Father’s Child— Michael Kiwanuka
#365Songs: August 22nd
Soulful British singer-songwriter Michael Kiwanuka’s 2016 album, Love & Hate, hit culture at the right moment. Black Man in a White World played on repeat during the summer of police brutality and the inception of the Black Lives Matter movement, and then in early 2017 Cold Little Heart played as the theme music for Hulu’s hit soap opera Big Little Lies. I loved this album, but found solace in some of the deeper cuts on the album.
The summer of ’16 was also the rise of Trump chaos, and family tensions got so bad during a trip to Cleveland I fled in the middle of the night and didn’t return until 2023. The Kiwanuka album was a staple on my running list, and Father’s Child hit me hard as I jogged those once familiar streets, as I ran my old high school track, and I tried to catch my breath before arriving back at my father’s house — a shell of what it once was, one Diane (my Mom) dead six years replaced by another Diane (his second wife) who was everything my Mom was not: cruel, vindictive, filthy.
Feels like I’ve been here before
All things don’t seem the same no more
Although I know I’m my mother’s child
I gotta break free into the wild
Some things just seem to take so long
I’ve been thinking ‘bout what’s gone wrong
I’ve been searching for miles and miles
Looking for someone to walk with me
Walk with me (walk, walk)
Walk with me (walk, walk)
I’ve always been the first to cry in my family — at a funeral, a wedding, a Subaru commercial. The most likely to sense someone’s pain, craft a story around it, and express sympathy, while the others in my family were quick to the defense of the cruelest one in the room — ”everyone is entitled to their opinion,” or “let it go, that’s just the way they are,” or “stop carrying so much anger and ignore it,” or “why do you care so much.”
I was in my mid-20’s, at my grandfather’s funeral, sitting next to my Mom — whose funeral was next up — and, as expected, I fell apart quickly. I hold this vivid memory of looking up and seeing the faces of family, and though perhaps it wasn’t judgment in their eyes, there certainly wasn’t compassion. Instead, I was met with their clear expectations, as if they’d all had an Over/Under bet amongst them for how many seconds it’d take before I expressed emotion.
At a funeral.
I try to restrain my contempt, as deep down I know it’s not their fault. Collectively, they’ve mirrored back what was shown to each of them — the men particularly. We’re taught that strength is restraint, the ability to stand tall and give a eulogy without a tear shed. Though the most verbose and most stage-trained for public speaking, I didn’t speak at any of the family funerals. Nor will I ever. I’m incapable of keeping it together for that long, and I’m okay with that.
Walk with me (walk, walk)
All this doubt’s been troublin’ me
There’s so much more that I can be
It feels like I’m on borrowed time
You got yours, I gotta take what’s mine
Walk with me (walk, walk)
How many times have you heard a child say about a father, “I’ve only seen him cry once,” or, “I’ve never seen him cry?” My own father is a kind and gentle man, one whose childhood was unimaginably difficult — the only Jewish kid in his school, a schizophrenic older brother, a distant father who repeatedly attempted to end his own life after a series of nervous breakdowns, a kind and loving mother overwhelmed by responsibility, a tour in the Vietnam War. His numbness is earned, his inability to express emotions a likely symptom of unprocessed trauma, undiagnosed neurodiversity, a lifetime of overcoming difficult moments. In the hours and days after my mother’s death, I saw a flattened man defeated by loss, pent up, overwhelmed, and yet without the tools for proper catharsis, he swallowed every emotion.
Last night, at the DNC, our future VP Tim Walz’s son, Gus, stood up during the acceptance speech, sobbing, pointing and mouthing, “That’s my Dad.” It was an unimaginably beautiful moment, one you can’t script, a true unfiltered expression of pride and affection. I imagine millions of people gasping, at once, a hint of sadness buried underneath the joy, a desire to be a part of a family so open and emotive.
I saw myself in that moment, the one most likely to cry, but also felt a stab of defeat for the many millions of men taught to withhold that emotion. And as expected, the Trump cult attacked Gus with vitriolic commentary on his weakness, weirdness, and neurodiversity.
Last year, USC Quarterback and soon-to-be overall number one NFL draft pick, Caleb Williams, ran into the stands at the end of yet another heartbreaking loss, and sobbed into his mother’s arms. A beautiful moment hidden by one stark detail: a poster-board covered their faces, a corner held by each of their hands for privacy. One should ask: were they protecting themselves, or a heavily masculine audience incapable of processing such a raw display of emotion? Based on the reactions from several commentators and social media trolls, the answer is likely both.
Walk with me, I know who I wasn’t supposed to be
Walk with me, show me the right direction
Walk with me, although I’ve been searching all my life for where I’m supposed be
I am my mother’s child
Walk with me, show me pure affection
Walk with me, show me the right direction
There’s a Gus and Caleb in every man, even those unwilling to acknowledge it, especially within those most likely to bully others. For those of us incapable of holding those emotions, we cope with the cultural consequences and — hopefully — mirror back safe spaces for others to express themselves. As a son, I can show my father that I feel comfortable enough with him to express emotion, but understand that he likely can’t return that emotion. As a father, I can create that space for my own son, and encourage him to express himself and reflect that back to others.
The national outpouring of affection for Gus’s prideful moment gives me hope, and the backlash against the bullies was so sharp-toothed even Ann Coulter deleted her tweet. It’s a start, at least.
I am my father’s child, even though I walk
No more, no more
I am more than things you won’t forgive
Walk with me
I am more than things you won’t forgive
Walk with me
So walk with me
~
Start following the #365Songs playlist today, and listen to each new song with each new article!
