(ThyBlackMan.com) “… a foolish son the bitterness of his mother”
After my father left, when I was around 8yrs old, I would often stare out of windows hoping one day he would come back home. I waited day after day for his return that would never happen. As the days went by what was sadness became anger that would eventually become hatred and ultimately hatred of myself and who I was what I came from. I was so filled with hatred for my father and myself that I hated every other black man in my community. I didn’t want to be like these “worthless niggas” that I’d see everyday hustlin’ on the street corners, that I’d see everyday on the way to school.
These “niggas” that I rarely saw as teachers in the schools I attended and when I did they seemed full of crap there too. I hated them I hated the 
brothers I would hang with and I hated the brothers that I didn’t know. I unknowingly hated black men as a whole—didn’t want to be one—and I definitely didn’t want to be a white one or any other type of man. No, I didn’t want to be want to be a woman either (I just wanted them, irresponsibly).
During this period I was falsely called the “man of the house”. This title came with duties that would not be conducive of one being considered the man of the house. I was saddled with the matinal parenting duties of making sure my sister and brother ate after school, did homework, and because my mother worked midnights, made sure they remained quiet as she slept during the afternoons and early evenings. These duties were more akin to being a housewife as opposed to being the “man of the house”.
This period was quite frustrating since I could not participate in after school activities nor go too far away from home if we were allowed to go outside and play with friends. This hindered me in my development and understanding of adversity that I would face as a young black man. I became far too reliant on emotion and intuition to lead me in my daily affairs as opposed to logic, reason, and instincts. This lead to me having spells of emotional breakdowns and often looking for sympathy from those I encountered. When that didn’t happen I became physically violent and usually punched and kicked objects until I destroyed them.
Although this was early in my childhood these actions went on well into my twenties. This is not exclusive to me but a look into the damaged hearts and minds of young black males and the plight we face growing up in North America. The pain is tremendous but realizing we are hurt and on the path to self destruction is how we can begin to heal the backbone of the black community…The Black Man.
Staff Writer; Adisa Bey