For my fifth year of classroom teaching, I chose to take a leap of faith.  I had earned tenure teaching in Ypsilanti but was eager for change and new challenges.  When I began teaching first grade in Highland Park, I could not have imagined the magnitude of challenges that were in store.

On the first day, I remember sitting at my desk about 30 minutes prior to the arrival of students and wondering, “what have I gotten myself into?”  In the previous 14 days, I

• Was bedside as my grandfather transitioned from life;
• Served as a pallbearer during his funeral;
• Broke numerous speeding records as I drove across Michigan rushing to Chicago to reach the downtown offices that administered marriage licenses 10 minutes before closing;
• Got married and went on a honeymoon;
• Returned to Chicago at midnight Friday and drove to Michigan for an 8 am job interview;
• Signed a contract with a new district, resigned from the old district, and cleaned- out my old classroom;
• Attended professional development and set-up my new classroom on Monday.

As you could imagine, on the first day of school that Tuesday morning I was feeling as if I had survived an emotional hurricane. Only to learn that the storm was not over.

The biggest storm weathered during my experience in Highland Park had very little to do with Highland Park.  The biggest storm was changing my pedagogy.  I had been a creative, engaging, and progressively more effective teacher in the previous years.  However, I had a tendency to build my instruction around textbooks and curriculum guides.  Somewhat like teaching with training wheels.  While in Highland Park, I evolved as a teacher because I finally grew beyond those training wheels.

Highland Park is a small and very impoverished city.  The children arrive at school with life experiences that would evoke immense pity. A number of the children bring a defensive edge and aggressiveness that they use to protect themselves from further disappointment.  The district also serves a large transient population, whether those families were homeless, poor people moving from place to place to avoid eviction, or students from Detroit Public Schools who transferred for expedient testing and placement in special services only to take their completed I.E.P. back to Detroit.  The city and school district of Highland Park continue to face daunting challenges that threaten their existence.

It was in Highland Park that I learned just how much of a context-setter the environment and community could be.  Because I had taught kindergarten at an advanced pace during the three previous years (I taught second grade as a first year teacher), my curricular expectations were beyond the demonstrated academic skill of my first graders in Highland Park.  I want to emphasize demonstrated academic skill is much different from academic aptitude; all of the children in my class were intelligent.  Yet, it became quickly apparent that our resources, textbooks, workbooks, and supplementary materials, were inadequate for what and how I needed to teach.  I had to teach without training wheels.

In hindsight, it appears to have been a combination of  necessity and professional maturity that prompted my teaching evolution.  Becoming more comfortable teaching without training wheels was a monumental time in my growth as an educator.  As I have grown, I have learned that the best teachers teach without training wheels.  They research, acquire new information, actively participate in workshops, experiment, and then synthesize those experiences and more into relevant, captivating instruction.

With the first days of school upon us, I enthusiastically wish that this year is your year to teach without training wheels!

- one of my mother’s spiritual quotes

When I practiced martial arts under Master Jacky and Dora King, they would frequently have us work on one move over and over.  Master King could spend forty minutes highlighting the specifications of blocking a punch.  Very often, our entire training session could be spent mastering one move.  However, what never failed was that when it came time to spar (practice fight), the moves that had been taught in isolation had become reflexive actions.  The fist block that felt so awkward weeks before was the fist block that saved me from a punch to the face.  It should be noted that the fist block was not a thought-out strategy it had become entrenched in my muscle memory.  When the circumstances called for a fist block, my body was prepared not only with a response, but the right response.

I have come to better understand that life is the same way.

Sometimes we forecast with trepidation an upcoming situation.  Doubt, fear, and anxiety cause us to forget that we are in fact prepared for most circumstances we encounter.  If we have been diligent in our preparation and in the performance of our current tasks, and applying ourselves in a manner to succeed and not to simply get by, if we have been doing those things then we are prepared for what lies ahead.

During the month of August, athletes across the country are subjecting themselves to the rigors of preseason football training.  They are exercising under intense heat.  Ramming their bodies at full speed into each other and practice pads.  They slam their bodies into the ground, run the football an extra ten yards after the play is over, and practice drills repeatedly, all in preparation for the upcoming season.  Any committed football player would attest that preseason conditioning is more torturous than the games.  Football players are able to perform well in their games because they have been prepared for what lies ahead.

