Please note that this post is the second of a two-part series. You can find the other post on SingleBlackMale.org, The Children of Divorce. In essence, I wanted to focus on how our upbringing and our relationship with our parents affect our personal relationships as we grow older, date, and in some cases, eventually marry. This topic had a personal interest to me because I was in a serious relationship with a woman who was adopted. Her perspective on the subject gave me a different outlook on adoption and its effect on children that I had not considered beforehand. However, I recognize that this by no means makes me an expert on what is a very sensitive subject. That’s why I’m happy and humbled fellow blogger Christina White offered to assist me with this post using her own personal experiences as a former foster child.

First, I don’t want it to appear as if I’m portraying adoption negatively. I hope that is not the take away today. That is not my intent for this post or even my impression from my own dating experience. My girlfriend at the time merely provided a perspective I was not privy to having not gone through such an experience myself. In addition, I can’t honestly say whether being adopted influenced the outcome of our relationship, positively or negatively. I can say that she did appear to have some abandonment issues that may or may not have been related. In the end, I’m sure I share as much responsibility for our failed relationship regardless of whatever baggage we both carried.

Specific to our relationship, as we became serious and she grew older she began to express more and more interest in identifying her original parents. I believe this was something that offended (or hurt) her adoptive mother and to the best of my knowledge, she refused to help. However, through means that I probably don’t even want to know, my girlfriend managed to discover who her original parents were. Out of respect, I won’t detail how that story unfolded. Instead, I will focus on what she confessed to me about the overall experience and her views on life as a result.

She told me that she never truly felt like she belonged with her adoptive family. Further, being unable to identify her genetic parents made her feel as though a piece of her was always missing. Naturally she also wondered why she was given up for adoption in the first place – a question I don’t believe she ever answered. Complicating matters was the fact that her appearance indicated she was obviously of mixed heritage. This further distressed her whenever she was forced to identify with a specific racial identify when she wasn’t even positive herself. In other words, imagine being a kid and not knowing if you’re black, white, or other. For the record, I understand that this is something that many biracial children struggle with – but that’s another subject for another day.

Because of this overall experience with her, I developed a much different perspective on adoption. I’m not against it, but it also has not been an option I have ever had to seriously consider, yet. This may give me greater pause to bring an adopted child into my life. Should the time come, I will share this story with whoever my significant other may be at the time.  At minimum, I will have a much greater appreciation for the influence I may have on his/her life in the future; even if at the time of making my decision I think I’m doing what’s best for them when in the long-run, maybe I am not.

At this time, I’ll turn the post over to Ms. White for her personal thoughts on the subject.

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Ms. White: My mother was adopted and, because of drug use, could not take care of me. Therefore I was raised by various family members that I shared no blood line with, which caused issues with identity and feeling unwanted. Thus, in relationships, I’ve mastered the “earn my keep” game. I am a fantastic girlfriend because I have trained myself to be one. I’ve never feared not getting married because I’ve always known I’ll be a wonderful wife. In the viral article Why You’re Not Married, Tracy McMillan credited growing up in foster care for her success at nabbing husbands, and all I could do was nod.

Having several father figures in my life, few good, some terrible, and never knowing who my real father was, made me feel like men were easily replaced, not easily respectable, and always disposable (where my first guest blog on your site came from.)

I’ve always actively pursued the attention of men who’ve had a present dad. I have dated more men raised by single fathers than single mothers. I love overtly masculine men, who can barbecue, change my oil, and taper my hair, however these traits are usually found in men who don’t understand my artistry and humor, which I find far more important. Still, I attract two parent home fellas in rates my friends didn’t know was even possible.

Even though I seek beaus from stable parental structure, my boyfriends’ connection to their families are always such a foreign thing. It perplexes me when I have a man who is in continuous contact with family members. Such caused concern this past holiday season, when I was told I didn’t seem excited about meeting everyone for Christmas. I genuinely looked forward to seeing where he came from, but I was thoroughly unable to understand why I should be ecstatic.

