I’ve said it before, and I’m saying it again:  I’m not an academic.  No one will ever say my name in the same breath as Cornel West’s or Skip Gates’.  I know what I know through reading and living.  That’s all.  I write what I feel and I hope that others will either be able to relate, or at least find me marginally entertaining. 

I’m not sure if I’ll ever accoplish anything with this blog.  But for some reason I keep writing.  I want to challenge stereotypes, upset the status quo.  I don’t want to piss people off too much because angry people don’t listen.  (I learned that from being a dad.)  I want to talk about my foul-mouthed son and how much I love him despite the fact that he is the black three year old equivalent of Simon Cowell (he has actually said to me “your behavior is horrible daddy”). 

God I love my boy.  We share a face although he’s much cuter, and sometimes smarter, than his dad.  He’s my mini-me.  I know that my son needs and loves me by the way he looks at me when I pick him up from preschool after a long day apart.  And I need him.  That little typhoon of emotion and energy makes me a better man.  A better black man.  I dream big dreams because he exists. 

I’m not original; there are many others like me.  Nevertheless there is a black dad crisis in America.  You don’t have to have a degree in Black Studies or be friends with Tavis Smiley to know that it’s true.  Just look around.  The next few times you are out and about consciously look at the people around you pushing strollers and holding little hands.  Really look.  My guess is