After years of preparation, thousands of novice teachers will open their doors for their first day of school as a teacher.  All of them will have varying degrees of butterflies fluttering about their emotions.  I remember my first day.  I remember thinking “what have I gotten myself into?”  When the day was over, I laughed hard and loud.  The humor lied in my over-preparation.  I had fretted whether I would be ready, only to learn that I was more than ready.  Students did not need all their textbooks labeled and inside their desk on the first day.  Every bulletin board did not require some fancy poster from the teacher shop.  On that first day, I simply needed to be firm and confident, share my expectations and treat each student as a unique individual as well a member of a super class.

I cannot say the hours I spent doing textbook inventory and loading each desk with books and supplies was time wasted.  I can say that doing those things were simply busy activity that distracted me from my fear of pending first day.  From that day and the many that have followed, I have learned that my experiences have prepared me for what lies ahead.  And so have yours.

Our church family matriarch, Evangelist Mona Lisa Lockhart, was my favorite Sunday school teacher.  Perhaps it is because by the time I was in her class, I was old enough to make connections from Bible stories to real life.  Perhaps it was because she was such a passionate instructor.  More than likely, it was a combination of those things and more.

Because I was raised in Detroit, I had a degree of separation from the cultural traditions of southern Black folks.  I remember being puzzled at the notion of someone putting “roots” on someone.  I recall being absolutely befuddled at the thought of people living in places that did not have interstate highways.  I laugh at the memory of my first visit to the rural south when extended family members bellowed in laughter at my inquiry of “what else are we going to do?”  For you see, after the fish fry, everyone just sat around outside and talked.  There was no television, no basketball court, and no corner store, just family and rehashed and revamped stories.  Needless to say that first visit was a massive culture shock.

Nevertheless, it was an overwhelmingly apparent Southern charm that really endeared me to Evangelist Lockhart.  Initially, I found humor in her southern dialect and inflections.  But with each year of living, I uncover more wisdom within her numerous rural colloquialisms.  Of which, the most frequently used was “yo’ shack in glory gonna tell da story.”  Actually, the printed word does not capture the heavy twang in which the syllables in “glory” and “story” were more pronounced as “glo-reeey” and “sto-reey.”  Our adolescent chuckles never deterred her from sharing that nugget of wisdom.

Because we were in church, it was assumed that the “shack”, “glory”, and “story” of which she referred were heavenly or religious concepts.  Sometimes she would elaborate that she was not going to have a shack but rather, a mansion.  Because her intentions were to convey that our Christian efforts on earth will be reflected in our heavenly rewards.  As I have matured, I have found the “shack” and “sto-reey” also has implications for our earthly lives.

Since I last sat in those wooden folding chairs listening to Evangelist Lockhart and admiring the distinctiveness of that hats she wore, I have come to realize the results that one achieves in life are indicators of two things: their circumstances and their effort.  It would be impossible to assign a percentage value to circumstances or effort but I can attest that the former is often beyond our control and the latter is totally within our control.

When people refer to their circumstances or environment as cause for their life success or lack of success, I understand.  Indeed some use circumstances as an excuse to underachieve, but beyond that, circumstances do contribute to who we are and the methods used toward what we can become.

However, our effort plays more of a role in what we become.  Our effort determines whether we will earn metaphorical shacks or mansions.  Our efforts are the largest indicators of what type of results we will earn.

No, this is not a pronouncement of “pulling yourself up by your bootstrap” because that notion is fallaciously shortsighted.  Instead this is a prompt for reflection.

• Are you satisfied with the results you are getting in life?
• In what ways have your efforts contributed toward the results you have?
• If you are unsatisfied with your results, will you change your efforts?

Arthur Ashe would tell us to:

Start where you are.  Use what you have.  Do what you can.

It can be that simple.  We can choose today to exert efforts that determine what story our place in glory will tell.

In his book, Coming to Our Senses, Jon Kabat-Zinn refers to the illusion of multi-tasking as the infidelity of inattention.  How can we actually experience the beauty, the lessons, and the opportunities provided by one thing when we are only partially paying attention to several things?  How can I truly say I spent time with my daughter?   If I quantified or made a pie chart of that time span – some time texting, some time television watching, some time transferring my attention from one item to the next, and some time playing the game with my two-year old – how much time did I actually spend with her?

I once believed there was value in multi-tasking.  I believed I could simultaneously work on reports and have conversations with people in my office.  I believed that could spend time with my children even if I brought them to my work place. I erroneously placed value on driving, talking on one phone, and texting with another phone.  In those instances and more, I was wrong.

