MyBrownBaby is a weekly blog that provides thought-provoking, insightful, wickedly funny commentary on motherhood, for moms who love their brown babies, by moms who do the same.
Through their posts, our MyBrownBaby bloggers lift the voices of African-American moms looking for the 411/advice/a high-five on everything from pregnancy and childrearing to sex, work, and relationships—all filtered through the lens of the African American experience.
I've loved books forever. I mean, I can remember spending hours tucked away in my room in my childhood home, digging into The Little Princess and The Secret Garden and Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret and Beverly Cleary's Ramona series, giggling and crying with the characters and wishing I could be a part of their worlds—or at least tuck little pieces of them in mine. Those books, they were my friends. I didn't have many in my collection—my parents couldn't afford my book habit and so the library was my go-to spot—but the books I did manage to own, I treasured.
These days, Nick and I have so many books we hardly have places to stash them. And as an author and a lover of the written word in general and black books in particular, I've made it my business to make sure that my children love—and have a vast collection of—books, too. But I don't just stop with my babies; everywhere I encounter kids and the adults who teach and raise them, I'm singing the praises and power of books. I don't care if you'rea reluctant African American male reader or a website full of new parents, I feel it's my duty to share the joy that comes from a good book.
In keeping with my love affair with and recognition of the importance of books, I recently signed on to help launch NorthParan.com, a new online book store featuring books for, by and about people of color. The folk atNorthParan.comhad me at black books, but what really made me want to lend my name to their project was the site's irresistible promise: for every book sold on NorthParan.com,NorthParan.com will donate a book to a child of color who has neither books nor quick access to them. NorthParan.com's motto is, "Buy One, Give One"—and I'm thrilled to help put books in the hands of our children.
Today, I call on the MyBrownBaby community to check out NorthParan.com—take a look around the site, read up on its mission, register for the newsletter, and most important, make a difference by buying some books.
Check out the video Nick and I put together to introduce the site—starring Mari, Lila and Teddy our spectacular dog. And after you do that, please make a point of telling all your friends on Twitter and FaceBook and becoming fans of the site.
I'm reminded every day that this part of Martin Luther King, Jr.'s dream—"that one day... little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers"—is necessary, possible, happening...
And beautiful.
Happy Martin Luther King, Jr., Day. Take the time today—if only for a moment—to reflect, believe, inspire and serve someone who is less fortunate than you. It is our duty. It is what Dr. King wanted. And it is only right.
I don’t know—maybe her balls were just hanging low that day. How else to explain how easily it rolled off her tongue? “You’re not like all the other black men. You go to work and pay your bills. You’re not lazy like the rest of them.”
That was the pearl that Ms. Pearl, our former nanny, dropped on Nick one cold winter morning, as he stooped down to kiss our Mari and rub my pregnant belly and make his way to his job as the editor-in-chief of a travel magazine. Surely, Nick’s back stiffened. I know mine did. Silence clung to the air between us like a nor’easter—thick and frigid and heavy and gray. This sweet little old Guyanese lady, charged with caring for my African-American girl pie while we, the married, loving, accomplished parents toiled away our day earning cash to pay the mortgage and the nanny's salary, had managed to, in one breath, slap the crap out of us (and black people in general) with insult, stereotype and backhanded praise.
Like, how do you even begin to respond to a “you’re not like the rest of them” statement and then leave your baby in your insulter’s care? And if she was willing to say that to the faces of her employers, what other stereotypes—certainly more bruising in their insult—did Ms. Pearl have tucked away in the recesses of her brain? And how much of it seeped out of her mouth when we weren’t around—in earshot of our impressionable little black girl?
Let's just say that Ms. Pearl's services ended soon thereafter. But even in firing her, we struggled with how to deal with the immigrant perception that Americans in general and African Americans in particular, suck at parenting.
This little boy who fancies hot pink dresses and remarkable ruffles and sparkly, pretty things—he makes me giggly and hopeful and wishful that the world could be as evolved as his mama and his daddy, who allow him the indulgence of prancing like a princess not just in the family playroom but out on the playground at his elementary school.
