The sins of the father fall upon the child.
And so do the wounds.
I’ve really been BEing with that lately.
If you’ve been with me for a minute, then you know Momma and I had to work some things out.
I bear her scars and I bear her wounds. I bear the wounds of my mother’s mothers, and I also bear
the wounds of the absence of my father.
But I never took ON my father. I didn’t even think to.
I never took on the wounds of what it means to be a Black man.
I don’t regret that. Quite frankly, I don’t think I could have, before now.
Now, just in case you don’t know this part of my story, I don’t know my daddy. I never met him.
Really, I have nothing to go on. I don’t know what he looks like. Rumor has it I look like him
—that I have his swag. He was a hustler, and I come from the streets.
He saved me before I was born—made sure that my Momma didn’t abort me. She wanted to. But he won that round.
Still, he never saw me. He never came to find me. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead.
But what I can say is this: there was somebody before I was born who fought for my life.
“God knew me in my mother’s womb before I was born.”
I think about that.
I’ve never been able to thank my dad for that.
When I think about him, I wonder if he knows that he was loved, even in his absence. And I
can’t help but wonder, if he knew how loved he was, would he have reached for me? Would he
have known that I would never judge him? Would he have known that his presence could have been his protection?
I don’t know if he knows how loved he is.
And as I sit with these wounds, and contemplate how the wounds of the father get transposed to the son, I think about Black men. I think about how they love, and I wonder if they know
they are loved.
Or, are they so caught up in their wounds, that they can’t let us in to love them?
What do you think?
I’d love to hear from you. Please comment below, so we can bear witness.