How Do You Raise a Black Child?

Cortney Lamar Charleston

       -- with a nod to Claire Kageyama-Ramakrishnan

From the dead. With pallbearers who are half as young 

 as their faces suggest and twice the oxen they should be. 

 Without a daddy at all, or with a daddy in prison, or at home, 

 or in a different home. With a mama. With a grandmama 

 if mama ain't around, maybe even if she is. In a house, or not. 

 In the hood. In the suburbs if you're smart or not afraid of white 

 fear or even if you are. Taking risks. Scratching lottery tickets. 

 Making big bets. On a basketball court. Inside a courtroom. 

Poorly in the ever-pathological court of opinion. On faith. Like 

 a prayer from the belly of a whale. In church on Sunday morning, 

 on Monday, Tuesday, and every other. Before school and after. 

 In a school you hope doesn't fail. In a school of thought named 

 for Frederick Douglass. Old school or not at all. With hip-hop or 

 without. At least with a little Curtis Mayfield, some Motown, 

 sounds by Sam Cooke. Eating that good down-home cooking. 

 Putting some wood to their behind. With a switch. With a belt 

 to keep their pants high. Not high all the time. On all-time highs 

 at all times until they learn not to feel and think so lowly of 

 their aims. To be six feet tall and not under. With a little elbow 

 grease and some duct tape. Sweating bullets. On a short leash. 

 Away from the big boys on the block. Away from the boys in blue. 

 Without the frill of innocence. From the dead, again. Like a flag.