The individual tasks were not wrong.  The error was attempting multiple tasks at once.  Just because my children accompanied me as I supervised the youth ministry does not mean I spent time with them.  Just because I called my mother during my daily commute while texting my co-workers, does not mean I was fully engaged in our conversation or that my texts were coherent.  I mistakenly assumed that busy equaled productive. I had actively embraced the illusion of multi-tasking.

Thankfully, nothing tragic had to happen for me to begin to recognize the illusion.  In fact, the understanding came during a lunch conversation with a friend.  She wanted to know about my company and my book.  She is a self-professed career woman who feels woefully inadequate when not accompanied by her Blackberry.  We exchanged initial pleasantries while being seated and she placed her Blackberry on the table.  While I was talking, she held up one finger for me to pause and she answered her phone.  She apologized and told me to resume because she really wanted to hear how things were going.  As I began to explain how things were going, the finger came back and she responded to a text.   A little bothered and speaking with greater reservation, I eventually started talking about the process of writing my book.  My reservation stemmed from not wanting to be interrupted; however, after resuming our talk, she received an email and I got that finger again.  Needless to say that while we were both physically present, we were unable to share much.

While I had heard of the concept, the illusion of multi-tasking began to be more apparent to me after that day. I learned the difference between being fully present and sharing distracted attention.  I learned that despite the multiple avenues for people to stay connected, many of us are less “connected” than we recognize.  When we engage in multiple tasks at once, we actually do a disservice to each of those tasks.  In essence, by attempting so much, we accomplish so little.

]]> http://blog.measurableadvancement.com/?feed=rss2&p=1110 2 http://blog.measurableadvancement.com/?p=1079 http://blog.measurableadvancement.com/?p=1079#comments Tue, 06 Jul 2010 14:51:31 +0000 advanceAdmin http://blog.measurableadvancement.com/?p=1079 As a child, many of my favorite television shows had catchy introduction songs. Fat Albert, Welcome Back, Kotter, Different Strokes, Good Times, and a handful of others have permanent residence in my cherished memories because of their songs. Recently, I have been captivated with watching The Wire on DVD. Just like the treasured shows of my childhood, The Wire also has a catchy introduction song.

Each season of The Wire opens with a different artist performing “Way Down In The Hole”; yet it is the Blind Boys of Alabama’s interpretation during season one that has captivated my attention and conjured deep cultural meaning. The Blind Boys’ version has the feel of a wooden white steeple church on a dirt road, with wooden floors, wooden pews, and nearly unbearable heat. Their version of the song evokes the imagery of hard working field laborers, with calloused hands and weather beaten skin gathered together in the one public place where they could maintain their dignity without being directly burdened by race. The Blind Boys channel the pain, the strength, and the soul of the Black church with raspy tenor and baritone timbre that is nearly absent in contemporary music.

My friend Rashad and I were discussing the uniqueness of the song, how fitting it is to The Wire, and more notably the soulful wailings of The Blind Boys. While lamenting on the absence of that type of spirit in our music, Rashad assessed the dilemma perfectly. He said “to create that type of sound, you would have to have been through something.” Indeed, he was right – to create something of timeless value, to develop something of resonating meaning, to share a gift from the soul for the uplift of others – to do all of those things, one would first have to have been through something.

W.E.B. DuBois could capture and convey The Soul of Black Folks because he had been through something.   Zora Neale Hurston could compose literary and cultural masterpieces because she had been through something. Earl Graves can develop and maintain a successful magazine geared toward minority businesses because he had been through something. Ruth Simmons can effectively lead a distinguished university because she too, has been through something.

Chances are, the aspirations you may have for growth will only come to fruition after you have been through something. “Something” is an ambiguous term that permits the diversity of our circumstances to culminate into our personal life lessons. Our choices to gather meaning from those life lessons and share their value become the substance of our relationships. When we share our life lessons, we enrich the experiences and the lives of others.

Another friend, Solomon, often shares the story of Hattie Green. As described by Solomon, Hattie was found in her apartment having died some time days before. When Solomon tells the story, he evokes feelings of emptiness, loneliness and inconsequence. He emphasizes what good is life if you could die and no one would know or care that you were gone. While we cannot speak of Hattie personally, I imagine that the unremarkable nature of her demise could be attributed to no one knowing her life lessons and no one being familiar with the “something” that gave shape to her life. For you see, what good is it to go through something if you fail to share your experiences with others?

