Just Loose Thoughts: SAHF Entry #1
First Day of School: Big decisions, little decision
With a baby, I am coming to terms, good and bad, about race, gender, and culture, meaning the identity politics, the supposed culture wars, and the institutional mechanisms. I have to think about how I provide space and time for my baby to engage people of various backgrounds, hence she does weekly tea-time with Popo, kicks it with my old college friends, and facetimes my parents in Texas. It’s the first day of school around the Bay, and I am researching K-12 schools for my daughter, who hasn’t even started walking yet. I have to say that money talks. Districts with resources tend to be in neighborhoods with money. Just note that racial demographics and dynamics do change with tax brackets, for better or worse. I would know because I took that DART train from South Dallas to North Dallas for six years, dressed like Temu Carlton, for an expensive education at a predominantly-white all-boy Christian school.
What are the “icks” I think about? you ask: academics, demographics, economics, and politics. My daughter is biracial and bicultural. I want her to love herself, period. I also want her to love her body, her skin, her eyes, her mind, her heritage, her language(s), her accents, her cultures in her own way(s).
Her path will obviously be her own, different from both her parents. Of course, my wife and I will walk beside her on her identity journey; however, she will see the world through her eyes and the world will see her through its past and present.
Flashback: it was just yesterday, more like 30 years ago, when my dad would sit my older brother and me down for weekly Black history chats and History Channel couch sessions. At that young age, I was annoyed by this additional private instruction on top of my hours of “actual” private school homework. In retrospect, I was getting the hidden curriculum for free; without it, I would have paid for it with my life. It was his way of making sure we stayed rooted in a world that has continually uprooted us. I suppose his thinking was that people of the past can teach me a lot about people of the present. Armed with that knowledge, I learned that my own politics and positionality are my own choice, my own responsibility. I take all the credit if I continue learning and all the blame if I continue to let systems test me.
As I grow older and observe the world more thoughtfully and carefully, I wonder, regardless if one leans left or right politically, if people want to stand with the marginalized or stand on the marginalized. Good people exist in bad systems. Bad systems create poor or limited choices. Good decisions make space for good people. Good people make space for good decisions. Good and bad systems may be rooted in aspirations and delusions, depending on my history-informed cynicism or my convenient naiveté. History and life experience have shown me that what constitutes “good” or “bad” depends on the power of a story (the belief), a whip (the pain), or a profit (the tradeoff).
Choices. I have to make the big decisions so she can learn how to make the small ones. I have to give her the skills, the awareness, and the example to navigate different spaces, from the hair salon to the Kung Fu studio. She will not grow up trapped between the black and white lines of Texas, and she will have strange encounters with Bay Area performative activism. I have been a participant in both, sadly. I must humble myself and not project but process.
I want my kid to experience the diversity and depth that the world has to offer; I just don’t want her to be the diversity or the dupe that the world has to exploit. Can I develop enough protective factors or positive self-esteem in my daughter at home to where she can maintain poise, especially when her social circles become the bull’s eye for persecution, posturing, or pity?
Time to eat…time to digest
The Past. The Present. The Future. As I watch Ivy-Raine play, I can’t help but get nostalgic. I also can’t help but think about my own poor choices, decisions, and habits. Not in a depressing way but more so in a somber way. I don’t want my daughter to pay for her daddy’s sins. Like with my students, I can set up the boundaries and bridges for her to turn discernment into perspicacity. When I am feeding her in her high chair, I think about my own food choices of the past. Ivy may never know the taste of Hamburger Helper, Frito-Pie, and Sloppy Joes. No shade; my momma raised us to take that ground-beef out of the freezer before we left for school. My older brother and I returned home to become five-star chefs. Back then the labels did not say a thing about gluten-free, so naturally, my stomach hated both my initial choices and my final decisions.
Nowadays, my wife, Ivy, and I are continually learning one another's bodies and the things that do our bodies (dis)service. Maybe reading food labels will be the new reading circle activity for our family. Being handed a real-life EpiPen for the first time gave me an injection of intrusive "what ifs." Of course I have taught students who carried these life-savers; however, I never had to save a life....
