I don’t pretend to be a great man. I’m barely average. I try to get better. I try to overcome an upbringing of white privilege, in the Long Island suburb of Massapequa, where I lived until I was 18.
My father passed away in 1999. He could be sexist, racist, and misogynistic. He could also be wildly creative, imaginative, and a great salesman. When he got very drunk (he was a WWII veteran) he’d call himself a “true Aryan.” But he did the best he could. He ran Tower TV, the local TV repair shop, then got into security and locksmithing after moving to California. All four of his kids wound up solidly in the American middle class. His younger son (not me) taught calculus to generations in Los Angeles public schools.
It wasn’t until I moved to Atlanta that I found true manhood. I found it in our “block club,” a group of families on our street who met monthly to exchange news and advocate for services.
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