But mostly, he makes me worry. Scared even. And when I’m not applauding her for going all the way hard for her son’s right to just, like, be, I’m wondering just what in the hell was she thinking buying pink dresses, purple tutus and ballet slippers for her son and telling the whole wide world he’s a “princess boy?”
Yup—I went there. Watch the video below, then hop on over to the MyBrownBaby page on Parenting.com's The Parenting Postto see my take on the cross-dressing 5-year-old whose mom lets him wear tutus and sparkly stuff to kindergarten class.
I can not tell you how many Friday nights I spent down in the basement of my childhood home back in Long Island, hairbrush in hand, lip-synching every last word, ad-lib and inflection Lady Tee poured into her song, Portuguese Love. God, I was such a homebody—short on friends, never kissed, totally lusting after this one particular boy I'd loved from the first day I'd met him in the 5th grade. He wasn't Portuguese, but that was just a minor detail. It was the sentiment of the words and the way Teena Marie sang them that transported me... transformed me... made me a believer. In love. And the possibilities.
On a starry winter night in Portugal
Where the ocean kissed the southern shore
There a dream I never thought would come to pass
Came and went like time spent through an hourglass
You made love to me like fire and rain Ooh, you know you've got to be a hurricane Killing me with kisses, oh, so subtly You make love forever, baby You make love forever...
Years later, I fell in love with Casanova Brown. The song, that is. And not just because I'd fallen in love with my fair share of Casanova Browns. It was the purity of Teena Marie's voice that moved me, especially when she struck that long, beautiful note in the ad-libs toward the end. And it was those incredible words that spoke to me:
I love you to the bone marrow Even when I'm asleep And who are you to say? What he does when I'm not around Just because I fell in love with Casanova Brown.
I mean, I'd dug Teena Marie forever—woke up for school to Square Bizand Behind the Groove playing on my static-filled alarm clock radio, got a kick out of her slaying the guitar while she sang Lovergirland I Need Your Lovin'on the dance shows from back in the day. It was solid music with a great dance beat. From a white girl, no less. It almost didn't seem natural, her hitting those notes. Having all that soul. That authenticity.
But my God, I had to get grown to really appreciate the sheer talent/phenomenon/force that was the singer, songwriter and producer Teena Marie. Had to go through some heartbreak and some pain and come back out on the other side. And there she was, Lady Tee—reminding every last one of us that we weren't suckers for falling for the okey doke. Casanova Brown was a charming bastard and turned us all the way out and made us feel all kinda ways and mercy—De Ja Vu, we'd all been there before. But we were going to be all right. Loving again wasn't only possible—it was necessary. Human.
More recently, TVOne's UnSung: Teena Marie put the force that was Teena Marie on full blast—made clear that she was much more than just some Rick James creation. She was an incredible songwriter who penned virtually every last one of her songs. She was a multilingual instrumentalist—fluent in keys, congas and guitar. And she was a trailblazer when it came to taking on shady music companies.
When will it stop? Another innocent black man killed by the cops. This time it was in Westchester County, New York, on the campus of Pace University. This time it was a football player, Danroy Henry, Jr., age 20, a junior business major and cornerback, out celebrating with friends and teammates at a local student hangout after a game during homecoming weekend. Gunned down. Just hours after having a pleasant post-game dinner with his parents at a campus pizzeria. They send their son off to party with his buddies and they never again see him alive. It breaks my heart. Of course, the accounts of the cops are in direct conflict with the accounts of the eyewitnesses, who say the young black man did nothing wrong. It seems like I’ve been reading this story for the entirety of my life. It gets written at least once a year, in some grief-stricken corner of the U.S., as a family cries out “Why?” and a squad of police officers shrug their shoulders and cloak their department in a shroud of obvious lies,as chronicled here in the New York Times.
