighting social failures we’d rather not confront. We eagerly tear ourselves apart because piss-poor leaders seek to divide us only to serve their own selfish pursuits, all at the cost of us, and all threatening the future of the children to whom we’ve devoted our lives.

War in Ukraine takes lives for one man’s lust for power

I’m not proud of some of the videos from the war in the Ukraine that I’ve recently watched. I’ve seen the faces of the dead.

They seem so young. Just kids. Kids sent to fight either at the service of a dictator or against one, but both youthful victims of war.

These are sons who once only worried about which classmate would pick him for the schoolyard game. These are daughters whose main concern was how long it took to get her turn on the swing. Now they’re the fallen. Blood spilled because the powerful said so.

I’m desperate to know how I can protect my children from meeting the same fate. How can I stop the wheel before it rolls over their innocent lives with crushing indifference? Better yet, I feel one, overwhelming goal: “I’m not going to stop the wheel. I’m going to break the wheel.”

I’m also compelled to confess my hypocrisy. Why haven’t other world crises brought me to this emotional state?

The unending turmoil between Israel and Palestine.

The civil war in Syria.

The genocides and civil wars consuming many parts of Africa.

The concentration camps and genocides in China.

Maybe I resonate with Ukraine because they look like me. Could I be guilty of not having empathy for people of different cultures and colors? Maybe, and it’s hard for me to type that sentence. Maybe the war in Ukraine is scarier because it has the ability to directly impact me — selfishness I’m sad to admit.

Will you break the wheel? Will your kids?

Whatever the catalyst may be, the fire burns, and my rage at the wheel is nearly blinding. My own apathy and inaction will be the demons I’ll confront, but what about my kids? What about your kids?

We’re parents raising the next generation of cannon fodder. How do we protect them from the machinations of geopolitics? How will they be more than pawns in the hands of the powerful? What can we as parents do to stop this wheel and rescue our children, and by proxy all children, from being consumed by the generational inheritance of wars and endless bullshit?

I have no answers, my friends. I’m spent. Empty. Maybe you feel the same. Hug your kids a little tighter today, and every day after.

You know your kids deserve more from you. The world desperately needs a generation with fresh ideas and renewed vision and courage. But can it come from me? Can it be from you? I hope so.

Let’s renew our commitment to the next generation to do our very best to rescue them from our failures. We may not be the first to confront the world’s great challenges, but maybe we can find a little spark of optimism. Maybe that spark can start a fire of hope, one that gives us all the courage to stand up to the wheel, and break it once and for all.

Break the wheel photo: © AlphonseLeong.Photos / Adobe Stock.

An old-fashioned family Thanksgiving, in all its festive splendor and pageantry, will soon be upon us as will all the relatives you have been blocking on Facebook since the 2020 presidential campaign. Thanks, vaccinations and unplanned natural immunity!

If there was ever a Thanksgiving to hide the silverware, this might be it. Oh, America – wondrous country of purple mountains majesty and amber traffic lights we routinely run – how could you be ingenious enough to invent pizza-stuffed pizza crusts yet be unable to guarantee us all a safe space around the family dining table every fourth Thursday in November?

So before we sit down to stuff ourselves silly on dead beast and bloated opinions about critical race theory, let’s set some ground rules for a less contentious family Thanksgiving:

• As previously mentioned, stow the silverware, preferably under lock and key. This includes all carving devices. No plastic cutlery or breakable ceramic dishware, either. Cook and slice everything before family arrives. Serve up nothing but the softest of finger foods on damp paper towels. Two words the kids will love to hear: dippin’ gravy.

• Glassware can shatter and create sharp edges, perfect for making a point about mask mandates. So lock them away for the day along with opinions on Marjorie Taylor Greene and Dr. Fauci.

• Don’t even think about serving alcohol. This year, it’s nothing but tap water in waxed paper cups. This will make our delicate ears less likely to endure unsavory conspiracy theory rants about space lasers and the antiviral powers of horse dewormer in humans.

• Place family members with opposing viewpoints on opposite ends of the table. As a buffer, seat the kids in the between. If you need even more buffer space, add inflatable yard decorations.

