Homage to The Black Man.
The love has always been there
I don’t remember a time I didn’t love black men. As far back as I can remember, I’d been scooped up and carried in their strong arms. Even today, there is nothing like that man’s mighty hold.
His eyes are like hope feels to me. I used to offer job readiness coaching for young adults in an inner city nearby me. Here’s a secret: while facilitating my workshops, I’d often experience a private delight.
I watched black man after black man sit in front of me, zoned out, disengaged and wanting to be anywhere but in a class setting. Then, something I’d say or do would force his eyes to look up and engage.
I could tell when he connected and could relate to his position in the scenario I’d paint for the group.
He’d make eye contact and a very small but sure smile would enter the side of his mouth. His eyes would warm and soften. Hope would appear in his eyes. It was then I’d see my friend, my father, husband and the son I never had awaken himself, and his inner truth reinvigorated.
When that man would wake up, it didn’t matter how much weed I smelled on him, how saggy his pants were or how much I could tell society’s education system and the forlorn of his ancestors had depressed him. He would easily begin to claim his role.
He would start to lead the room, and all people, including black women, white men and the rest of the diverse landscape of the room respected him. That black man, no matter which day of the week or year I’d meet him was always protective of me.
He was neither hard nor oppressive. He was sure, inspiring and also funny. I loved him every day, looking for the hope to return to his eyes, as a beacon, no matter what body those eyes showed up in.
I delighted in those days and I experienced that delight often. I’ll never give up on the hope of a black man’s eyes. They are a light to the world!
Of course, I’ve met inspiring people of all races and genders but it seems to me that the black man is always last to be seen as valuable, counted on or appreciated without him doing harm or having harm prescribed for him, and usually it’s the…
Comment your thoughts on this article in comment section and I will complete the story.
The love has always been there
I don’t remember a time I didn’t love black men. As far back as I can remember, I’d been scooped up and carried in their strong arms. Even today, there is nothing like that man’s mighty hold.
His eyes are like hope feels to me. I used to offer job readiness coaching for young adults in an inner city nearby me. Here’s a secret: while facilitating my workshops, I’d often experience a private delight.
I watched black man after black man sit in front of me, zoned out, disengaged and wanting to be anywhere but in a class setting. Then, something I’d say or do would force his eyes to look up and engage.
I could tell when he connected and could relate to his position in the scenario I’d paint for the group.
He’d make eye contact and a very small but sure smile would enter the side of his mouth. His eyes would warm and soften. Hope would appear in his eyes. It was then I’d see my friend, my father, husband and the son I never had awaken himself, and his inner truth reinvigorated.
When that man would wake up, it didn’t matter how much weed I smelled on him, how saggy his pants were or how much I could tell society’s education system and the forlorn of his ancestors had depressed him. He would easily begin to claim his role.
He would start to lead the room, and all people, including black women, white men and the rest of the diverse landscape of the room respected him. That black man, no matter which day of the week or year I’d meet him was always protective of me.
He was neither hard nor oppressive. He was sure, inspiring and also funny. I loved him every day, looking for the hope to return to his eyes, as a beacon, no matter what body those eyes showed up in.
I delighted in those days and I experienced that delight often. I’ll never give up on the hope of a black man’s eyes. They are a light to the world!
Of course, I’ve met inspiring people of all races and genders but it seems to me that the black man is always last to be seen as valuable, counted on or appreciated without him doing harm or having harm prescribed for him, and usually it’s the…
Comment your thoughts on this article in comment section and I will complete the story.
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