Over the last couple of years, these stories have taken on a new meaning for me, a new urgency. Up until then, while my outrage was always pure and my disgust palpable, the details themselves were usually somewhat abstract. The menace was not something I carried with me. Yeah, I was a black man in America and understood that at any moment I could be staring into the dark muzzle of a cop’s service revolver. But I was young and imbued with the baseless invincibility and arrogance of youth. You know—who gonna check me, boo? And then, seemingly overnight, I became old and settled, a dad who spends most nights checking homework and watching soccer practice. Encounters with angry cops seemed as distant as the New York City bars and clubs I used to hit decades ago—though even that calm surrounding me was still probably baseless delusion.
But everything changed when my son started driving. Now he was out there in the world, a large black boy/man with swagger and a quick temper, a big brown magnet for police aggression. Suddenly, all those stories of black men gunned down rushed back like horror-movie monsters, haunting me in my dreams, waking me up in cold panics if I still hadn’t heard his car pull into the driveway. When I read the story of Danroy Henry in the New York Times a few days ago, I could feel a numbness slowly spreading over my limbs. Just hours before, I had received a text from my son, my own freshman engineering major and defensive lineman, informing me that he had returned safely to his Pennsylvania campus after a weekend spent hanging out in New York City with his football buddies from Lafayette College. Talk about hitting home. I realized that a campus only offers the illusion of safety. A campus and its surrounding towns still employ plenty of officers with service revolvers. My son is still a large black boy/man with swagger and a quick temper. The eruption at Pace is a reminder to me: A parent of a black boy/man in America never rests easy.
The Henry Family at Danroy's Memorial.
We must continue to cry out loudly, all of us, when the Danroy Henrys of our world meet such outrageous ends. Black men who made all the right choices, who did everything we asked of them, everything a young man in America is supposed to do. Snatched away. Stolen from us. Danroy was one of our princes. Gone. We can’t ever grow tired of the protest. We must close our eyes and step into the shoes of Danroy’s mom and dad, Angella and Danroy, Sr., allow ourselves for a moment to imagine that Danroy is ours. Let the rage wash over us. Let it propel all of us to form a chorus whose collective voice acts as a shout into the ear of every police officer in every city, every cop in a small town or on a college campus. If you take our boys from us, we will make sure that you are forever tormented by the vision of an angry mob, pointing a finger at you, calling you what you are. Murderer.
* * * * *
About Our MBB Contributor: Nick Chiles, a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, is the author of seven books, including the New York Times bestselling tome The Blueprint: A Plan for Living Above Life's Storms co-written with gospel legend Kirk Franklin. Nick also writes for several publications including Essence, where he frequently pens stories about fatherhood and manhood.
Correct me if I’m wong, but wasn’t R. Kelly dragged to trial on charges he peed on and had sex with a 13-year-old? On tape? And wasn’t he the one who convinced R&B beauty Aaliyah to marry him at the tender age of 17—when he’d long been a grown man? And haven’t rumors of the Pied Piper of R&B having an appetite for under age girls been flying for years?
Then riddle me this, Batman: Why is it that every time R. Kelly so much as swallows his spit, black folks jump out of their seats and get all Beatles-style groupie on us—waving lighters in the air and singing his songs at the top of their lungs and screaming and crying tears of pure, unadulterated bliss? Can somebody—anybody—help me understand? Because I’m absolutely c.o.n.f.u.s.e.d. by it all.
As the mother of two young daughters, I can’t in good conscience buy R. Kelly records/listen to R. Kelly songs/go to R.Kelly concerts/watch R. Kelly videos and TV performances/support him in any kind of way with my mind, actions, thoughts, ears, and especially money, knowing that there is even a remote possibility that he pees on and has sex with teenagers for amusement. And sorry, but I can’t even begin to understand how we as a collective can bump his music and cheer him on. Did you see the audience at the 2010 Soul Train Music Awards last week? Folks were damn-near jumping on chairs—stilettos and tight dresses and tuxes and all—with grand amounts of glee as he sang a medley of his old and new hits.
