When I first met my wife, I discovered for the first time someone that was my equal. By that I mean someone that was as important to me as I was to myself. We all grow up expecting one day to find our soul mate, our equal. So when I met her it was a reassuring experience.
But when my son was born (and a year later, my daughter), I was suddenly staring into the face of someone who was – without any doubt – greater than me, more important than me, and mattered more to me than I mattered to myself. There is no way to prepare someone for that. And while it is a wonderful and happy experience, it is also a terrifying and bewildering experience too.
You wonder… Will I know how to be a good parent? Will I be good enough? Will I make mistakes? Will my child be like me? Will my child look like me? Will my child like me? Love me?
What happens if someone hurts my child?
With time, you get past the fears. They never go away, you just get past them. You celebrate every accomplishment. Not the child’s, but your own, grateful for every day that you learn how to do something new. Grateful that you haven’t screwed up yet.
As they grow and begin socializing with other children, you observe the other kids and say “Oh God, how do I prevent my child from turning out like that?” Your chest swells and your heart fills with pride. You don’t just love your child, you love who and what your child is; something special, something you helped create.
The more they grow, the more they experience the world outside of the cocoon you have created for them. Those outside experiences include pain and disappointment. They include experiences and emotions you once hoped your child would never ever feel. And you feel like the most impotent, helpless person in the universe. You feel like a failure. You don’t merely understand their pain. You feel their pain.
My son and daughter are bi-racial. My wife and I understood that growing up is such a complicated journey of self discovery, of trying to figure out who you are and how you fit in the world. We knew that the added complexity of bi-racial identity would make that journey doubly hard. Because they grew up in a small town that is 99% white, it was very important to me that they understood and were fully comfortable with the black side of their identity. I had always wanted to start my own company, so I left my job and started a company that was – in essence – about being black. I created Heritage Apparel, a clothing company that celebrated African American history and heroes, for my children. Having that company, having something that expressed my racial heritage as not just who I was, but what I did, made it easier and richer to share with my children.
My son and daughter are 24 and 23, no longer living at home, but one not yet living in a real homes of his own. They are almost completely adults, although I have not yet fully let go. I am not entirely sure how I will feel when I do. My work as a parent, the job of raising them, is essentially done, but it is a job I do not wish to quit and cannot imagine being fired from. But without letting go, you have not successfully completed the work. Letting go is the final exam.
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