The relationship I’m a part of now has serious potential. I do things on purpose to make my man happy not just because I want to earn my keep, but because he deserves it. I respect him… more than as a met checklist… for his intentional compassion. I allow myself to expect well treatment. I’m relaxed in love.

For someone that’s been a tactful survivalist in every aspect of life for twenty-seven years, guard-down & thrive life feels absolutely surreal.

Once again, I’d like to thank Ms. White for her help with this personal post. Please show her website some love by clicking here. You can also follow her on Twitter. In closing, what are your thoughts on adoption? Would you be willing to adopt? Have you dated someone that was adopted and/or were you adopted? Do you believe it has positively/negatively or had no influence on your personal relationships? Are you a proponent or opponent of adoption?

Recently my ex-girlfriend shared her Myers-Briggs Type with me. My X and I are on good terms BUT she doesn’t like when I talk about her on this site and quite frankly, she has requested that I do not talk about her at all. I will respect that wish but I needed to offer background for how this post came to fruition. Intrigued by her personality analysis, which we both agreed was accurate; I decided to figure out my own Myers Briggs type. I used the most reliable source I could find, which turned out to be some random and undoubtedly virus prone, free website on the Internet, and I came up with my type. I vetted it with my X who confirmed, “This does sound like you…​”

ISTJ – The Inspector

Your type is known as the inspector, and the single word that describes your is superdependable. You also belong to the larger group of guardians. You look carefully at the people and institutions around you and notice every last detail. You feel it is up to you to make sure those around you uphold certain standards of attitude and conduct. You are down to earth, with a distaste for fanciful things. You prefer things practical to new-fangled. Your word is your bond. You have no problem with detail. You share your type with 10% of the population.

As a romantic partner, you are dependable and predictable. You usually like things done in very specific ways. You tend to appreciate tradition, and you work hard to achieve goals. You have trouble sharing your feelings, though. In your eagerness to be organized and productive, you can also be unwilling to examine or embrace alternative points of view. You like to be appreciated for your practical contributions, your common sense, and the efforts you make to keep your life on track. You like to be thanked often, both informally and formally and are most likely to be upset when your partner forgets a tradition you hold dear, such as an anniversary.

To be clear, I’m not one for giving much credence to personality types, astrological signs (I’m a Scorpio for the record), or pretty much any other premeditated, formulaic belief that dictates one’s “type.” I’m just not one for believing in that crap, which falls right in line with the above personality type and most descriptions of my astrological sign. The irony of it all does not escape me.

Recently, I had to take a brief mental hiatus from the Internet. This really only encompassed about a week but in Internet time, that is like four and one-half lives. I plan to conduct myself a bit differently but since I’m not big on personal attention-seeking announcements, I won’t detail what those changes will entail. I’m more of the come up with a plan and implement it type. I don’t need to vet it with other people because I don’t need approval. Success or failure is limited to my own personal knowledge, because only I am aware of the goal – and that’s the way I prefer it.

One thing I will share is how strange the “Internet world” has become from my perspective. It’s weird to me that the Internet exist wholly separate, yet intrinsically woven into many of our lives. For example, we consider any number of people on the Internet “friends,” yet when they randomly disappear we don’t go out of our way to locate them. Our “friendship” is only as strong as the Internet connection or website that binds us. It’s strange.

I have personally “known” hundreds of people on-line and I have lost track of hundreds of those same people over the years. Sometimes it’s as simple as a popular website where we all congregated losing its appeal or even worse, randomly crashing. On-line people come and go – the anonymous and the well known – and for the most part, I’m indifferent about their presence or their absence. That’s just the nature of the beast.

Conversely, if I go a mere few weeks without hearing from a real friend that I know off-line, I panic. I go out of my way to locate them. I call friends of friends who might know their whereabouts and I do all in my power to make sure they’re alive, breathing, and hopefully doing well. That’s just the nature of real life.

It’s strange that I can associate with people every day, sometimes for years on end, then they randomly disappear out of my “life” and if I ever even think about them at all, it’s only passively. That’s a strange relationship to have with someone. This is one of the many reasons why I took a break from the Internet. I had to remind myself that the two worlds are different. They are not the same and pretend as people might, they never will be.