• Avoid holiday table decorations that may instigate heated historical discussions by referencing any of the following: pilgrims, indigenous peoples or the Dallas Cowboys.

• In addition to eschewing political and medical discussions, avoid the other usual topics that create divisive feelings among family members: religion, sex and the New England Patriots.

• Speaking of football, just avoid the day’s games lest a fight starts over players kneeling for the National Anthem.

• Skip the pre-meal blessing to avoid someone being tempted to take a knee during it.

• What to do for entertainment without football? Stick with the mind-numbing balloon banter and lip-synching banality of Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Chase with repeated viewings of The National Dog Show because who doesn’t love a prancing Lhasa Apso?

• If you pursue that last route, don’t invite over your third cousin, the crazy cat lady.

• Just skip the TV altogether. Take a long family walk to burn off those excess calories and pent-up rages about “patriotism versus insurrection.” Caution: Scour the course beforehand to make sure it doesn’t venture past any health clinics, gun shops or Chick-fil-A stores.

• In case none of these measures helped, conclude the gathering by setting a generous slice of pie in front of the most objectionable attendee. Top with a heaping amount of whipped cream. Then smash it directly into the idiot’s face.

Family Thanksgiving argument photo: ©Monkey Business / Adobe Stock.

I first heard (and read) the phrase “mind the gap” back in college, when I was lucky enough to study abroad in London. It was written on the subway platforms to warn riders to be careful as they step over the small gap between the edge of the platform and the floor of the train.

That “gap” is an apt metaphor for the unavoidable (dis)location we’ve all fallen into now. Even for the still healthy and employed, the COVID-19 pandemic is a gap writ large, more like a canyon between our “before” lives on the platform and whatever comes “after” we arrive in a post-pandemic world. As we continue to hike around our houses through this not-so-grand canyon of quarantines and cancellations, my mind drifts to a memory from the actual Grand Canyon.

Many years ago, my wife and I visited the South Rim as part of our honeymoon. We had walked about halfway down the main trail, and we were losing energy as we hiked back to the top. On the way, we passed a father and his young son who were also heading up. The boy was obviously exhausted. Shortly after we passed them, we turned a corner that looked to be near the end of our ascent, but then a whole new vista of uphill climb appeared before us. Our hearts sank, but we slogged on.

About three minutes later, we heard from behind us the boy’s anguished yelp echo across the canyon walls: “AW, MAAAN!” Our thoughts exactly, we mused, as we knew he had just discovered the ongoing trail.

As the pandemic rages on, it can sometimes release tension to curse the universe like that boy. But then what? Especially as parents, how can we mind the gap if it is this ongoing and all-consuming? One idea occurred to me recently as I was yet again trying to make more room in our basement for all the activities we used to do elsewhere. To save space, I decided to reframe some of my two daughters’ artwork from their younger years.

That’s when it hit me: “Reframing” is a key part of parenting. When children come to parents with problems, especially large ones that are hard or impossible to solve, we often help first by listening empathetically and validating disappointment. But then it can benefit children immensely if parents help them reframe a problem to make it more manageable.

Fill in family gaps to become closer

Granted, there is no frame big enough to encompass the pandemic. But rather than succumb to the emptiness, parents can remind children how some gaps are being filled in good ways. For example, through increased conversations around the dinner table, we have been filling in the gaps of our family history. Specifically, my daughters thoroughly enjoyed learning about my head-gear braces in middle school, which helped reframe their own orthodontic struggles. In the process of such conversations, the gaps between us continue to shrink.

One of the best things about having teenagers is learning how they start to fill in family gaps as well. A recent example involved my tirade as I struggled with a gap in my knowledge — how to set up an outdoor film projector.

Like many parents, I am getting tired of navigating all the tech overloads and Zoom glitches in our home during the pandemic. For some reason, the film projector was my limit. I could not figure it out, even as I watched a young girl on YouTube set up her projector as she cheerfully explained “you just plug this cord into this cord and this cord into this cord.” All I could yell at my laptop was “you’re going too fast!” So in a (now comical) fit of rage, I packed up the supplies and announced to the family there would be no outdoor films this summer.