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up

Like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore–

And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?

Or crust and sugar over–

like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags

like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

The deferred dream of which I question is the unfulfilled leadership of Kwame Kilpatrick.  I am not a Kilpatrick supporter, nor am I a Kilpatrick detractor.  I also choose not to heap additional negativity atop of the challenges he is facing.  However, the deferred dream of which I mourn directly stems from the void created and the momentum lost due to his choices.

Another entity that represents Detroit provides an example of a void created by poor choices – the Detroit Pistons.  A few years back, the Detroit Pistons were perennial participants in the NBA Eastern conference finals.  Their team was a cohesive, doggedly determined unit that featured no super-stars but highlighted the efforts of talented players working together to make a super team.  While they were on top, they held the second pick of the 2003 NBA draft.  The performance of their team permitted a window of development for whomever the team selected with that pick.  The 2003 NBA draft was well-stocked with future all-stars and potential hall of famers.  With their selection Darko Milicic as the tipping point, the Pistons began their downward descent into missing the playoffs and unentertaining basketball.  Had they made another choice, the franchise would still be competitive and they would have remained playoff contenders.  The underperformance of that choice or as an investor would say, the lack of return from that choice, has propelled the franchise in a downward spiral of which they have yet to recover.

How does professional basketball relate to the potential of a politician?

Darko Milicic

Kwame Kilpatrick

Just as the flameout of Darko created a void for the Pistons, the crash and burn of Kilpatrick’s mayorship has created a void for Detroit.

Indeed there are people working hard to curtail the damage, plug the gushing hole, and keep the mighty ship from sinking.  I salute and commend their efforts, because without them Detroit would already be fully capsized and sunken.  But we cannot ignore the lost momentum and collateral damage that stem from Kilpatrick’s choices.  How many potential leaders would have been developed under his watch?  Now their potential has been either thwarted or aborted.  What would Detroit’s national position be with an accomplished Democratic mayor working with a benevolent Democratic president?  Could jobs have be saved or new ones created?  Would the city’s budget be closer to the black rather than wallowing in the red?  Maybe the city’s culture would have been nursed from an industrial mindset into the technological age?  Could? Would? Maybe? Damn.

The facts remain the Detroit faces some possibly indomitable obstacles: high unemployment, a dysfunctional school system, too much debt, too little revenue, and much, much more.  But the hope, the ambitions, and the trust of the city were attached to a dynamic young man who like Darko, wowed the scouts with pre-draft workouts (2001 mayoral campaign), dominated in another less-demanding league (Michigan House of Representatives), and merited all the aspirations and confidence that prompted their selection; just like Darko, the choices of Kilpatrick will haunt the city for years to come.  But hopefully the dream of Detroit’s revival will not fester like a sore, stink like rotten meat, or sag a heavy load.  I pray that the dream of Detroit’s renaissance will not be deferred for much longer, because if it is, Detroit may just explode.

At the moment we first find out we’re having a daughter, every father flashes back to all the things that he has done to and with someone else’s daughter.  It is at that moment, despite religious standing or affiliation, every father-to-be communicates with God.  A communication, a prayer, or more than likely a plea, that begins with these two words: “Lord, please”.

From that initial moment of humility and probably for the duration of our days, we are never the same.  We attempt to stand rigid, but when those pretty eyes sparkle and coo “please daddy”, we melt faster than ice cubes in a heated oven.  When baby girl cries, our chest expands, our bravado multiplies and our ego rages – because whoever did this to our baby girl, they are about to be victimized by our ferocity.  Yet somehow, the money you had begun saving for a huge high-definition television, becomes easily spent when lil’ mama needs a pretty dress and sandals.  Indeed, we are never as tough as we were before daughters.

Yet I’m here to say that unlike the rest of you, I can tell my daughters, “no!”  In fact, I supplement my “no” with a crazed hysterical look that shouts, “what the heck were you thinking?”  But my girls work with charm – hey, what can I say?  They get it from their dad.  They climb into my lap and use their little fingers to outline my eyebrows or mustache.  Then they tuck their little chins to their chest and look up from under those long eyelashes.  They shrug their little shoulders and affectionately murmur: “daddy….”  The rest of the statement doesn’t matter, because this daddy springs into action. “What!! You can’t find your Princess Tiana Barbie? Well, go get your jacket.  Daddy will get you a new one.”  Later, as we proceed to the cash register of Toys’ R Us, I stoop down and plead with my little ladies, “don’t tell your mama, ok?”