In the future, I plan to have a stronger and bigger on-line presence. If I’m going to be an on-line personality, maybe this is just something I will have to get use to. Sure, the two worlds overlap, but the bonds are not as strong. In some cases, they don’t even exist. It’s somewhat surreal. I just want to be clear going forward as not to offend:

Dear relatively, abstractly, anonymous on-line person, while you and I may be cool, we not cool, cool. I like you and all, but I might not like you, like you. And most importantly, although we may be Facebook friends, Twitter followers, or associate through a baker’s dozens worth of on-line mediums, at the end of the day, I don’t know you and although you may think you know me based on your reading of a few million characters I used biased to edit, meticulously critiqued and personally delivered to you for consumption, I can assure you that you do not know me. Please keep this in mind during any and all of our interactions and I will do the same.

Best regards,
Wisdom. Is. Misery.

Over the years, a number of women have asked me why is it so difficult for men, especially black men, to commit. I’m sure there is some deep psychological reason dating all the way back to our roots in Africa but I didn’t have time to investigate. Therefore, using my own biased, short-sighted, unprofessional opinions and observations, I concluded that a number of my friends seem to have conflicting expectations for their ideal woman. As a result, they hesitate to commit to any one woman because they can’t even form a consensus within their own psyche of what this one woman should encompass. In the following video I seriously, yet jokingly, highlight how two personality types can prevent a man from choosing one woman, let alone the right woman.

Admin note: Check out my latest for SingleBlackMale.org, Right vs. Wrong: Black, White, and How We Poorly Assess Our Failed Relationships.

My latest video blog for http://SingleBlackMale.org explaining The Three Foot Rule theorem. Share with your friends! If you have no friends, share with strangers! Don’t forget to comment, like, or subscribe to our YouTube page.

(Mobile viewers click here)

SlimJackson, Executive Editor and fellow writer over on SingleBlackMale.org recently wrote a piece called, Do Men Think About Their Wedding Day?, a very poignant question. To answer, no, I personally have not thought much about my wedding day. I think about my wife-to-be all the time. My wedding day? Not so much. Nevertheless, a question within that post struck a chord. In regards to his future wedding, Slim wondered: Will My Mother Be There to See It?

In all my visions of the future, I had never asked myself this question. It made me pause for consideration…

I’m 29 years old. As I’ve gotten older, unfortunately, so have my parents. I’ve watched other friends struggle as their parents got older. Sadly, some friends have already witnessed their parents passing. I was casually aware but in my mind, for whatever reason, I assumed my own parents would live forever.

I was wrong.

My first trial by fire came when my grandfather on my mother’s side passed away a few years ago. My father called and calmly explained the situation to me. My mother was too hysterical to talk. I was close with my grandfather but I didn’t immediately cry at the news. I was sad but my natural instinct was to know what I could do to help the family. He didn’t ask but I could tell by the tone of my father’s voice he was already straining under the pressure. He told me I could help by calling and comforting my sister. I was happy to be of service, but I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

I called my sister and the phone rang so many times I assumed her voicemail would soon pick up. I was preparing some words in my head when she finally answered. The sheer weight of the pain in her voice alone would have broken me down, but the fact that she couldn’t even form a coherent sentence between devastated sobs of grief is what pushed me over the edge.

I wanted to comfort her but the words caught in my throat as tears of hopelessness squeezed from my own eyes. I managed to choke out a few words of comfort before she dropped the phone, literally. I could hear her weeping uncontrollably in the background. Despite the fact that she was hundreds of miles away, in that moment, her pain was in the room with me.

In my mind, I could picture her. The strength of her crying let me know she was too weak to hold the phone. Crying that hard, I imagined, she was even too weak to stand. I felt helpless. Eventually she returned.  Her composure never fully regained, we spoke for a little while, if you could call it that, and then she let me go.

I felt like I failed her.

Days later, when I was finally able to reunite with the family in person my father stressed the importance of being the rock for the family during the drive to the church. Of course I was allowed to grieve that was only natural, but I also had to be strong for my mother, my sister, my nephew and the rest of the family. People were going to look to him, and he to me, for strength and support. We had to step into this role whether we liked it or not. He looked me in my eyes and told me he was depending on me. I tried my best not to let him down.

