Where the Grown Folks?

I remember being a little boy, some thirty odd years ago. I am not one to romanticize the past. Things were not necessarily better, or safer, or whatever. Time is time, and the more things change, the more they stay the same. As I read in this great book, there is nothing new under the sun.

Well, almost.

One thing I do remember, that long time ago, was the difference in grown folks.
For now, I will focus on the difference in men.

My pops was a man. He drank beer and cut his grass. He liked baseball and cars and didn’t like pushy people and lazy Negroes. He raised his kids. Like most men of his day, he could hold his disdain for something he could not stand only so long before either voicing his gripe or leaving the room. He didn’t pretend, didn’t ask for approval and probably gave less of a damn what people thought than he should have.

Honestly, he was like damn near every other man I remember growing up.

There were other types of men. Men who maybe cheated on their wives. Men who were more scholarly. Less opinionated. Men who were divorced, or made more money. Men with more or fewer kids. Men who were more religious. Whatever.

They were all grown, though. Grown as hell. Not grown acting, but grown. Where did that go?

One thing I remember about men back then is they were, well, men. They dressed like men. They talked like men. They moved forward through life like men. They acted like men. Perhaps it was just the men I was around? When my old man went to work, he dressed like he was going to work. So were the other men in my neighborhood. When he cut the grass, he was in his olive Marine Corps t-shirt and some beat up shorts and sneakers. He wasn’t trying to make an impression. He was trying to get his grass cut. This was lawn care, not Soul Train.

I see a lot of men in my line of business. I can never tell where a guy is going or what he does. I see grown ass men walking into my hotel in white undershirts and jeans who say they just came from work. Guys come in funky like they’ve been playing ball and ask for applications. The same guys put on dress clothes to go stand around the courts later. It’s confusing. They want you to take them seriously when they party but they take seeking employment lightly. Then get angry when they don’t get a callback for an interview. I’m not just talking about teens, either.

I was talking to one dad who reminded me that at one time, you could tell a lot about a man based on his clothes when we were kids. Like Simple said, look at the shoes. Thick soles? Works on his feet. Thin leather soles? Desk gig. And so on. Blue shirt, white shirt, gym teachers and coaches wore sweat shirts.

Now? Sneakers. I worked a job where I don’t think 3 men in the place knew a good dress shoe from some cheesy knock off sold at the boutiques everyone frequented in high school. The fake alligator shoe in fuscia comes to mind. When it was time to dress up, grown men came to school in new baseball jerseys. From a distance, their attire and body language would have made you think you were watching a group of adolescents.

When I was a kid, the men spoke like men, too. Don’t take my word for it. Watch the old movies. I was watching “Let’s Do It Again”, and when Cos and his wife are at dinner talking with friends about the world’s favorite activity, it sounded…I dunno. GROWN. Not so now.

Now grown boys justify the fact they can't practice monogamy by bragging at every turn about who they are bedding. Honestly, it used to be that discretion was a big part of fooling around. Men didn't ask, and they damn sure didn't tell. Today, 30- somethings brag about getting some like they're teenagers, and justify by boasting loudly, "We just being men." Halfway, Brotha, halfway.

I had two guys from a major vendor come by the other day and inspect the hotel’s carpet for cleaning. I tried to cut a side deal, to keep my overhead low. Of course, they were interested.

“I been with this company 18 years,” one said. “I know this work. For a couple hunnert and a room, I can do this job.”

“I got rooms…”

“Yeah, I wanna bring my lil dip here with me, get it crackin’…”

I’m thirty seven. He was obviously older than me. Somehow, he reminded me of the high schoolers I used to teach. Men don’t use slang to describe the woman in their life. Even the ones you enjoy for just a few hours at a time. “My lady friend” would have been fine.

Another guest. “Man, I got this dime in the ride and I need a room quick. Hook a brotha up…” He must have been fifty. Note to dude: Grown men arrange their discounts discreetly, before a transaction takes place. Men don’t beg. There’s a certain amount of pride that has to come with all of this testosterone, and thinking I got over because I saved a few bucks slowly erodes that.

I’m lost because now I am a grown man, and honestly? I have to check people who don’t recognize. You couldn’t tell? What didn’t you seen? I dress, walk and talk like somebody’s doggone daddy, employee, boss and man. Stop coming at me like I’m someone’s kid. Thank God my son has learned to recognize. This type of training starts at home.

I relish being pulled over by the cops these days, because without fail, they call me “Mr.” Now look: when a Black man in America can find something positive to say about a police stop, something is terribly wrong.

Let me get even realer. It’s not white people. It’s other Black men (actually, Black people, period). They are the ones dressing greeting and treating each other like we’re a bunch of kids on the playground, trying to let their kids call me by my first name. Full of excuses about every damn thing. My pops didn’t have excuses, and when he apologized, you knew he meant it. Why? It was not something he was going to do often. I meet too many grown men who appear unsure of themselves, too eager to be liked or understood, too willing to let what some woman says about or around them affect them. That is insanity.

There women are just as bad, but this isn’t about them. I’ll get on the number of women who have replaced determined with defiant and sultry with slutty, at a later date.

Brothas, man up.