Later that day, I went grocery shopping. Upon my return, my older daughter had the projector set up and working. She helped me get over my “aw, maaan” moment. I did not hide my joy.

So how can parents continue coping with this pandemic? What we thought was a short hike has become a long trek through a seemingly bottomless gap that is certainly not half-full. But as you navigate the canyon as a family, keep reframing, adjusting, and improvising. Keep trying to fill as many gaps in your family life as possible by reminding children of larger, grander perspectives. Remember that we will, one day, emerge from this massive underground station between the past and the future.

Until then, don’t let the gap overwhelm your family.

Mind the gap photo: ©Agata Kadar / Adobe Stock.

COVID-19 has done a number on time. For parents lucky enough to be healthy and employed, a key challenge has become spending so many hours at home with children. Some time flies, some crawls. Either way, we’re faced with more “underscheduled” family time than ever.

For inspiration, I like to revel in a memory made several years ago. There I was, lost in a vintage clothing store in search of an all-star-husband gift for my wife. But I quickly realized I would probably make another rookie mistake, so I just started chuckling at the platform shoes and feathered hats.

Soon a salesperson asked if I needed help. In the middle of his question, my eyes landed on an amazing sight on the wall behind him: an exact replica of the hexagonal, multi-colored kitchen clock that hung in my childhood home in Niagara Falls, N.Y. While the salesperson chattered on, the clock transported me back to that kitchen, complete with the light orange walls, the pale green fridge, the black Formica table my brother and I would play paper football on, and the constant asking of “What’s for dinner, Mom?”

The clock also recalled our family obsession with “6 o’clock sharp.” That is the time my mother somehow managed to have dinner on the dining room table for our family of eight every single night! (As a former stay-at-home dad of only two children, I have never approached my mother’s dinner prowess.) Beyond the sensory details I associated with the clock, it was the feeling that flooded me most. The feeling of home, of a caring place where the ritual of a shared dinner brought all eight of us together for the only time of each day.

The power of that memory illustrates the importance of family routines, especially during a time like the coronavirus. Granted, even “regular” times have changed, and a tech-free dinner with all family members at 6 o’clock sharp may not be possible. But parents at this moment should still strive for some consistent family rituals — whether shared meals or snacks, game times or simply check-in meetings. In the process, take advantage of the extra time at home to re-examine your family life.

Assess how your family spent time in days before

Since COVID-19 has cancelled so many of our usual extracurricular activities, we can reflect on what is truly beneficial and what is not, as well as what we continue to be thankful for. Surely we miss some activities, but many of us may also realize that our families were “overscheduled” without knowing it. View this time like you cleaning out your pantry: you are restocking it with essentials and letting the non-essentials perish. In the same way we try to imitate what our parents did well and discard what failed, prune the less healthy habits that have creeped into your own family life. Some of us might have more pruning to do than others, but now is the time for establishing family routines and traditions worth keeping.

One of the ironies of the pandemic is that even though being homebound for so long can be incredibly tedious (and that’s on a good day), this time may become the most memorable period in all of our lives. So here’s a question for parents to ask themselves: How would you like your children to remember it? From a wider view, if your children enter a vintage store decades from now and see a reminder of their childhood home, how do you want them to feel?

My mother passed away three years ago. That day in the vintage store, I bought that clock for a few dollars, put it on my home-office wall, and set the hands to read 6 o’clock forever.

Photo: Vincent O’Keefe.

One of the pleasures of being a parent of teens is the long history you can reflect on. From time’s perch, you can finally start assessing what went right as a parent. (You can also assess what went wrong, but that’s for another post.)

During my younger parenting years, I had always heard that if a parent models a behavior at home, a child is very likely to adopt that behavior, eventually. As a writer and former professor, I’ve always tried to model my love of reading history as a way to counteract our increasingly context-free culture of media soundbites and tweet-size attention spans.

So far my modeling has had mixed results with my two teen daughters. But recently I had a breakthrough with my younger daughter, who is a filmmaker. As she has started researching colleges and film schools, she and I have also talked about the potential challenges she may face upon entering a profession dominated by men, especially at the director level.