This post is originally featured in Daddy, Am I Pretty? by Damon E. Duncan.  Order Your Copy today!

Daddy, Am I Pretty?

HAPPY FATHER’S DAY!!!!!!

Chesapeake Bay Bridge

A few weeks back, I had to traverse the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel.  A twenty-mile series of bridges and tunnels that would immobilize those with a phobia of bridges and could possibly give pause to many others.  My journey placed me on the bridge just as the morning fog was lifting.  The clouds were overcast.  The waters of the bay were choppy and restless. The traffic was barely scant.  The lump of gumption I swallowed as I proceeded to cross was followed by consoling, whispers of plea – “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus”.  I even turned down the radio as if the music’s volume could influence the ocean’s waves.

As I gripped the steering wheel, steeled myself by focusing ahead, and drove in prayer, the lanes began to merge as the bridge descended into the waters.  For moment, a large sea tanker was at eye level.  I’ve never been face to face with a tanker but I did not have enough time to be afraid of it because I was entering a two-lane tunnel with a large truck approaching just a few feet to my left.   By this time, the whispers of plea evolved into a louder conversational tone with its own rhythm – “Je-SUS, Je-SUS, Je-SUS”.

I have never had a phobia of bridges, but the Chesapeake Bay Bridge- Tunnel can evoke unforeseen fears into travelers.  However, those fears are much like other fears I’ve faced in life.  I chose a college without ever visiting it.  I pursued a career without any assurances of financial wealth.  I accepted a job, moved across the country, and changed careers simply at the request of one person.  Each of these instances evoked their own set of fears.  But just as I found with the Chesapeake – the surrounding, rushing, deep-ocean waters, the dreariness of the skies, the inability to see land on the other side, and the loneliness of the journey did not prevent me from crossing the bridge.  All of those fear-inducing facts did not mean that journey was impossible.

It simply meant that to proceed toward my destination I would have to advance through some possibly intimidating circumstances.  Those circumstances did not threaten the stability of the bridge nor obstruct the direction of the path. Those circumstances were ever-present but were not controlling factors.  I came to realize that those circumstances only usurp the journey if allowed.

Something else I learned was that while I was becoming nearly petrified of the narrowing lanes, the abundance of water, and the bridge-to-tunnel-to-bridge-to-tunnel-to-bridge dynamic, I was more afraid of stopping.  I was more afraid of parking on that bridge and awaiting help than I was to continue driving.  I imagine that if anyone stops growing in life and stares at their circumstances too long, immobilization is imminent and fear trumps progress.

I am not fearless.  But I rather proceed through and past my fears than to become a stagnant prisoner of them.  Just as I gripped the steering wheel while on the bridge, I could become confident in the resources I have in life. Just as I steeled my resolve by focusing ahead, I can channel a more intense focus on my purpose and my goals.  And finally, as I drove over the bridge in prayer, I can grow through life in constant communication with a higher power.

That day, I made it across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, twice.  Proving that despite it being a bridge of considerable distance, it and the bridges in life can be successfully crossed because no bridge is a bridge too far.

Apparently, the free-agents-to-be have convened a meeting of sorts.  Allegedly, they have come together to share ideas, explore possibilities, and possibly formulate strategies for their future employment.

It isn’t a crime to ponder strategies that result in the best compensation for one’s work.  What earnest hard-working person hasn’t?  However, this “summit” reflects a remarkable chasm away from the solidarity displayed at a previous summit of Black sports stars.

Bill Russell, Muhammad Ali, Jim Brown, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and others

Amazing how the tributes and accolades flow about the Muhammad Ali we see today.  Today’s Muhammad Ali is not the lightening rod of controversy as was the Muhammad Ali of the 1960s.  His allegiance with Islam, his discarding of Olympic gold, and moreover, his refusal to comply with draft guidelines rendered him a pariah to many, a villain to many more, and a hero to others.  Given his position of celebrity, his defiance could not be overlooked.  His morally grounded, religion-supported position garnered an intense, publicly scrutinizing spotlight.  Under such perusal, he could have found himself alone.  But he didn’t and he wasn’t.

