In 2011, my family was in a major car accident. We were hit head-on by a man in the throes of a heart attack. It took three years to recover from our injuries, and a couple more to deal with the aftereffects of trauma. When I finally returned to the world — as father and husband, friend and brother, writer and citizen — it became clear that our society was in its own traumatized state — reeling from the string of police shootings of unarmed African Americans, stunned by yet one more mass shooting. The people around me were displaying all the signs of PTSD — jumpiness, irritability, numbness — and, concordantly, my interactions out in daily life were becoming more dysfunctional, at times downright hostile. Us against them. Red vs. blue. Black vs. white. Rich vs. poor. That we were living in a progressive town inside a conservative county in the Mountain South only made things more volatile. I decided that if we were all living in a fractured society no longer recognizable, then it was up to me to re-engage in it. I would enter into encounters with people as conscious as possible of the potential divides and misunderstandings between us. I started with my neighborhood and town, then moved out into the counties around us, then traveled further out into the country. My goal: to connect.
from "The Heart of Sol Legare"
After ordering dinner, my mom and I slip outside and walk out to the end of this spit of land. It's a lovely evening, just now getting a little nippy as the sun drops behind the marsh. On our way back, Mom says hey to an older man standing with his lady friend in the doorway of the Def Jam club, which is not yet open for the night's business.
"Hey, you came!"
It's the man who told her about the place earlier that day! He seems surprised and genuinely pleased.
We wander back, drawn by the aromatics mixing with the salt marsh smells. When dinner arrives, everyone quiets down to get to the serious business of eating. The food is tasty. Ali orders the low-country shrimp. There are at least two sides of ribs, a little pulled pork. A seafood platter. Another round of drinks. The table stops talking for a while in that universal sign of approval: the food's just too good for conversation.
The place starts to empty out. Brother Bill joins me outside as the bill gets settled. There's a skittish, sketchy mutt lurking nearby under a tree. We leave it alone. Funky hip hop seeps from a car further down the lot, bass pulsing like a tide. Men are scattered about, talking in pairs, leaning against cars. We pass a row of young men, all hip-hop swagger and cool car bravado. I put my hand out at my side, fingers splayed, as a way to say hey. One guy gives a nod to acknowledge our presence—not friendly, but not hostile either.
More young men arrive in their tricked-out cars, revving and posturing, eager to take back their spot and convert it to their late night scene. As we head back to our group, I do my best to give off a quiet confidence, one that whispers, We're happy to be here, not afraid, won't take anything or try too hard, just enjoying the breeze and booze and the cool scene. Thanks for sharing it all with us for this one evening.
White Dad Shoes
The hip Italian sneakers purchased recently in Montreal have become, in the minds of my fourteen-year-old and his best friend, "White Dad" shoes. Avery roasted me: "You're such a White Dad."
It's not enough that friends keep complimenting me on my "cool shoes." I have been nailed. I try to tease back by calling the boys "White Dad."
Phoenix: "I can't be White Dad; I'm black."
Me: "But you're acting like a White Dad."
They shake their heads and walk upstairs.
I lather on sunscreen before we go tubing, and it gets stuck in my beard.
Avery: "You look like a demon with your red eyes and that sunscreen on your face."
I moan at him like a ghoul and chase him into the water. Later, he comes out of his room with a complete mask of sunscreen. The boys explode in laughter at his parade of whiteface. Later, on the way to the movies, I bring it up again.
"I am one of the least 'White Dads’ you know."
The boys look at each other with deadpan stares then return to their games. That's just what a White Dad would say.
I pump up the volume on Stevie Wonder's "Boogie On, Reggae Woman."
