Today I was reminded of a conversation I had with a dear friend of mine several years ago. He told me of a time when he was embarrassed about ‘needing’ to work a second job. He had a professional job, a career, but at the time he had some personal,…
When Men Were MEN!
Today I was reminded of a conversation I had with a dear friend of mine several years ago. He told me of a time when he was embarrassed about ‘needing’ to work a second job. He had a professional job, a career, but at the time he had some personal, financial goals that his professional job didn’t allow him to meet. So being the responsible adult that he was, he decided to get a second job stocking shelves at night. It wasn’t illegal or immoral, but it also wasn’t what was expected of a professional man of his caliber and career potential, so he kept it a closely guarded secret. He didn’t tell his friends or family because he didn’t want them to think less of him. He finally told a close friend after having to miss her birthday party to work. She ridiculed him for taking a job doing menial labor. After that he didn’t tell anyone else. But he continued to, quietly, work toward achieving his financial goals.
I was reminded of that conversation today while reading a story about former American Idol Justin Guarini. In one of his blogs he mentioned that he’s gone without meals to feed his children. The comment made me cringe. It’s reminiscent of the men who ‘brag’ about taking care of their kids. Um, THAT’S WHAT YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO DO!!! If you create a child, man or woman, you’re SUPPOSED to take care of that child at all costs. If you’re raising a family and times are tough and someone has to miss a meal, it SHOULD be the dad/the head of the household. It’s not like we live in the agricultural age where the men went out and toiled away in the fields all day and needed the extra nourishment. Guarini sings for a living. He’s perfectly capable of singing on an empty stomach. I guarantee it – I’ve done a lot more with nothing in my belly.
Guarini’s story reminded me of that conversation years ago because I realized, once again, that men come in two different forms: Actual MEN and boys pretending to be men. MEN WORK. Period. A man does what he needs to do to meet his responsibilities. And they do it without seeking or needing praise. I remember telling my friend that all the men I knew had a ‘hustle.’ When I say hustle, I don’t mean anything illegal. By ‘hustle’ I mean that they used whatever skills they had to earn extra money to take care of their families. I knew men who had jobs, some white collar jobs, but could also fix cars, do carpentry work, do taxes, mow lawns, shovel snow, help people move . . . anything they could do to make sure the bills were paid and the kids had all the nice extras. It’s all I knew growing up in the working class cities of Detroit & Inkster, Michigan. I wasn’t used to a man saying he didn’t have enough money and then doing absolutely nothing about it. In fact, when I moved to Chicago in the early 2000’s I was shocked by the number of “men” I encountered who said, “I don’t make enough money on my 9 to 5.” I immediately wondered, “Well, what are you doing from 5 to 9??” It seemed to me that they had a lot of spare time that they weren’t using effectively. My motto has always been, “I don’t want to hear you complain if you’re not doing anything to fix the problem!!”
I shared my story with my friend and let him know that he hadn’t had anything to be ashamed about. Today, he’s older, more mature and is no longer ashamed of having been a responsible adult in his younger years. I told him that if more ‘men’ were like him, that our society would be in much better shape.
It’s GREAT to be a Michigan Wolverine!
I was listening to one of my favorite podcasts today, “His & Hers” on ESPN Pod Center and the hosts were discussing how they chose their respective colleges. It got me to thinking about my journey to college. While most students had a list of schools they were interested in, I really only had had one – The University of Michigan.
I’ve been a Michigan fan ever since I can remember. Despite the fact that both my parents graduated from Eastern Michigan University, I was always a Michigan fan. I mean, let’s face it, when you grow up in the state of Michigan, you have to choose your team early on. And there are really only two teams to choose from – The University of Michigan and that school in East Lansing. I’ve always been a winner, so I went with the winning team.