When I am sitting in her playpen, watching her move from toy to toy, I think about the times I played myself. When I am out running errands with Ivy, more like window-shopping, I think about holding on and letting go of materials and mindsets. Sometimes to calm myself, I remember that I, as a father, have to be present, not perfect. Being a witness to my baby’s growth gives me infinite life.
Life insurance: money and mortality.
Witnessing my baby's growth makes me realize more and more that my life is finite. I have been forced to do the accounting on my life's value, my life's utility, and my life's cost, for my loved ones. If you ask insurance companies, there's a price on my head to go along with my numbered days. Priceless. Ideas and ideals about masculinity churn my mind and my stomach. They say I am here to provide and protect. Nothing else. Well, “family man” is a new intersectional role I have always coveted. How rich.
In and out of survival mode, my wife and I try to fill in each other’s gaps. There’s no time, thought, or trust wasted on arguing gender roles. Our division of labor is based on whoever has more energy, whoever needs to shower, eat or poop, and or whoever has a bright idea. We have routines to reduce decision fatigue, and we have nightly check-ins to avoid checking out on one another. Parenting feels like a marathon relay. Somewhere in our first lap, we are still figuring out our positioning and pace. And speaking for myself, I have totally fumbled the baton at times. Tough exchanges are a big part of partnership and parenting. Nonetheless, having an amazing spouse and this resilient alignment between us is the greatest life insurance ever. Call your spouse for insurance quotes. Priceless.
Man down.
Imagine me laid out in the street, writhing in pain. A simple trip to the store almost turned into a major health scare. My own health vulnerabilities, insecurities, and deficiencies have frequently twisted my mind into catastrophizing every little cough, cut, or copay. Simply put, being alone with a 9-month-old makes me wonder what I would do if I went down debilitated, unconscious, or unresponsive. In the first 9 months of my baby’s life, I have shocked myself from a broken night light, called the firefighters because of carbon monoxide poisoning, aggravated my surgery knee, seen a stubbed toe swell to the size of a Hot Cheeto puff, and then there's my most recent fall from grace. As I stepped off the sidewalk to put the collapsed stroller into my trunk, like I have done hundreds of times, I roll my ankle. Up goes the stroller, out comes a scream of pain all while Ivy is in the car sleeping. Thank god, my ankles have survived many slight tweaks during my very, very, very short basketball career. In a matter of seconds, I hobble to try to walk it off. I re-tie my shoe extra tight to reduce inevitable inflammation. All I could think about were the life alert infomercials and the old white lady on the floor, alone. They were funny back then, but they are scary now. A new morbid fear unlocked.
And then again, there's life insurance. The “provision” provision (or social expectation) applies here too. Not because I am a man but because I am a parent with moral and financial obligations to my wife and kid. While she's learning to swim, I don’t want her drowning in my debts.
Kick Ivy, kick: first swim lesson
The water was really cold. Teacher Ms. Anne instructed me to put the baby on my hip. I laughed because Ivy and I couldn’t find mine. For dear life, Ivy clung to my bony mast of a body. Sorry, I am not a water baby. Ironically, I have a water baby. I mean, her name is Ivy-Raine for God's sake. When allowed to leave my hip, this girl kicked like an Olympic swimmer. Not to get sentimental, I marveled at this little being moving. She can’t fully walk yet, but this 9-month-old sure can doggy-paddle. Not a flex; just her reflex. What a natural! It’s only right that I would have a natural reaction of pride. And I was nervous just putting on my trunks and driving to the pool. I am not afraid of water; I just have a healthy respect for it. My swimming is not pretty because of the ugly memories of being suplexed and dunked into the deep end by friends and family. Those memories faded once I saw her making her own. Hard truth: eventually, she will leave my hip for good! Yet, we sing “Waterfalls” over “Five Little Ducks” in this household.
So what does this all have to do with teaching?
I know teachers are making the most with the least. Parents, too. Kids, also. We all have to do our due diligence. We have to continue to get to know ourselves, our kids, and the times we live in. When I am with my baby girl, I can’t say I am more morally sound, but rather more morally discerning.
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