It put me in the mind of this scene in “The Trial of R. Kelly,” an episode of the satirical cartoon The Boondocks. That Aaron McGruder—so subversive. So smart. So spot on. Witness:
Question: Isn’t it our duty to stand up for little black girls? Shouldn’t we be rallying against the very people who put our babies in harm’s way—or, worse, do them harm? When will we stand up as a collective and say, “Your fancy lawyer may have gotten you out of a helluva mess, but you don’t get to abuse young girls and keep eating off my support.” Like The Boondocks' Huey said: “What happened to standards? What happened to bare minimum?”
Yeah, yeah—you can argue the whole “let those without sin cast the first stone” and the “to forgive is divine” stuff all you want to. But how do you go about forgiving someone who refuses to acknowledge he did anything wrong? And, more importantly, does a short absence from the radio and awards shows mean you should forget?
Editor's note: If you follow poet and Bringing Up Boogie columnist Bassey Ikpi here on MyBrownBaby, you know that she is a tireless advocate for mental health. You should know, too, that she's equally passionate about HIV/AIDS advocacy—specifically building bridges of acceptance and love between people without HIV toward those who do. Her mission is to remove the stigmas that come with the disease, with the hope that doing so will encourage people who are at risk or infected to get smart, get tested, get help and get support. Considering how HIV/AIDS is devastating black women—check out this story, which chases down stats showing black women have the highest rates of new HIV/AIDS infections but get very little attention in the fight—it is high time that we got smart not only about protecting ourselves, but embracing our sisters and helping them find their way. Shout out to Bassey for this piece, which she performed in this YouTube video with Talib Kweli, as part ofGlobal Grind's "Positive Charge" campaign, which debuted on World AIDS Day. Below the video are the words—each and every one of them raw, beautiful, relevant. Necessary.
There Is No Comfort in Silence
By BASSEY IKPI
don’t ever forget your body
don’t ever forget this heart
that saves
this thing that pushes blood
and oxygen
this pulsating beating living thing
don’t ever forget your heart
your lungs
your breath
this mass of tissue and muscle that
holds your compassion hostage
HIV will not hold you hostage
eliminate the sigh
eliminate the look that weighs tons
free the loveliness
the comfort
embrace the spirit that longs for touch
you must do this in solidarity
for those afraid
those who turn their body over to sickness
you must tell them that they are loved
that they can remain whole
despite this thing that threatens the blood
but you will never threaten love
will never withhold
will only embrace
offer comfort like a sweetness dancing on your tongue
Make the earth a promise
and exhale this vow into the wind
“I will love you always.”
let the breeze carry it across the earth
let it touch the women, the men,
the babies, the families
let it touch the continents in need of healing
and understanding
let it touch the hearts that need it.
there is no comfort in silence
hold the hand that aches for peace
hold the body that aches for peace
offer them a morning without judgement
offer them a night without shame
offer them a peace that holds centuries
carved into their throats
allow them the freedom of a hollow scream
allow them the pleasure of acceptance
allow them a glittered night
golden, halo of sun
bodies warmed by understanding
cups overflowing with encouragement
this battle deserves an army
this war, a fair fight
this love serves as ammunition
a warning shot into the distance
say, “we love you always.”
then say it again.
then say it again
and again
and again
and again
say it once more
until the silent find their voices
hidden in the corners without light
hand them candle
hand them torch
hand them bonfire
burn courage into your chest
watch it scar over
tough and impenetrable
then listen
the heart beats a welcomed
love song
the spirit spills peace into your veins
courage
there will be no room for secrets
there will just be this desire to live
to do what it takes to make your days longer
to dull the ache that comes from silence
to offer fistfuls of truth and acceptance
send a message into a wind
spin it into a thousand hurricanes
create a whirlwind of strength
let it fall
a thousand raindrops upon their heads
until they are soaked with the truth of this
“we will love you always.”
* * * *
About our MBB Contributor:Bassey Ikpi is a Nigeria-born, Oklahoma-bred, PG County-fed, Brooklyn-led writer/poet/neurotic. She’s half awesome, a quarter crazy and 1/3rd genius... the left over bit is a caramel creme center. She’s also the single mother of an amazing man-child, Elaiwe Ikpi. Get more Bassey at basseyworld.com
If you would like to be a featured contributor on MyBrownBaby, email your essays/ideas/blog posts/rants/musings to Denene at denenemillner at gmail dot com.
