Dear Papa,

First, let me say thank you. Thank you for being my first example of what it looks like when a man unconditionally loves a woman. Thank you for sticking around although society said it was okay to run. I know that you and mommy got married fairly young and now that I am of age I can only imagine that hardships that you two must’ve encountered being a young couple and new parents. According to society it is   almost a natural occurrence for young black males to succumb to the pressures of life and walk out on his family. You, however, proved society wrong because you stuck around. Good times, bad times, happy times, sad times, up times, down times you were there. Growing up I didn’t always understand your reasoning behind some of the things that you did, but even when I would loudly object deep down inside I knew that someway, somehow it was for my own good. I blindly felt my way through some of the life lessons that you taught me, some lessons that only a father could. I would grin widely during the times when I caught on to the lessons and pout sourly when I didn’t. Boy, did I know how to pout, especially when things didn’t go my way. I was never really fond of the word “no” but there was something about the way that you said no that used to shatter my little heart into a million pieces. I’d fold my arms, poke out my bottom lip, and storm away. I eventually graduated from pouting and folded arms to eye rolling and foot stomping, but through it all you never budged. Simply put, your yes meant YES and your no meant NO, there was no debate necessary. But, guess what Daddy?! I’m not mad anymore! No more pouting lips, folded arms, stopping feet or rolled eyes,I get it now. Thank you for not allowing me to self-destruct just to put a smile on my face. There was a method to your madness, an intended lesson that helped mold me into the young woman I am today. I now understand why you would not let me leave the pool until I jumped off of the diving board that day. You were teaching me to overcome my fears. Daddy, I get why you would put me back on that bike over and over again until I got it, no matter how many times I fell off and wanted to give up. You were teaching me perseverance. People thought you were crazy because by two years old you had taught me to sing “Say It Loud- I’m Black And I’m Proud” and although it was probably a hilarious sight to see, somewhere in there I learned to love and embrace my heritage, something that some adults still have a hard time doing. I understand why one day in the midst of one of our arguments you shouted at the top of your lungs “It’s my job to protect your virginity,” even though in that moment I rolled my eyes and walked away with my blood boiling, thinking that you were a total nutcase. But, I get it now, you weren’t crazy. You were just doing your job.

I now appreciate you telling me “absolutely not” when at 19 years old I called myself bringing home a 28 year old man to you and calling him my “boyfriend”. Between me and you Daddy, that was pretty outrageous. I could probably go on and on, we have stories for days, but the point of this letter is to say thank you for doing what you had to do. Thank you for those nights where you stayed up with me until the wee hours of the morning as I wrote my term papers. Thank you for staying up with me and nursing me back to health during those sleepless nights where I was plagued with those bad colds. Thank you for those nights where you would walk into my room just to make sure that I was breathing. Thank you for being the glue that pieced my broken heart back together.

I fondly look back on our memories together and I can’t help but smile. I look forward to making many more memories together. I look forward to you walking me down the isle on my wedding day. I look forward to seeing you bounce my first child on your knee. I look forward to the day that I can pay you and mommy back for all that you have invested and instilled in me. I know I can be an extreme drama queen, but you never gave up on me. It is my sincere prayer that one day when I have a little girl she is lucky enough to be blessed with a father as dedicated, attentive, and supportive as you.

Jazmine Denise is a New York City based Lifestyle&Relationship writer. Follow her on Twitter @jazminedenise.

theurbandaily.com

I remember the first time I was called a “Daddy’s Girl.” The person who gave me that title told me that any girl referred to as “Princess” – a name my dad always calls me – has to be spoiled, which he equated with being a daddy’s girl.

However, my definition of a daddy’s girl is a woman whose sense of self has been greatly influenced by her relationship with her father, which is not necessarily a bad thing if she is the apple of his eye. Being adored and cherished by her father usually sets the stage for how a woman wants to be treated in her relationships. While some women can be a bit spoiled or self-absorbed, being a daddy’s girl could simply mean that she demands the attention, affection or respect from men that she deserves, and she won’t settle for less. If you’re not sure if you’re dating a daddy’s girl, pay attention to see if she displays any of these characteristics…and then see if you stand a chance. Good luck with that!

