#dadsdontbabysit

Truth, Al Ferguson. Truth. With #DadsDontBabysit, he’s taking a stand for dads who feel like “the secondary parent, [and] lack confidence in themselves and their ability.” And yes, he’s using that “f word” to describe himself.

A-fucking-men.

This message has been the battle cry for the online dad community for years. Yet Madison Ave., Hollywood, Wall Street and DC all seem to think we’re still in the 1940s. Thankfully, the ever-growing popularity of parenting bloggers is leading to an overdue cultural shift.

After a months long barrage from dad bloggers, the U.S. arm of Amazon Mom quietly changed its name to Amazon Family. More often than not, cutesy memes showing dads as inept caregivers are met not with laughter, but with an eye roll from both men and women. Mom bloggers continuously shout the praises of their male counterparts and peers.

So, now that it’s sinking in, let me say this again to advertisers, producers, investors and politicians:

During my time as a stay at home dad, there has been no more exciting time of year than summer, even with humidity, pests, and odors at their worst. This is for two reasons.

1)  There is so much to do during the summer in New York City: concerts, sports that range from U.S. Open Tennis to baseball to Women's Basketball, and a suprising amount of free events.

2) I have spent decades working during summertime, without extended periods of time to have fun. 

So, having time for adventures and fun with my daughter during the summer is the gift that keeps on giving. It's not just fun for me by the way.  Check this out!

See what I mean?

What are some of the things we're excited about doing during #DadCamp 2015? 

1) We're heading to the Museum of Modern Art to view Jacob Lawrence's Migration Series. This collection has great cultural significance. 

2) We're headed to a baseball game. My daughter still views baseball as her favorite sport and asked to attend a game. 

3) Lunch with friends. It's time to catch up with some of my daughter's old pals from her preschool.

4) Speaking of food, we will also be cooking. 

5) A trip to the Gugenheim. One of my personal favorite museums growing up as a city kid, it's time to share my love of the Gugenheim with my daughter. 

6) A trip to our favorite comic store.

7) Lots of playground visits! 

8) And free choice Friday, when my daughter chooses three things to do or places to visit. 

Raising a multiracial child leads me to often think about my daughter's identity. I really want her to have a sense of pride in who she is, especially her Black heritage. My mother taught me a lot about Black culture. I grew up very confident and secure about my racial identity, even when I was the only or one of the only Black males in my independent school classes. 

Thinking about my daughter's heritage inevitably led to thinking about my heritage. I remember doing a project in middle school that remains to this day on of the more painful experiences I had in school. We were tasked with creating a paper about a family of immigrants who arrived in America through Ellis Island. While doing this project, I realized that, unlike nearly all of my classmates, I did not have a clear sense of the history of my family. Slavery and the absence of my father challenged me in ways most of my classmates and teachers might not have considered. I struggled with this assignment because it made me feel as if I wasn't on the same playing field as my peers. Thankfully, I did know some aspects of my heritage. 

For most of my life, I was only able to learn about my mother's side of the family, because my father was not a part of my life. Years of hearing stories from my maternal grandmother about her parents, I was led to believe that I had Seminole blood running through my veins. My grandmother's father was a full blooded member of that tribe. Her name, Ceola, is a tribute to the great Seminole warrior, Osceola. So, I spent much of my life believing I was Black and Seminole. 

Then, my father reached out to me four years ago. About a month prior to receiving a letter from my estranged father, I declared to my wife that I was no longer interested in any level of reconciliation with him. After the birth of my daughter and the feelings that were born within me the first time I held my daughter, there was no way I could ever leave her. No way I would not be a part of her life. It's funny how things play out sometimes.

With this building of a relationship with my father, I felt that it was important to learn about his side of the family. I especially wanted to know about the medical history since I could not fully answer my wife's doctor's questions during Jenelle's pregnancy. During one of the first phone conversations I had with my father in what felt like a lifetime, he dropped an interesting piece of information on me. I had Cuban blood. One of his parents was from Cuba. Boom goes the dynamite! Sweet sassy molassey! The identity I had spent my life embracing was not entirely accurate. I had Latin blood in the mix. That also meant my daughter did. 

I decided that I wanted to know more about my DNA. So, I signed up with Ancestry.com and sent in my saliva for analysis. I recently received the results. Let's just say I'm not exactly who I thought I was.