Editor’s Note: I dug deep into the MyBrownBaby Crates for this piece, which I gathered together one Sunday afternoon while I was fussing around on Twitter and came across poet and writer Bassey Ikpi’s tweets from the frontlines—er, playground. What started out as a lazy, playful afternoon for the Baltimore-based mom and her deliciously cute son, Elaiwe, quickly turned into a “get it straight” verbal smackdown when another mom questioned whether her son was “slow.” Right. In one almost hour-long twitter stream, Bassey expressed the fears, frustration, and anger black parents face when others make foul, wrong-headed assumptions about our brown babies. Here, the blow-by-blow of Bassey brilliantly breaking down why it’s just never a good idea to “innocently” verbalize said assumptions about black children to their moms, as told through Bassey’s tweets.
By BASSEY IKPI
• At the park with Boogs. Poor thing needs some friends. He's trying to convince some big kids to let him play soccer. 1:29 PM Aug 30th from twidroid
• This kid isn't afraid of anything! Where did he get that from? I long to be that free and unafraid. 1:31 PM Aug 30th from twidroid
• Ugh! This is why I hate hanging out with parents I don't know. Just because our kids are playing together don't mean you and I should talk. 1:39 PM Aug 30th from twidroid
• E is clearly smaller than your kid. Why would you ask me if he's delayed? Do people do that? Am I wrong? 1:40 PM Aug 30th from twidroid
• I was like… what? He's 2 and a half. She goes, what?? Then she wants to compare notes. He started walking when?? He says what??? 1:42 PM Aug 30th from twidroid
• Bitch, you started it! I wasn't trying to tell you he was a genius. I was letting him play with your barely talking yet 5 year old. 1:43 PM Aug 30th from twidroid
• White people blow me with that! He can't be gifted? He has to be tiny and slow?? 1:44 PM Aug 30th from twidroid
• My 2 year old is convincing your 4 year old not to be scared of the slide and you trying to say what to me? Ridiculous. 1:46 PM Aug 30th from twidroid
• And yes I am tweeting in her face. 1:46 PM Aug 30th from twidroid
• Boogie is having fun but if this chick doesn't stop with the questions. Like I'm going to say well when his home planet was destroyed... 1:50 PM Aug 30th from twidroid
• "Oh his father must be thrilled." Someone is about to be arrested. 1:52 PM Aug 30th from twidroid
• I'm taking my cues from Michael. I'm a lover not a fighter. I just explained to her that her questions come off both rude and racist. 1:56 PM Aug 30th from twidroid
• She apologized and said that she saw how he was behaving and assumed he was older but because he is small she thought he was autistic... 2:01 PM Aug 30th from twidroid
• I'm not sure how that's better... but I asked her why she wouldn't assume that he was advanced for his age rather than slow for his size. 2:02 PM Aug 30th from twidroid
• Hell why not just ask me how old he is? She said she was just stunned bcuz her 4 yo 2:03 PM Aug 30th from twidroid
• Doesn't speak as clearly and isn't as self possessed as E is. I said that has nothing to do with me and my kid. 2:04 PM Aug 30th from twidroid
• Was that rude? I'm not trying to be rude but Boogie is just Boogie. I don't compare him to other kids. 2:04 PM Aug 30th from twidroid
• She shouldn't compare little Dakota or Simon or whatever. No wonder he's so scared of slides. Let the boy live. 2:05 PM Aug 30th from twidroid
• Crap. Stupid bleeding heart. Now I feel bad. 2:06 PM Aug 30th from twidroid
• Boogie: What happened, mama? Me: That lady is stressing me out. B: Me too! Can I have ice cream? (Love this kid) 2:13 PM Aug 30th from twidroid
• E is fine for his age. He's smart but he's not Doogie. So to think he's a tiny 5 year old that's slow? What time is your plane to conclusions? 2:14 PM Aug 30th from twidroid
• It was more how she asked. He started walking early. He started talking early. Yes he eats fast food. Yes he watches TV… 2:17 PM Aug 30th from twidroid
• These are just facts. I'm not all hmph.. give your kid a happy meal. That's what works for ME! (Kinda) 2:18 PM Aug 30th from twidroid
• I get nervous about my parenting but I know I'm doing the absolute best I can. That's it. Leave me alone random white woman! 2:19 PM Aug 30th from twidroid
• Oh I don't feel bad. I know Boogie is awesome. I just was annoyed by the whole conversation. I don't like talking kids with parents.