That’s why I was excited to discover an article titled “Hollywood’s First Generation of Female Filmmakers” in a recent issue of the National Women’s History Museum newsletter. The article, written by Dr. Shelley Stamp, reads like a “Hidden Figures” account of female film directors who have been obscured by sexist history.

Stamp explains that “many female filmmakers were prominent in the first decades of moviemaking, central to the development of American movie culture.” In fact, when “the film industry began to consolidate around Los Angeles in the mid-1910s, director Lois Weber emerged as one of its key voices. She soon became the top director at Universal.” And Weber was not the only one, Stamp notes: “Before 1919, the studio released close to 200 films [including action films] credited to female directors.”

What?! That is amazing. So how did the gender dynamics in film direction change so much over time? Not surprisingly, rising profits led to falling ethics. Stamp explains that after World War I, “corporate studios began consolidating their control over the market, forcing out independent production companies, including many run by women, and pushing women out of leadership roles.” Gradually, an “imagined ‘male tradition’ of directing” developed.

Learn lesser-known history for a much greater future

As you might imagine, sharing this information with my daughter showed her the power of reading history. It also illustrated that human progress is not always about the present or the future. Sometimes progress entails revisiting the past with wider eyes that take in scenes deleted unjustly.

On a personal level, the article also helped ease our worries about my daughter succeeding in a male-dominated profession. If it has been done before, it can be done again. And certainly the film industry’s gender balance is improving slowly.

We also noted, however, the irony that even a medium like film, which is innately visual, can have such blind spots in its history. But that just underscores the power of who tells the story and who gets silenced. In fact, so far the National Women’s History Museum only exists online. For the past 23 years, the organization has been raising money and lobbying politicians to bring a physical women’s history museum to the national mall in Washington, D.C. Progress has been made, but the struggle to uncover and celebrate important parts of American history continues.

Which brings me back to parenting teens. While many parenting jobs fade as children become teens, one job that grows in importance is to be a good historian. When teens become disillusioned or succumb to self-doubt, a parent can give voice to forgotten stories from the children’s own past that feature obstacles overcome, fears faced, or injustice resisted. In other words, parents can help their teens once again see the “hidden figures” they once were and therefore can be again. Such rediscoveries of the past can help quell anxieties about the future for both teen girls and boys.

Photo: © vladi59 / Adobe Stock.

Black History Month still means something to me after all these years.

When I was a child, February was one of the few times I would see a multitude of black heroes on television or displayed prominently in the library.

I fondly remember receiving in school Black History Month textbook covers and comic books focusing on the likes of Benjamin Banneker and Rosa Parks.

I saw Roots for the first time during Black History Month, and its impact is still with me today. It made me cry and wonder why I was born black until my mother, in her special way, made it clear to me that black is beautiful. From that point forward, this month has been a source of pride.

So, to my family, celebrating black culture is important — period. So what are we doing this month?

1) Literature

I am adding some new books to my daughter’s library. Addressing civil rights through children’s literature has been quite effective with my daughter. She is curious and has posed thought provoking questions and made insightful observations. Speaking of her class, my wife and I will be visiting to read a book about Rosa Parks.

2) Keeping it real

Our family does not shy away from the truth. There is a long, unfortunate history in this country of blacks being enslaved, lynched, Jim Crow’ed, and generally mistreated. When I share pictures of Jacob Lawrence’s “Migration Series” with Camilla, I have to discuss why blacks were migrating north in such huge numbers during in the early parts of the 20th century.

3) New York City landmarks

African Americans have truly impacted the history of New York City, so it is easy to find opportunities to celebrate Black History Month here, especially in Harlem. My wife recently re-introduced the beautiful Harriet Tubman statue to our daughter. We rode the bus past the Duke Ellington statue and the Frederick Douglass memorial last week and discussed why they had monuments created in their honor.

4) Watch a few things

In addition to spending time discussing how lucky she has been to meet prominent blacks like Spike Lee, Swin Cash, Cari Champion and Yvette Campbell, we will also watch some clips/highlights of some of our favorite people such as Misty Copeland and Skylar Diggins.

