Swagger And The Original Gangster

I came across a young black boy on my way home the other night. There was nothing extraordinary about this particularly, but his walk enchanted me; there was a steady gait, there was a swish in the swagger and every now and then he would lightly trace the edge of his oversized baseball hat with a steady finger, he was maybe eight-years-old. I myself do not swagger, at least I don't believe I do. When every young black man I knew - both in Nigeria and when I moved here to the states - was placing an identity, often excessively 'masculine,' into their signature walk, I thought it was silly, and actually still do. One can say many a thing with his footsteps, but there are not many things that need to be said with them.

Watching that eight-year-old make his way down the street in front of me, got me to considering the fact that perhaps there was something unnatural in my, often absolute, rejection in mimicking the ways of established manhood; my story of course being the story of the ages; I do not want now, or any day soon, to become a mirror of my father. Does that boy want the opposite? Does he want to become what he knows to be his father - absent or present? Did I once want to become my father, and if so, when did the tide turn? Questions many, answers yet to be reached.

I suppose the entire reason I noticed the boy was because I was jealous, he seemed so sure in his steps. Here was this truth he had found, and he was showing it off to the world, ever so boldly. Here was this conviction deep in his heart, 'Man,' and he was here to showcase its true facade. Perhaps in the belly of youth arrogance, conviction and truth are all the same. Perhaps the boy had earned his swagger, but all that aside, another question popped into my mind, would I care how he walked if he was white? What is the measure of white masculinity? Perhaps that is not my question to research, actually I know it is not. My young cousin, about eight himself, recently told me he wanted to be a gangster, and upon a small reprimand he told me he wanted to be a gangster and a doctor; this way he could shoot people and help them - 'gangster heal thyself,' I suppose.

All this just to say, why is there such a hyper-masculinity attached to black maleness? Why is it just OK to dress your eight-year-old, forget that, your baby as if he were already, in his infancy, an OG as we say, Original Gangster? I grew up wearing mostly church-wear in public, shirt, tie, slacks, and when I wasn't wearing that I was wearing some ridiculous matched pair of homemade clothing with my brother thanks to our mother, no complaints (it's just that those pictures haunt you forever). So I guess my perspective is a little skewed, but here's my two cents: please do not allow your children to put on any clothing that deems them part of a larger conversation they do not even understand yet. The child's body should be a neutral zone, free of politics, agendas and certainly 'masculinity.'