• So if I'm saying yes he knows a lot of words. Yes he's pretty fearless. Yes he's very confident. LEAVE ME ALONE. 2:23 PM Aug 30th from twidroid
• Ok. I'm done talking about this. You can't be mad and eat ice cream. It's like illegal in 4 countries. Thanks for listening to me! 2:24 PM Aug 30th from twidroid
About our MBB Contributor:Bassey Ikpi is a Nigeria-born, Oklahoma-bred, PG County-fed, Brooklyn-led writer/poet/neurotic. She’s half awesome, a quarter crazy and 1/3rd genius... the left over bit is a caramel creme center. She’s also the single mother of an amazing man-child, Elaiwe Ikpi, who, as you can see in the picture above, be flyer than most, even on a sick day. Get more Bassey at basseyworld.com
If you would like to be a featured contributor on MyBrownBaby, email your essays/ideas/blog posts/rants/musings to Denene at denenemillner at gmail dot com.
And never one to disappoint, my favorite show, Sunday Morning, came with it this past weekend with a story about the 50th anniversary of little Ruby Bridges' brave march up the steps of and into the William Frantz Elementary School in New Orleans—a solemn, scary walk that made her the first black child to integrate a public school in the South. The picture of Ruby Bridges flanked by federal marshals and walking past throngs of white anti-integrationists—cowardly adults who took time out of their busy days to jeer, threaten and scare the crap out of a 6-year-old brown baby—is an iconic symbol of a civil right that is forever etched into America's law books: Black children deserve and have the right to study, learn, grow, and get a quality education in the same classrooms as white children.
But while we celebrate Ruby and remember her bravery, I think it important to remember the two people who gave that child her heart: Lucille and Abon Bridges. See, they were the ones who made the decision to dress their brown baby in that pretty dress and send her on out the front door—to let their daughter leave the safety of their loving arms to take those measured, dangerous steps toward a better education, not only for herself, but for all African-American children.
Watch theSunday Morning segment, replete with footage of the crazy that circled like buzzards over that little girl's head, and you understand just how big were her parents. Honestly, I don't know that I could have sacrificed my baby for the cause, knowing that that walk could have been her last.
So to Lucille and Abon Bridges, and their lovely daughter, Ruby, I simply say, "Thank you."
And after you watch the Sunday Morning story for yourself—it includes an update on Ruby, the school, and a sweet reunion between Ruby and the sole white child whose father allowed her to attend the school with the black kid—consider showing it to your babies. Mari and Lila watched with wide eyes and closed mouths. It's one thing to hear the story—a whole 'nother to actually see it played out.
Have you ever spent time in a kindergarten classroom? The kiddies are unbelievably cute, with their bright eyes, big sloppy grins and all-around eagerness to please. But the thing that’s most striking about them is their excitement about learning. It’s like they know they are about to be handed the keys to unlock all the mysteries that swirl around them, the secrets to this vast and perplexing world that has confounded them for the first five years of their lives. If the class is diverse, you will notice that there is no gender- or race-specificity to this excitement. The white girls are just as excited as the black boys who are just as excited as the Asian boys who are just as excited as the black girls. Ask a question and most every hand shoots up to answer, each throbbing with an impatience to show the teacher—oh, the magical, beloved kindergarten teacher—how brilliant they are.
I was reminded of my forays into kindergarten land—both as a parent and as a longtime education reporter for a New York City daily newspaper—when I came across a set of statistics about black boys that were the most depressing numbers I have seen in a very long time (or at least since election night). Clearly, for black boys, some kind of poison invades their system soon after kindergarten. That kindergarten light in their eyes is snuffed like a candle. According to the National Assessment for Educational Progress (NAEP):
Only 12 percent of black male fourth graders performed at or above proficient levels in reading. (White males at the same grade level are at 38 percent proficiency.)