5) Music

Whether it is the sheer brilliance of Stevie Wonder, the vocal stylings of Mahalia Jackson, or the majesty of Aretha Franklin, the impact of blacks in music is undeniable. There are genres, such as gospel, blues and hip hop that would not exist if it were not for the black experience. So, we will certainly be cranking the MJ, the MJB, and the JB.

There are many debates about whether Black History Month is needed or has been watered down or is too corporate. But, I fear if we stop celebrating it during February, we might lose the month. For example, years ago I was teaching American history to eighth graders. I was doing a unit on slavery that coincided with a PBS documentary on the same topic on TV. The parent of one of my white students asked me a question I promised I would never forget, “When are we going to go back to teaching real American history?”

So celebrating, honoring, and remembering black history will remain something of great importance to our family throughout the year, but especially during this month.

A version of this first ran on The Brown Gothamite.

My great-great-great grandfather was a slave in Maysville, Kentucky. He eventually escaped slavery and made his way to Canada (most likely because of the Fugitive Slave Act) and then returned to Ohio to enlist in the Union Army – as a free man.

This past weekend I stood, as a free man and proud citizen, on the same land in Maysville where, over 140 years ago, my mother’s great-great-grandfather and several other ancestors worked and toiled.

I was there with almost two dozen relatives, who spanned multiple generations, to walk the land our ancestors had worked and trace back our slave roots. The history lesson, and reunion, was made possible because of a Herculean effort of research and digging by my cousin, Leah. And because of her persistence and diligence, we all stood toeing the line of the private property that held the whispers of our family’s history.

There was an inherent dichotomy in the air not lost on me or my relatives. I had arrived after a comfortable three-hour journey from a home, in an air-conditioned car, under the guidance of a GPS device, and clothed in attire that I chose, and purchased. I stood there looking at land my ancestors worked, probably in wool clothes – or whatever they were permitted to wear — and walked by foot, escaped from (by foot), and navigated (probably at night) without the assistance of so much as a map. The 90-degree weather was sweltering, but there was relief for me just a few yards away in the car I arrived in, and I could pick what food I wanted to eat as soon as I returned back to my home.

I admit I felt conflicted. I felt a swirl of emotions as my eyes took in the beautiful rolling Kentucky hills. History can be a fickle dance partner who can flirt with you, stroke your ego, and shame you in the course of the same song.

As we walked the land searching for the remains of what my cousin believed were our ancestors’ slave quarters, I thought about the stories from my mother’s side of the family that resonated with me. How my great uncle was a “patient” in a now infamous radiation experiment (that relied on blacks as its primary subjects) and later died from his “treatments.” How my grandmother was told that my mother and aunt couldn’t be a part of a Brownie troop because of the color of their skin. How my mom navigated racist taunts and statements while attempting to earn her education. I will admit that I thought of these stories and felt angry, hurt.

But then I realized these weren’t simply stories of sorrow; they were instead stories of resilience. Yes, my ancestors were slaves, but they didn’t allow someone else to determine their worth. They escaped and fought. My grandmother didn’t accept “no” for an answer and started her own Brownie troop. And while other students may not have accepted it, my mother and aunt not only navigated the racial barbs, but did so with grace.

There is a rich tale in this country of racism, discrimination and denigration. But if you look close enough you will also see a tale of resilience and self-worth, of acceptance and respect, of overcoming and uniting. That is the tale to which we should endeavor to continue, to add on to with our own footnotes. Not to say that we should neglect or forget the troubles of the past, but we should groom and cultivate that which is good.

As a parent, I see it as an opportunity, a gift, to pass on to our kids. A legacy of sorts in which we can all take pride. I doubt very much that this middle school teacher has done anything of note to add to this legacy, but sometimes our role is simply to pass the history, and its lessons, on to the next generation. That is a burden that I will gladly shoulder.

It would be a perfect ending to say that we definitively found the remains and were able to stand exactly where our ancestors stood. We believe we did, but they were overcome with trees, poison ivy and other weeds. A physical obstacle in addition to the one created by time.

In some ways the sight we beheld of a structure drowning in growth was symbolic of history itself — some of it is poisonous, some of it is beautiful, but despite the pain and the years of overgrowth it is something we should not soon forget.

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