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http://naacp-ct.org/blacknews.htm

I love my Father. I feel so blessed to have landed such a great one. The best chef, a wizard with words and a craftsman who has built houses with his bare hands. I owe a lot to him. He prepared me for so much in life.

However, there’s one thing he never prepared me for. As I approach my late twenties I’m struggling with watching my Father age. It’s like it happened over night. My Father was in his early thirties when I was born and other than his weight fluctuating he hadn’t aged much once he hit 40 years old. Since I moved out at 18, I’ve seen my father in 3-6 months intervals ever since. But it’s been these last two years where each visit it’s like I’m seeing a new person. And I’m terrified. Every visit I’m being reminded that there will be a day when I have to say a final good bye, a day where I will miss him and I can’t hop on the train to see him or pick up the phone and call him. Just the thought brings me to tears and now I have a visual reminder that it is the reality of me getting older, my parents are too. However what separates my Mother from my Father in the aging process, are factors that affect most men, especially the Baby Boomers of color. Mental health.

The Black community has long skirted the issue of mental health, curtly brushing it under the rug. Smacking it down as some repugnant trait of those with less melanin. Even as we have watched some of our biggest celebrities grapple with the complexities of poor mental health, D’angelo, Junior Seau, Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston. Our community has ignored the gravity that mental health has on our over well-being and quality of life. This is especially true for Black men who often are taught to define their masculinity by their ability to hold in their emotions. Never cry, never break down…you must always pick your self up and keep it moving. My Father has been threw two divorces, a failed engagement and a recession that wiped out his 401k and hopes of retiring anytime soon. He was trained to pick it up and keep it moving, never letting on to any emotional turmoil. He grinned and bared it all. My Mother was hit exceptionally hard just as my Father, with the ending of her marriage, another failed relationship, the complete burglary and then loss of her home. She too grinned and bared it, right to the therapist and gym. For women, though we still have a long way to go, the push towards understanding our mental health has been a lot more rampant and vocal. My Mother has had a chance to hear that discussion.

As a twenty something, watching the recession help make my college degree close to worthless, fighting to stay a float in the biggest rat race known as New York City and the myriad of other struggles that have left me not wanting to get out of bed, the biggest mental note savior has been that I can’t give up because I still have so much life to live. At 60 years old, the same mental note doesn’t carry much weight. The aging I’ve seen my Dad undergo, seems to be a clear sign of his beginning to give up. He’s going through the motions of life and it’s as if I’m watching him dig his own premature grave.

Father’s Day is Sunday, and the biggest gift you can give to your Father is that of happiness and health. There’s a myriad of statistics to back up my personal tale, even Soledad O’brien touched on it on Black in America. But it’s not numbers that need to move you. Rather your heart that makes you sit down and have that careful conversation with your father. No one wants to see their Dad die from a sudden heart attack, stroke or any other stress induced condition. We can’t ignore how our Father’s eating, sleeping and personal hygiene habits are indicative of their mental health. If any of those habits are faltering it is a clear connection to their mental health.

Put out some thoughtful suggestions even if he shoots them down, just ask that he think about them on his own. Then offer to do your part to help him get better. It can be as simple as calling every day to pray with him, offering to make his bed, buy him new pillows (good sleep is important!), whatever simple task cater it to your father’s needs and being.

I implore all of you for Father’s Day to make that start too. Find your angle and have that talk with your father.

I did and in one sentence I burst into tears and finished out an hour long conversation in between sobs.

Dad, I love you and I need you to live long(er)…

Jouelzy is a professional snarkist, with a heart, who occasionally offers cultural commentary on her blog LetMeTalkMyIsh*. You can also find her on Twitter.