During the application process, I briefly entertained the idea of attending Duke University. Their brochure quickly extinguished that idea. My parents didn’t have anywhere near $80K to send me to school. Also, I wasn’t quite as adventurous then as I am now. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be that far away from home all alone. So I saved the $45 application fee and moved right along. I applied to three schools: University of Michigan, Wayne State University (I knew my grades and test scores would guarantee me a Presidential Scholarship) and one HBCU (Historically Black Colleges & Universities). During my sophomore & junior years in high school, I attended the annual HBCU College Tour. Despite my high GPA and standardized test scores, I received extremely negative feedback from the only two HBCUs I might have considered attending. Meanwhile, I had a private school in Illinois, which I’d never heard of, recruit me because of the same. But I digress. The one HBCU I actually applied to was one I’d never considered attending. The only reason I applied was because I was attending an HBCU fair with some friends and one of my friends stopped at their booth to apply. All evening, I’d been standing idly by as my friends completed applications. I completed this application because the admissions counselor was very friendly. He also waived our application fees because we were completing the applications on-site. The school requested our transcripts from our high school, after we’d signed agreeing to the release, and the admissions process was underway. I’d actually forgotten that I applied until the day I received a letter from them in the mail. It was a rejection letter. My feelings were hurt. Here I was an almost straight A student, salutatorian of my class and college student at the University of Michigan – Dearborn (yes, I attended high school and college simultaneously) and this school had rejected me. To add insult to injury, the school had struggled with accreditation and was certainly no academic powerhouse. To make matters even worse, the friend who applied with me was accepted. This student’s GPA was almost a full 2 points lower than mine. My mother tried to console me by telling me, “They know you have other options. They can’t risk allowing you to block a space, when you’re most likely not going to attend, when there are students who can’t get in anyplace else, who need that spot.” Nice try, Mom!
Then there were two. Wayne State University accepted me pretty quickly and I received a Presidential Scholarship which provided for full tuition. Wayne State, while an excellent school, is no Michigan. But then again, no place is Michigan. I applied to Wayne State for four reasons: 1) I knew I’d get in, 2) I knew I’d get a full ride, or very close to it, 3) The University of Michigan is HIGHLY competitive and I wasn’t quite sure I’d make the cut, and 4) Michigan was #1 . . . as in at the time, they were the most expensive public school in the country. I said earlier that my parents didn’t have $80K to send me to school. Well, Michigan wasn’t much cheaper at around $60K and my parents didn’t have that either. They had, or came up with, about a third of that. Because I stayed in-state, I received a scholarship from the state, based on my standardized test scores, that earned me 10 semesters of (partial) tuition. I had several other smaller scholarships. I chipped in a third of my college costs through scholarships I’d earned. My parents had their third. And grants & loans made up the final third. I was all set. All I needed was an acceptance letter.
Although the acceptance letter came relatively quickly, it seemed like years between the time I mailed my application and the time I received the letter. As the holidays approached, I hadn’t heard back. I knew that once the holidays were in full swing, it would probably be February, or later, before I heard anything. I’ve never checked the mail so much in my life as I did during those couple of months. Finally, I received an envelope with the University of Michigan seal on it. It was a big envelope. I immediately knew what that meant.
I have absolutely no idea what I got for Christmas that year. I don’t remember who came to our annual Christmas dinner (although I can probably guess). I don’t even remember what I got for my birthday that year. All I remember is that I officially became a Wolverine on Friday, December 24, 1993.
Coming From Where I’m From . . .
I was born in Detroit but moved to small “suburb” of the city two months before my fourth birthday. That city was Inkster, Michigan. Population 35,000. The city is approximately 65% Black. Inkster is a working class community with many residents earning a living in the factories of one of the Big Three (Ford, Chrysler and GM). The residents of Inkster are down-home folks yet “fabulous” in so many ways. For the most part people work hard, want the best for their children and seek nothing more than to make a good life for their families.
Inkster has received its fair share of bad press. Crime levels are at or above national averages in many categories. We’ve made the national news on, at least, two occasions. Once was following the 1987 hostage stand-off and murders of three Inkster police officers at the Bungalow Motel. We made national news on another occasion when we were the subject of a segment on ABC’s Nightly News. The subject was the Demby Housing Project in Inkster commonly referred to as “Little Saigon.” That segment was wildly popular. Statistics cited during that segment intimated that Inkster had more crime, and criminals, per capita, than Detroit (the nation’s very first “Murder Capital” of the United States). The ABC news segment, and the murders at the Bungalow Motel left an indelible impression in the minds of Michiganders, Midwesterners and Americans. To outsiders Inkster Michigan was one of the worst places in the country to live.
