Hug YOUR Michael

[I had a million things to blog about, however, this posting by Maya Angelou is what I feel needs to be shared with everyone I know]

Yesterday I cried watching the Michael Jackson memorial. I cried for a
little black boy who felt the world didn't understand him. I cried for a little
black boy who spent his adulthood chasing his childhood. And I thought
about all the young black boys out there who may too feel that the world
doesn’t understand them. The ones who feel that the world does not understand
their baggy jeans, their swagger, their music, their anger, their struggles,
their fears or the chip on their shoulder. I worry that my son, may too,
one day will feel lonely in a wide, wide world. I cried for the young children of

all colors who may live their life feeling like a misfit, feeling like

no one understands their perspective, or their soul. What a burden to carry.


As a mother, I cried for Katherine Jackson because no mother should ever
bury a child. Period. And I think about all the pain, tears and sleepless
nights that she must have endured seeing her baby boy in inner pain, seeing
him struggle with his self-esteem, and his insecurities and to know he often
felt unloved even while the world loved him deeply. How does it feel to
think that the unconditional love we give as mothers just isn't enough to make
our children feel whole? I wonder if she still suffers thinking, "what
more could I have done?" Even moms of music legends aren't immune to mommy
guilt, I suppose.


When Rev. Al Sharpton ("who always delivers one awesome funeral
speech") said to Michael's children, "Your daddy was not strange... It was strange what
your Daddy had to deal with," I thought of all the "strange" things of the
world that my children will have to deal with. Better yet, the things I hope
they won’t ever have to deal with anymore.


And as a mother raising a young black boy, I feel recommitted and yet a
little confused as to how to make sure my son is sure enough within himself to
take on the world. Especially a "strange" one. To love himself enough to
know that even when the world doesn't understand you, tries to force you
into its mold or treats you unkindly, you are still beautiful, strong and
Black. How do I do that?


Today, I am taking back "childhood" as an inalienable right for every brown
little one. In a world, that makes children into booty-shaking,
mini-adults long before their time, I'm reclaiming the playful, innocent,
run-around-outside, childhood as the key ingredient in raising confident adults.
Second, I will not rest until my little black boy, MY Michael, knows that his
broad nose is beautiful, his chocolately brown skin is beautiful, and his
thick hair is beautiful. And nothing or no one can ever take that away from him.
"Now aint we bad? And ain't we black? And ain't we fine?