Unmarried female friends often tease me, asking questions about how I met and married the kind of man we all assumed in college we were entitled to marry. Here’s the unglamorous truth.
My dad grew up in Ghana and says that in West Africa men must be a step away from their children.
After being adamant, for all my adult life that I would never have children—the world was too crazy and all that—all of my protestations did not matter a lick. My wife was pregnant.
One day, I was stopped on Harvard Yard, mid-day, by a police officer on bike who said that I fit the description of a 6-foot-tall black man who ‘was looking for someone at a girl’s dorm.’
As a teenager growing up in the 1980s in the projects of Watts, California, the author was practically orphaned by her mother’s drug addiction, and made it her mission to meet Whitney Houston.
We Are Respectable Negroes Madness & Reality PostBougie Racialicious