It wasn’t until I left Inkster that I realized that it was such a “horrible” place. While I haven’t always felt that I fit in in the place nicknamed “Ink-town” and “Crooked-I” I always thought highly of the people around me. My block was a normal American block. Parents worked hard to provide for their children. The girls jumped rope and played with baby dolls on sidewalks and porches. The boys played football in the middle of the street or in backyards. People looked out for one another. The Smiths, the Walkers, the Jeffersons, the Robinsons, the Johnsons, the Hendricks, the Eatons and the Gilkeys all looked out for one another. Back when I was in second or third grade and we had 12 inches of snow fall on the first day of spring, all the families on my block banned together to shovel each other’s driveways and walkways. Somebody’s mother made hot chocolate for the kids while the men coordinated the effort. In the summer the retired Mrs. Hall (R.I.P.) kept a watchful eye on all the kids on the block and told our parents when we did something wrong. My friends and I freely rode our bikes around the six square miles of Inkster without fear of becoming victims of crime. And with the exception of the summer that a serial killer terrorized much of the Midwest, I generally felt safe in my environment.
That’s why it came as such a shock to me to find out that Inkster wasn’t the safe, nurturing haven I’d made it out to be. When I arrived at college I began to notice that one of the main icebreakers was “Where are you from?” I’d reply, “I’m from Michigan . . . Inkster.” That’s when I’d get the looks. Even people from outside of the state (I went to school in Michigan) gave me the “Oh, really?” look. I didn’t really understand what it meant until later. It was later that I learned that what I perceived as the “Oh, really” look was really the “Oh, you must be the Affirmative Action kid because everyone knows that Inkster schools are isht so you can’t possibly have earned your place here” look. At first I was offended. But when I found myself earning grades comparable to, or better than, many of the prep school kids who looked down on me I snickered just a bit. I figured, If I’m the stupid Affirmative Action kid and I’m kicking your @$$, what does that make you? Eventually I went on to graduate (in four years) and begin my career and left a number of them behind, still struggling to finish their degrees. Some of them took an additional year, or two, or three, to finish. When they’d finally phone or email to announce their graduations I snickered again.
Even after college I continued to encounter people who would give me a curious glance when I told them where I was from. When asked, most times I simply respond that I’m from Detroit. It’s easier than trying to explain to people who are unfamiliar with the state where I’m actually from (17 miles Southwest of downtown Detroit or four miles due north of the main airport). Having lived outside the Midwest for most of my adult life I’ve been able to get away with the “I’m from Detroit” statement without much inquiry. But even that has its drawbacks. I’ve had colleagues ask, “Are you from Detroit, Detroit? Like, the actual city of Detroit?” Sometimes I say yes just for shock value. Because Detroit’s reputation isn’t much better, if at all, than Inkster’s, they have a difficult time believing that I’m actually from Detroit. Because I have an education and speak well, most non-black and uppity black people assume I’m from some Northern, Oakland County, suburb of Detroit as though it’s impossible from people from Detroit to speak anything other than Ebonics, have careers and live respectable lives . . . lives like their own. When I encounter people who are familiar with Michigan and the Detroit-area I tell them that I’m from Inkster. Some react as though they think I’m joking. Others seemed shocked that I’m from Inkster. “You don’t seem like you’re from Inkster,” “You must not have lived there long?” “You just don’t seem like the type.” I have actually had one colleague, repeatedly, tell others that I’m from Ann Arbor. While it’s true that I lived in Ann Arbor for four years while attending college, I am not from Ann Arbor. For him Ann Arbor, the upper-middle class suburb that’s home to the University of Michigan, is a more acceptable place to be from. Ann Arbor is also more reflective of the person he believes me to be (mild mannered, smart, well-spoken, composed, etc). While these are all characteristics that I possess, they are not the whole of who I am. Who I am at work, where I make the money necessary to support my lifestyle, isn’t completely reflective of who I am at home when I’m surrounded by the people I love.
It is sad that when people think of Inkster, my hometown, they think we are a monolith. That couldn’t be further from the truth. From Inkster has come world-renowned athletes (Olympic and NFL), Legendary Motown Recording artists, educators, scholars, musicians, artists, lawyers, doctors, judges, engineers, scientists and insurance professionals (me). So this piece is a “shout out” to all my friends and family from Inkster who continue to defy the stereotypes. This piece is a tribute to those who hold their heads high and represent their hometowns with pride. Here’s to us!