Only 9 percent of black male eighth graders perform at or above the proficient level in reading. (For white males it is 33 percent.)
Black males score an average of 104 points lower than white males on the SAT in reading.
In 2008, black males ages 18 and up only accounted for 5 percent of the college population, while black males make up 36 percent of the prison population.
These statistics are so scary that they should be accompanied by a horror-movie soundtrack—the screeching violins that tell you Jason or Freddy Kruger is about to devour some comely blonde. These numbers point to a community whose very future is in peril, to an entire nature whose decline is spelled out with every unimaginable percentage. Less than one of every 10 eighth graders is a proficient reader? Really? If we don’t reverse this trend, all of our children and grandchildren will be grappling with its effects for much of this century and beyond.
If we are going to halt the American slide into second-class-country status, we all must focus on this national crisis.
As the parent of three high-achieving children, I am convinced that the solution to this catastrophe is so simple that it almost brings tears to my eyes. The solution is a book. If we can develop a love of reading in these boys in the early years of their academic development, the arc of their entire lives changes, curving away from failure and disappointment and directly to success and achievement.
A book is inoculation against many of the dangers that a boy will face as he bobs and weaves his way through adolescence. I saw it happen with my own son, now an 18-year-old college freshman and engineering major. Once he latched on to reading as a little boy, his verbal and language skills soared, carrying him through those painful middle school years and the conflicts with teachers, adolescent idiocy, regrettable peer groups, and a raft of distractions. In high school, when football became a huge priority, he learned—while so many of his peers didn’t—that without performing in the classroom, he wouldn’t even get a chance to perform on the field. It was the rock-solid foundation he got through reading that sustained him, that buttressed everything he did in the classroom and on the all-important standardized tests.
Getting a child to enjoy reading is like handing him a winning lottery ticket, over and over again, every day of his life.
But, Lord, I know it’s not easy. I have gotten that message loud and clear with all of my children. The distractions that explode around us like land mines are almost impossible to stave off. Television, cell phones, texting, the Internet, those damn video games. The video games are fascinating, thrilling, addictive, toxic. Whenever I sat down with my son and allowed him to draw me into NFL Live or one of the boxing games on his Xbox, I marveled at how life-like and exciting the games were—and I thanked the Lord that nothing like that was around when I was his age, otherwise my life might have gone in another direction. As I write this, I just realized that my 11-year-old daughter, who is downright addicted to books—so addicted that we sometimes have to remind her to put the book down for a moment when she is crossing a street or walking across a parking lot—is entering her fifth straight hour playing some street racing video game on my wife’s iPad. It’s a Sunday afternoon and she hasn’t looked at a book yet. When I asked her why she was sitting on a throw pillow as she played, she grinned sheepishly (without taking her eyes and fingers off the screen) and said that her butt had started to hurt from sitting in the same spot so long. Yes, addictive and toxic.
But we can’t give up; we can’t let the distractions win. We have to keep reminding ourselves that if we can lure that 7- or 8-year-old boy into the pages of a book, where he might discover a world as transporting and magical as the images in that video game, we have just placed him squarely on a path to adult accomplishment. We have changed his life. This is about as close to a guarantee that we parents will ever be given. Let’s not blow it. The future of an entire nation is in our hands.
* * * * *
About Our MBB Contributor: Nick Chiles, a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, is the author of seven books, including the New York Times bestselling tome The Blueprint: A Plan for Living Above Life's Storms co-written with gospel legend Kirk Franklin. Nick also writes for several publications including Essence, where he frequently pens stories about fatherhood and manhood.
in which homegirl claims Chinese kids are smarter and stronger than their American counterparts because their mothers have more parenting gangsta than ours. Uh huh. 
co-written with gospel legend Kirk Franklin. Nick also writes for several publications including Essence, where he frequently pens stories about fatherhood and manhood. 
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