Letter to My Son

Dear Son,

It must have been 2006, maybe 2007, about ten years before you were born, when I ran into actor and comedian Brandon T. Jackson on Father’s Day in Chicago’s Midway Airport. I didn’t know Bran- don that well at the time, but we were both on the Los Angeles comedy scene pretty heavy. We stopped and spoke to one another. Had we seen each other anywhere in Los Angeles, this same moment would’ve warranted nothing more than a brief head nod out of respect.

But stand-up comedy is such an isolating, nomadic life, especially on travel days. When you see another comedian in the airport it feels good, even if you don’t know them that well. You are in a place with thousands of strangers, and you have found the one per- son who understands exactly what you’re going through. A moment that would be a passing head nod on the streets of Hollywood becomes a full-on conversation in an airport.

Brandon and I talked while walking to one of the little airport convenience stores. Like most comedians, we commiserated over our industry gripes and career challenges. “Drama bonding” is what I like to call it. I was struggling financially after taking a moral stance against a comedy club booker who accounted for 40 percent of my road bookings. Brandon, meanwhile, was in the middle of multiple auditions for a pretty major comedy film. He was nervously optimistic he would get the role but also worried about what booking the film would mean for his availability for the more reliable television roles during that same time. I politely poked and prodded him for more information about the film to help him weigh the pros and cons, but all he could tell me was “It’s a comedy with Ben Stiller.”

Once inside the store, Brandon made a beeline to the greeting card rack and began frantically looking through what was left of the Father’s Day options on sale. The rack was barren like grocery store shelves when people make a run for the milk and bread before a hurricane. Between topics, Brandon would pull a Father’s Day card off the rack, read it, then ask me for my opinion on the prose inside the card.

“Getting this to my pops as soon as I land—I want a card that really says something,” he said, while handing me a card. “What do you think about this one?”

My responses lacked the reassurance he was looking for, so he’d put each card back on the rack and search for another. We did this for about three or four greeting cards, and every time my reaction was the same. Humdrum. Take or leave it.

Brandon got frustrated and looked at me like a date who couldn’t decide where to eat. He fired off sarcastically, “Well damn, what kind of card do you get your father?” I thought about it for what was probably far too long and replied, “I don’t think I have ever bought a Father’s Day card.”

Brandon froze. It was one of those moments when you know you could ask a follow-up question if you wanted, but you also don’t know where the answer is going to take you and you’ve got a flight to catch.

Presumably pressed for time, Brandon passed on a follow-up, and the conversation returned to the usual industry fodder. Shortly thereafter, we shook hands, said our goodbyes, and headed off to our respective gates. Back to the comforting isolation that is traveling for a living.

I have never forgotten that conversation.

It was the first time as an adult when I actually had to stop and think about what my relationship with my father was like. Thank God Brandon was running late for his flight. There’s no telling how I would have answered his follow-up question.

In the sixteen years that I knew him, I’m positive I’ve bought gifts for my father here and there, but I truly cannot recall ever buying him a card, for Father’s Day or for any other holiday. I can’t even recall making him one of those terrible arts-and-crafts mugs that public school teachers always think are a good idea.

The masculine culture that I was immersed in was full of confidence building and discipline. Rarely was it full of compassion and gentleness. There were more handshakes than hugs. I can count on one hand the truly sentimental moments I’ve had with my father—or any male relative—or any man.

When I was growing up in the South, consistent male role models were far and few between for me. Both of my grandfathers were dead and gone long before I was born. I didn’t have my first male teacher until the seventh grade. In the early days, my father came in and out of my life like the next-door neighbor on a wacky sitcom. It’d be fourth grade before we settled in under the same roof and I received anything that resembled consistent contact. It would be only eight years later when we would talk for the last time.

Son, when you were born, I went through something that day. Having a child is interesting because the first thing you do is think about all of the things you’re going to do with them, the way you’re going to throw a ball together or learn chess together. You start making plans for education and social engagement. “I’m so full of knowledge!” you excitedly think to yourself. “Which piece of knowledge will I pass down to him first?” After those feelings subside, you think about how you are going to teach this child values. That, in turn, forces you to think about how you were taught values—to audit your own parents.

I sat back in the delivery room just holding you and thought about the time that I had with my father, who died when I was sixteen, I didn’t feel like I got as many lessons from him as I plan to give to you. And I did not like the report that I was beginning to put together. With my dad, there were some highlights, but there were for sure a few things missing. The more I thought about simple life lessons I wanted to teach you, like the value of saying please and thank you and “Yes, sir” and “No, sir,” the importance of chivalry, and my approach to avoiding violent situations, the more I realized I did not learn most of these things from my own father. I learned these lessons from other men who came in and out of my life.

After my father’s death, I was an enraged and isolated sixteen-year-old determined—and then forced—to figure things out on his own. They say it takes a village to raise a child, and my village has stretched almost forty years. As I sat in the delivery room holding you in 2016, I reflected on how lucky I have been to have so many men over the decades who have imparted wisdom, either knowingly or unknowingly.

I’ve set out to tell the stories of these moments because each of them is an important thread that’s been woven into the fabric of fatherhood in which I now envelop you, son. I did not start interacting with many of these men until later in life. God willing, you will meet twice as many before the fourth grade.

I think this is why I’m not a fan of Father’s Day greeting cards. They rarely encompass the complexities of parenting and mentorship. Every card is written from the assumption that a father is completely loved and has gotten everything right, which always makes me laugh. This could not be any further from the truth. Father’s Day would be better served if there were cards that simply thanked a man for what you specifically learned from him, good or bad.

“For the dad who taught me how to avoid drug dealers.”

“For the dad who showed me the importance of choosing the right partner.”

“For the dad who saw me sleeping in my car that one time at a truck stop and gave me a solution to my problem.”

These are the kind of cards that I believe would fly off the shelves.

That’s why I’m going to jump at any opportunity to get worthy men in front of you as soon as possible. Fatherhood is a job that’s bigger than any one man.

Parenting is one part instilling in your children what you believe to be the best of you and one part recognizing what is the best in your child and watering those parts of them. We sometimes make the mistake with our children of trying to turn them into the things we wish we were without identifying why we wish that change for ourselves. But to identify the best parts of yourself, you will have to identify the worst parts of yourself too. I held you tighter in the delivery room as I contemplated this self-audit. That’s the hardest part of parenting: figuring out how to heal your damage and protect your child from suffering the same damage, all while figuring out how you became that damaged in the first place.

I’ve decided to take a break from parenting to write this book for you and tell you about some of these men and the lessons I learned along the way. Tales of my highs and lows in the entertainment and journalism worlds will have to wait. As will stories featuring the many women who helped me become a man. Today I’m only here to write about one woman—my mother—and a bunch of the men.

It is their wisdom that I will use to help construct a village for you, so that one day when you finally meet Brandon T. Jackson in an airport, you’ll know exactly what kind of Father’s Day card to help him find.

P.S. Brandon booked the movie. When you get a little older, son, check out Tropic Thunder. Still a classic.