Foundations of Identity: Black Parenthood

   While I am writing this post, there are tears flowing from my eyes. I realized that my passion for my people is deeply rooted in the way my parents raised my sister and me. We learned how to value our complexions, and that without the support of our families and communities, we are nothing. My father taught me this. My mother taught me this. Standing on the basic principles of love and light, I learned that parenting is more than setting your children up to become successful adults. As I venture through this journey of motherhood, I often have thoughts of self-doubt creep into my mind. As I hear other parents discuss the many accomplishments of their children, I see my feisty lioness in all of her quirky splendor, and try not to compare. But, we as parents, we do that. We compare. We force our children to live within the bars of our own expectations, with us forcing them to identify with what we deem as acceptable. 
  Historically, there are many reasons why Black parents are unable to fully assist their children in forming their own sense of identity. That is due to the fact that our identities were stripped, and for many of us, survival meant maintaining distance from one another, denying our religions, and assimilating into a culture that told us the very nature of our being was revolting, inhuman, and barbaric. So, we began to create our own collective identities, in an incongruous sea, filled with different ideals and perspectives, all while attempting to parent. As Black parents, we are the ones that give our children the power to decide who they want to be, whether we approve or not.
  As I spend this day reflecting on my father, my spirit is lifted, as I think of all the times we butt heads or clashed. I know that this may not be a reason to smile, but give me a moment to explain and reflect. I remember the very first time I told him that he was wrong, which was a BIG deal. Typically, if I were in some sort of trouble, my father would proceed to lecture me. This would go on for a few minutes, with me fuming on the inside because my opinion really didn't matter. As an opinionated person, this is a tough spot to be in. Just as I think he is wrapping up, I would release some of the mental pressure and blurt something out. At this point, his eyes would get huge, eyebrows would raise, and his forehead would get all crinkly. And then the question I hated most would spill from his lips: "Am I right or wrong?" A smart person would obviously state that the parent is correct, but not me. I decided that in that moment, my identity needed to shine. So, sixteen year old me, told my father (who was all of six feet tall) that he was wrong. In that moment, the floor could have swallowed me. His fire and fury rained down, and the hot tears streamed down my face, as we both reached a turning point in our relationship. Years later, what I thought was pure anger, I later was told was a mix of sadness, pride, and fear. Sadness that his little girl was becoming her own woman, not afraid to express her opinions and ideals. Pride that all of the hard work, tears, sleepless nights, and endless sacrifices were worth it. That the seeds he planted were beginning to grow and blossom. Fear that soon I will be out of his watchful eye, and that the world that he prepared me for would attempt to swallow me whole. Both of my parents (I swear my mother is God herself) gave my sister and me the very foundations we needed, in order to feel comfortable in actualizing who we wanted to be. The love they provided gave us the strongest foundation to build our identities on. 
   I follow a particular page on Instagram (y'all know I love my social media) that is run by Asadah Kirkland. She is the author of a book titled "Beating Black Kids". In this book, Asadah has various stories, told by parents, where they discuss THEIR upbringing. She gets Black parents to openly discuss the trauma they may have experienced, at the hands of their own parents, and how their pasts affect their own parenting styles. I think that it's interesting that we are in need of this discourse. With the emergence of the "woke" generation, why are we still in a place where people feel that it is a necessary thing to punish our children, versus uplifting our children?  As our children grow and explore, we as Black parents have to realize that our very perceptions and traumas are being passed to our children, through how we accept their identities and what expectations we place on them. We assist our children in establishing a blueprint for their lives, based on how we value their burgeoning spirits. We pass on generational trauma from decades of being told what to do, how to do it, the "I am right", and the "Because I said so", to our children, who in turn operate without an idea of who they are. That is, until that moment they leave the safety of our watchful eyes. This is not to say that there are not moments where "Because I said so" are not warranted, but for our children to be thinkers, we as parents need to assist them in learning how to process the situations that they may encounter. And it's not hard to see the affects of slavery in how children are treated by their parents in 2018. The affects of Jim Crow, the Glass Ceiling, and other systems of institutionalized oppression that Black people have forced to endure are present in the very parenting styles Black parents choose to adopt. You've seen them: the adults who are yelling and cursing at the toddler in Wal-Mart, who decided to get distracted by the toys. Mommy is yelling at the toddler, asking why the child is too stupid to keep up with her adult gait. We beat them down to the point that they are desensitized, thinking that this will enable them to operate without feelings, which means they will not show fear, and be able to survive in a world that still considers them 3/5 of a person. The parents who are extremely hard on their children, expecting perfect grades, from their perfect child, at all times. We make them reach an unattainable level of success, in order to give them an identity that the we feel will make our black babies accepted in the world.
   It creates an environment where children are stifled, and are unable to fully explore the different aspects of their personalities, because it may be deemed unacceptable by the very parents who pledged to love them unconditionally. Although different approaches, both parents are reacting to generational curses, birthed out of a people who are unsure of who they are. As Black parents, our focus should be on supporting our children in finding themselves, through love and support. We must educate them on who they are as a people, so that the foundation is strong and sturdy, able to withstand the world around them. It's a fine balance, as we are used to having our voices stifled and stolen. During this process of attempting to find our collective voices, we must teach our children to have a voice and use it, while learning to find our own. How do we do this? How do we assist our children with learning who they are? Well, a lot of self-reflection. In order for me to accept my daughter for the person she is, I have to accept who I am. This way, I am not forcing her to be something she is not, due to my living vicariously through her. Once I am secure with who I am, I can parent my child in a loving manner. So many parents push their insecurities onto their children, in turn creating mirrored images of an insecure person. And that is the child we send out in to the world, broken and incapable of true self-acceptance. And the curse continues. 
   Bottom line: we gotta let our kids be great. Without the beatings, the degradation, the insults, and the oppression. Just let them be great. Period.