He Will Not Be A “Junior”: A Black Father Reveals the Mindset Of A Man Expecting A Son

By JAMAL FREDERICK

As I write this, my beautifully pregnant wife has about three more weeks until she gives birth to our second child, a boy to complement our 3-year-old girl. Most assume that my son is what I’ve been waiting for the whole time—that having a boy was my sole aim for growing our family. I can’t tell you how often I hear, “So, Jamal, you’re going to have a boy! Aren’t you excited?” The excitement in their eyes dims when they see my slight hesitation—the second or two or three of silence that comes before I respond with whatever comes to mind that sounds like it’s a crowd pleaser. My answer isn’t intended to be disingenuous, but my more thoughtful, realistic response would require comfortable seating and an open afternoon. What’s most difficult to express is the frustration I feel and the slight offense I take when I can tell someone is assuming my hesitation means I feel negatively about my new baby—that I don’t want him and am not anxiously awaiting his arrival. This couldn’t be further from the truth. But I would like to walk them through those three seconds of silence.

The First Second…

I’m thinking about my role as father, the provider—my main focus. I’m fortunate enough to have a job right now—one that offers a hefty amount of overtime, allowing me to work six days a week, averaging 60 hours a week. Considering the economic hardships many of our people face, this is a blessing. But in my role as a father, I am constantly estimating bills, future expenses, working OT, getting a side gig, future job possibilities, etc. Daunting, exhausting, overwhelming? Yes. But this is what I feel daddy’s part is on the team.

The Second Second…

I’m going over what I believe a father should be to his family and the exact kind of father I hope to be. Much of my daddy daydreaming revolves around being one of those dads that always has some good anecdotal advice ready, provides an environment of culture, art, music, and education and has an impeccable sweater collection. Cliff Huxtable pretty much.  It’s a perpetual back and forth dance of doubt and reflection. Questioning whether you’re fit for the job isn’t emotionally easy. I realize more and more that I will be the image of what a man is to both my daughter and my son in their respective dynamics and that, in itself, is heavy.

The Final Second…

This one is the occupier of the majority of my thoughts—the one that leaves me meditating on my laundry list of shortcomings, failures, bad choices and decisions and personal defects. A person with a more positive outlook on things would say that everything that’s happened in my life occurred so that I could teach my children properly. But I look at it like I’ve written the perfect cautionary tale— perfectly detailed bedtime stories absent of heroes and full of monsters. The monsters are my inner demons that I need to protect my children from—the ones that warn others about what not to do.  An arch nemesis, alcohol, has been a black widow-like seductress in my family, with a fancy for the men. She whispers promises and massages worried hearts like a nurturing mother, but eventually, her rose petal-soft hands squeeze and squeeze those hearts until the beat ceases. In a superstitious way, I think that if I can conquer the dark parts of me, these qualities won’t affect my son. Like I’m breaking a spell or lifting a curse in some way.  This is why my yet-to-be-named son won’t be a junior. He will be so much more than I’ve ever been. And I’ve a seething urgency to rise to my position, my place, my role and my truest self. For his sake.

My three-second pause does not denote a negative feeling in any way. I can’t wait for my son to get here. I dream of our conversations set to a score of John Coltrane, Miles Davis and Fela Kuti. I dream of his hands, his nose and loud laugh—the perfume of his breath and the calm of his cuddle. My pause just reflects all that goes into me being a father and all the work I know I have to do. So, when someone asks me about our arriving son, I don’t automatically think of his smile and the happiness he will bring. I think of what I need to do to be worthy of the title of father so that he may be a happy child and grow into a well-matured man one day. Given that, three seconds is quite a short amount of time.

Jamal Frederick writes poetry and music and contributes reviews to AboveGroundMagazine.com. He also is married and the proud father of a three-year-old daughter. Follow him on Twitter at @jamalfrederick.

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{Photo credit: Lillegutt for Flickr’s Creative Commons}