By Ife J. Ibitayo
I’ve been black ever since I was born. This may be obvious to you, but it wasn’t to me. I was born in the suburbs of deeply-black Detroit. Then I moved to racially diverse San Jose. Then I wrapped up my childhood in Mission, Texas, which is 80% Hispanic. I never experienced brazen racism or saw Confederate flag-waving white supremacists. Microaggressions and “can I touch your hair?” were the extent of the indignities I lived through.
So I never understood my Dad’s rules: If you wear a hoodie, the hood must be down. If you’re wearing a fitted, it must face forward. Never pocket anything in the grocery store even if you intend to pay for it. And always keep your receipts. No Kobe earrings for my older brother. No Iverson cornrows for me. And in the midst of these perplexing rules, I remained relatively cocooned from the complex web of racial interactions that tangled around me.
Divided
But then Michael Brown—a teenager less than a year older than me—was shot in Ferguson, Missouri. And less than two years later, Donald Trump was elected president of the United States. With these jarring cognitive blows, I finally began to realize the United States of America was not as united as I once believed. And I began to understand my dad’s deep-seated anguish and frustration with our country.
Black people in the United States have always lived divided lives, torn between the high ideals America stands for and the disappointing reality our nation has fallen into. America decried racism in Nazi Germany while embracing it on our own soil. America lauded Gandhi overseas but assassinated King back home. America opposed apartheid as early as the 1940s yet supported Jim Crow until the 1960s.
United
I still remember sitting with my dad a few years back, overcome by my newfound jadedness. I shared my grievances with him and expected him to say, “Son, welcome to the table.” But rather, he told me he was still proud to be an American. The United States is still the nation my father dreamed of coming to from his youth. The United States is still the nation where my father proved that blood, sweat, tears and an unremitting hunger for success can open nearly every door and shatter countless glass ceilings. And this hope, this pride is what he’s passed onto me.
So as a Juneteenth Father’s Day approaches, I celebrate all the black fathers who refused to give into cynicism and despair. I celebrate all the black fathers who stuck around, gritted their teeth, and refused to give up or give in. I celebrate all of the black fathers who poured themselves out for their nations, their companies, and their families even when no one gave them an ounce of appreciation. And most of all, I celebrate my own father. I love you, Dad.