That was then.

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Years later, another test would fall squarely upon my own shoulders. As I wrote about here, my father was diagnosed with cancer. This time I wouldn’t have him to be the rock for the family. It was my turn. While everyone put on a brave face, behind the scenes I had to remain steely and calm while my sister and mother called me to share a series of increasingly worst case scenarios and what-if questions that they didn’t have the nerve to approach my father with.

By circumstance, and definitely not by choice, I had to try my best to keep my voice confident and even-toned as my mom shared with me his diagnosis and subsequent progress, often on the verge of tears herself. The stress clearly evident in her voice as she, ironically, tried to remain strong for my sister and I.

I had to put others first.

Even though I couldn’t ask him, I knew my father would want it that way. I didn’t know it but this is what he had been preparing me for all my life, especially in recent years. In 29 years, I’d seen my father sometimes angry, mostly happy, and sometimes sad. But, I had never seen him cry. Try as I might, I couldn’t be that strong, not yet anyway, but in my heart I knew he had been trying his damndest to teach me this lesson, even if I couldn’t confide in him to confirm it. Instead, I had to emulate what I thought he would do in this situation to the best of my abilities.

In truth, I was just as worried as everyone else, if not more so. Still, I couldn’t let the family know that I expressed the same doubts and often, in the quietness of my own home, cried freely until my eyes ran dry at the idea of my father – whom I’d always assumed was immortal – facing his own mortality. I knew it made sense logically but the idea that my father or my mother would ever leave this Earth before me? It was too much. Regardless, wrestling with that reality was my burden and no one else.

When my mother or sister called, I tried to remain as strong as possible for both them and myself. Another time, when my then just turned teenage nephew looked me in my eyes and asked the question everyone else was too afraid and well-trained to ask out loud, Is grandpa gonna die?, I couldn’t take an opportunity to pause.

As much as I wanted to I couldn’t break down right then and there and retreat into the self-pity of my own emotions or run and seek shelter far, far away from the family. I wasn’t that fortunate. What I needed to do, I did. I looked him straight in the eyes, pushed away all the doubts floating around in my own head, and I told him No with a conviction that I could only hope convinced him his question was ridiculous. I said that No with a passion that I hoped made the idea of his grandpa, my father, ever dying, let alone today, sound completely insane!

Somehow, despite my doubts, my bluff convinced him. He smiled, seemingly assured – and he never asked me again. Fortunately, with the help of my father’s strength, will, and desire to pull through, what I told my nephew that day turned out not to be a lie.

My father ascended back to his rightful spot as The Rock of the family.

——————

Like so many other experiences that didn’t kill me, I walked away stronger and better prepared for the next test. In fact, the entire experience brought the nexus of the family closer. Realizing that your parents are not immortal has a habit of doing that, I guess. As a result of this experience, our love is still not simple, but we all love each other a little bit harder. We say it more. We show and express it more. It’s sad it took a tragedy to further bond us as a family, but I guess in the end it is the bond that is important regardless of the inspiration for the change.

I don’t look forward to the day when the burden my father has shouldered for 61 years, so far, is passed onto me. I can only hope he has raised me to be a man that can handle it when that time comes. For my own family. For the future family I hope to have and raise, along with my wife, and the extended family that she will bring with her. I know along the way I will stumble but I plan never to fall. However, if I should, I know I have the strength to lift myself back up. I’ve seen this in others like me – friends in similar positions, family and others. Most importantly, with the help of my father, I have seen this strength demonstrated within myself. I know my father nor anyone’s time here is guaranteed, so I remain grateful for each and every day we’re granted.

I wait for a future test with an unknown arrival time. Honestly, I fear it. I even despise knowing the fact that it’s inevitable. I hope it remains a long ways away. I truthfully can never prepare myself for it, yet whenever that time comes, I’ll be ready.

Admin Note: Check out my latest for SingleBlackMale.org, The Curious Case of Amber Cole and How I’d Respond Were I a Father