The summit of sports stars that means the most to me is the show of supportive solidarity exhibited by Jim Brown, Bill Russell, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Cleveland Mayor Carl Stokes, Walter Beach, Bobby Mitchell, Sid Williams, Curtis McClinton, Willie Davis, Jim Shorter, and John Wooten.  If only today’s significantly more exposed, tremendously more affluent, Black professional athletes took such a substantive position, wow! The possibilities would be amazing.  Would it end poverty? No.  Would it deter crime? Hmmmmm.  Would it plug the oil spill and end war in the Middle East? No and no, again.  So what purpose would it serve?

Potentially many.

But here are a few.

The decades that have passed since the civil rights movement have witnessed the rise and now on-going dissolution of the Black Middle Class.  The socioeconomic diversity within African-American culture is expansive and renders a plethora of varying everyday realities for individuals of the same race.  Yet, amid our assorted life challenges – racism exists.  Even more profoundly ugly than racism, economic classism exists.

The prospect of a collection of African-American millionaires coming together to support a cause, to draw attention to an issue, or even idealistically to invest their energies in a far-reaching, uplifting purpose … the prospect of such a dream … well, the thought is beautiful.

The free-agents-to-be are entitled to invest their resources in whichever way they choose.  Under no circumstance would I endorse otherwise.  Just as they are entitled to their choices, I am entitled to mine.  My ambitious dream of choice is a collection of socially conscious, well-intended, community-grounded brothers and sisters coming together to compose and implement strategies that support and benefit others.  Perhaps a strategy could be funding ventures that make higher education obtainable for the marginalized.  Another strategy could be using some of their collective resources to jump-start minority businesses.  Publicly displaying brotherhood (off the court that is) that counters the self-hatred that is the core of Black on Black crime is another possible strategy.  Perhaps even developing an investment arm that ensures that athlete millionaires of yesterday will not become the financially destitute of tomorrow would fit my ambitious dream.

The potential and possibilities are endless!  Although there is some value of brothers coming together, I’d like to think the value would be dramatically multiplied if Jim Brown, Bill Russell, or Kareem Abdul-Jabbar were invited.  Yeah, that’s a dream all right … a dream that Dr. King could envy.

Seriously, who doesn’t feel that way?

About two weeks ago, I would say that my best friend, Jason, felt that way.  Perhaps, even with the hospital visit on Mother’s Day, there was no warning, no precursor for the emptiness that he feels today.  We are never prepared for our mothers to no longer be with us.  It is never a good time to be without our mothers, but eventually our time may come.

Although our mothers may depart from us physically, we must understand that they are always within our souls.  We may even find ourselves uttering their colloquialisms, as I often do:

“The race is not given to the swift nor the strong but they that endureth to the end”

“Don’t make no hasty moves”

“If it don’t get ya in the wash, it’s gonna get ya in the rinse”

“Every shut eye ain’t sleep and every good-bye ain’t gone”

However, wisdom imparted is not restricted to our birth mothers.  Our OTHER mothers provide valuable guidance along the way.

A few months ago, I took my daughters bowling.  Because of their young age, they were permitted to bowl in the bumper lanes.  These bumper lanes are equipped with bumpers on both sides, so that the ball doesn’t go into the gutter.  My youngest with all her fierce determination, bowls a mighty slow ball.  Her ball rolls and bumps, and bumps, and bumps along those bumpers as it proceeds toward the pins.  In life, I was a ball bowled by my parents.  As I proceeded ever so slowly, I had some bumps along the way.  But due to my age, I was being bowled in the bumper lanes.  Bumper lanes equipped with bumpers named Mama Stephani and Aunt N’Jeri, that bumped me back toward my goals with sound wisdom, encouragement, awesome “sin-sational” desserts, and occasional-but-loving-threats. Their love and concern provided bumpers to keep me and our other friends out of the gutter.  The evidence shows that our bumper lanes guided us toward lives of responsibility, happiness, and manhood.  We are prepared to go forward in life without bumpers, but that damn sure doesn’t mean we look forward to it.  Our arrival at the pins of manhood does not diminish the value and love we have for our bumpers; however, our lives are a testimony to their effectiveness and purpose.

Without Mama Stephani, we proceed along the bumper-less lanes of life.  But we are better, more focused, wholly prepared, responsible young men because of her guidance … and that has a value that will never cease.

Jason & his mother, Stephani Cain

R.I.P. STEPHANI CAIN

WE ARE THE MEN WE’VE BECOME BECAUSE OF YOU.

WE LOVE YOU.