I am definitely still Black. 76% Black to be specific. I think it was Dr. Rasheed Wallace who said, "DNA Don't Lie." Here are some of the breakdown highlights.

31% - Ivory Coast/Ghana

12% - Cameroon/Congo

10% - Benin/Togo

8% - Nigeria

2% - Senegal

If your knowledge of African continental cartography is poor, most of these locations are on the western coast of the continent. This makes one thing quite obviously. I clearly have ancestors who were slaves. This is not at all a surprise given that my mother's side of the family is southern. Still, it is powerful to have this officially confirmed. Knowing that members of my distant family were enslaved is depressing. I will talk with my daughter at length about our family's connection to slavery. 

The other 22% is where things became interesting. As I mentioned, I expected to have some Native American blood. I do. Less than 1% though. Honestly, I was disappointed to hear this, primarily because my grandmother was mistaken. Unfortunately I can't share this truth with her, as she passed away four years ago. What I did find is that my father was most likely right about the Cuban blood. 8% of my heritage is from the Iberian Peninsula, which is close to Spain and Portugal. Since folks from that region eventually settled in Cuba, it looks like the Latin part of my heritage is intact. It was also revealed that 10% of my ethnicity is Irish. We always thought that due to my very British last name that I had some British ancestry, but only < 1%. I would love to learn more about my Irish heritage and find just where that came from, but it would not be surprising if it was somehow connected to slavery.

I still remember the first time I heard her voice, crying so loudly. Confused. 

I still remember the first time I held her. So small. So real.

I still remember the first time she walked, talked, held my hand, sang a song.

So many firsts. None to be taken for granted. 

 She is becoming her own person now. Kind. Dependable. Courageous. Unique.

She has brought me light. Strength of purpose. Hope.

She has reminded me that parenting is a gift not all accept.

She has made me a better person. Happier. Adventurous. Creative.

 When she appears, the pain is worth it.

Her jubilation makes the stares and eye rolls worth it.

Her hug makes the isolation worth it.

She belongs. I belong. We belong.

And the looks of disgust, the why are you heres, the I'm willing to not accept your presence for the foreseeable futures begin to mean nothing.

My daughter is better than that. We are better than that. 

Pepper,

Everyday I tell you I love you, but do you know why? Well, there are so many reasons. They are difficult to count. But, I'll try anyway. 

I love that you stand up for yourself. You are unafraid of expressing your feelings and concerns with friends, teachers, and family. And you do so respectfully. Most of the time.

I love your passion for learning. You are so hungry to learn how things work and why things happen. Most importantly, you enjoy reading the Marvel Encyclopedias in our home to increase your knowledge of that comic book universe. You make your daddy proud.

I love that you still want to hold my hand, but you also want to do things for yourself. I'm not sure how you were able to pour a cup of milk for yourself without spilling. From a full half gallon. 

I love that you say you're busy instead of dizzy. 

I love that you share your own original songs. Sometimes those songs include your own beats, which make them even better. I look forward to the day that those songs actually make sense. 

I love that you give really big hugs. I do worry that you will choke one of us out with one of these hugs at some point. 

I love that you love superheroes. And princesses. And Sesame Street. And dolls. And your work bench. May you always be so well-rounded and diverse in your interests. 

I love that you enjoy yogurt and granola. Every morning for breakfast. Every morning.

I love how you can't tell knock knock jokes. And consistently give your hiding spot away playing hide and seek. 

I love that you bring happiness to the faces of people on the subway. Bringing joy to those who need it most is a blessing.

I love that you look up to Misty Copeland and Skylar Diggins, two outstanding role models who don't shy away from that responsibility.

I love that you still like stories while you make a poop. However, you need to understand that I can't always be my most creative when I'm dealing with that odor of yours. And how does someone so small generate so much poop? Seriously, it doesn't seem possible.

I love your laugh. Especially the laughs that give you the hiccups.

I love how you stick up for me and look out for my health. Your reminders to take my allergy meds are more about your concern than your desire to go to the playground.

I love your hair because it is a beautiful representation of my love for your mother. May those inevitable tangles remind you of the pain and anguish so many who loved someone of a different race had before the union between your mother and me.

I love you, Pepper, because you are comfortable with who you are. Keep busting up stereotypes. May that never change.

Sincerely,