The echo of his cry ran down the street of Martin Luther King's childhood startling all who heard. Yet challenging all things known or believed to be understood. I sat there questioning if I should move and when I did I found him in a fetal position, face swollen as mucus abandoned him in a moment of needed solace. My hands moved along the length of his back whispering to him to breath but I could not provide resolve to the pain that divided his heart. He began to yell "I lost my son!!" "I lost my son!" As children we all so clearly remember who we wanted our parents to be for us. But the cries of fathers who love us seemed to live somewhere in the distance near the Sun. We never imagined who our father's might want to be for us, especially those absent from our lives. His son was being raised by another man. A man that did not mirror his son's DNA and did not share a family lineage that pumped fiercely through his veins. He yelled "Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!" a sound gifted with fear that one did not want to acknowledge scared that ones own personal demons might emerge from the shadows. Malcolm states Black men are not willing to bleed for their children. Some Black men respond why when I'm already dead struggling to learn how to live for them.
