His grandfather taught him how to be a man. His death left him questioning himself.
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I called him “Papa” growing up and idolized him when I was a kid. Not so much during my teenage years—of course, Papa was “unhip and uncool” then. However, sometime in my twenties I regained my senses and a more mature appreciation for the man who raised and guided me. My respect for Papa grew as I grew, and I often measured myself against him.
I never remember Papa complaining or speaking of being unhappy.
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Three months ago—out of the blue—I got a call telling me Papa was dying. It hit me like a punch in the gut. I’ve reflected a lot on Papa’s life since the call. I’ve thought about what he’s taught me about being a man.
My grandfather was a blue-collar worker born in 1932 during the great depression. Papa (as I called him) and Mema (my grandmother) raised me while my mom struggled to make ends meet. They were salt of the earth people who saved every dollar they earned. It was his goal to never be a burden, to never be without, and to leave something for his children.
I never remember Papa complaining or speaking of being unhappy. I remember stories of Papa and Mema working in the fields on Thanksgiving Day because they were short of cash. Papa worked hard, he cried, he laughed, he watched cartoons, and he swam in the kiddie pool with his grandkids. That is the kind of man Papa was.
After Papa died, I wondered if he was proud of me. In that moment, a lot of the mistakes I had made in life began to flood into my mind. If Papa knew about all my mistakes, what would he think of me? Would he disapprove of how I handled my money? What would he think about me being a coach—would he say, “What the hell is a life coach?” What would he say about my dedication (or perhaps obsession) with professional advancement? And most of all, would Papa forgive me for calling not calling him more over the years?
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It has been almost three months since Papa died and this is what I think he would tell me:
Ditch the guilt and shame. In hindsight, Papa was not perfect—he had his own share of mistakes. He would not want me to hold myself to a standard of perfection. Papa would have wanted me to learn and grow. He would have said, “TJ, I am so proud of you!”
I love you no matter what. No matter what I did, or how bad I did it, Papa always found a way to forgive me. When I chose to marry the love of my life, (a magnificently beautiful black woman) he challenged his prejudices and welcomed her with open arms.
I am extremely proud of your military service. When I joined the Army, Papa was so proud. Throughout their living room Papa and Mema prominently displayed pictures of my military service.
Have fun and enjoy life. Although Papa and Mema were very frugal, they were very generous to their kids and grandkids. My earliest memories are of my cousin Michelle and I going to Pismo beach with Mema and Papa. We would pack up the fifth wheel and make the three-hour drive at least twice a year.
No matter how bad it gets—never give up. Papa, born during the depression, was able to achieve financial security for his family and live very comfortably. The early years, however, were not easy. He was born during the depression in Courtney, Oklahoma to Ma and Pa King. They had very little, but what they had was the result of back breaking physical labor in the fields. Papa never quit and he never lost sight of his goals.
Challenge your beliefs. Papa was born in 1932 in Courtney, Oklahoma. Segregation was a matter of fact, interracial dating could cost you your life, and I am sure no one even discussed same-sex relationships. However, when his own children and grandchildren defied cultural norms, he challenged his beliefs and welcomed them with open arms. When I decided to marry my wife, he welcomed her (a black woman) into his family with open arms. His actions set the example for everyone to follow. My cousin Michelle announced she was lesbian, marrying a woman, and having a baby. Once again, Papa set the example and welcomed Michelle’s new family with open arms.
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In hindsight, I understand my thinking about Papa was flawed.
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Instead of being grateful for Papa, and his impact upon my life, I was feeling like crap. In my mind, I had created the image of Papa as a perfect man, a stoic man, one that made no mistakes, and (if he did) he certainly never talked about them. Now, I realize he did not talk about them because that’s the world he grew up in.
In hindsight, I understand my thinking about Papa was flawed. He was imperfect just like me. My mind has been full of male gender stereotypes of perfection, strength, and honor built up over the years. All of a sudden, I felt such a sense of relief. Now I clearly understand that mistakes do not make me less of a man. They make me human.
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Flickr/ Maeka Alexis
Thanks James for commenting, I agree.
As I used to tell my blind rehab students as they learned mobility training. They have a name for mistakes its called learning!