The idea for Family Affair: What it Means to be African American Today is one that I’ve been considering for years. The fundamental question of identity has always been a compelling issue for African Americans, so I wanted to create a project that provided a neutral environment for “us” to examine the grand contradictions, marginalization and grotesque lies that have been used to define who we are.

My primary goal for this project is to stimulate dialogue that will lead African Americans to construct healthy environments for our lives, families and communities.  The various voices featured throughout Family Affair reflect a variety of opinions, attitudes and beliefs that represent the foundational themes in the black community. Their stories will spark a revival that creates honest reflection about where we’ve been, who we are and where we’re going as a people. Think of it as a declaration of our humanity and also as an expression of the strength and resiliency of African-American people.  

Family Affair represents a 21st century idea that everyone can embrace. It addresses questions that every American—black, white, red, yellow and brown—have had to deal with at one time in their life’s journey.  The problem of race in America—and for that matter throughout the world—has always been about identity, and the value of that identity within our larger society. I sincerely hope that Family Affair breaks through issues to reveal the commonality that we all share. As cliché as it sounds, we are all God’s children, and despite our differences, it’s time that we accept that we are equal.

I invite you to read an excerpt taken from this book and become a part of the conversation.

—Gil L. Robertson IV

Chapter 14: Mourning a Child’s Choice

The “five stages of grief” Elisabeth Kubler-Ross wrote of in her 1969 book, On Death and Dying, were reactions to death—someone else’s, or one’s own. But Kubler-Ross’s process also applies to other kinds of tragedy. I went through each of these stages after being greeted with the news that my eighteen-year-old daughter had decided, after her freshman year, to drop out of college.

Denial. Oh, no, you didn’t just say that after wasting nearly $20,000, you’ve decided to jump off the only guaranteed path of success in America to “take a break and find yourself!”

Anger. I will knock you into the middle of next year—just in time to start a new semester—if you persist in this foolishness.

Bargaining. If you just reconsider the negative impact this will have on your life, you will see how big a mistake this is. You want a car? You don’t need a car if you’re not in college. Do you want a car?

Depression. It must have been something I’ve done. How could I have stressed education more? Maybe I should have visited her classes more often, helped with her homework each night, kept her at home, and driven her to and from school daily. Maybe I should just lie here on my couch, the couch to which she will return and sleep every day, all day, doing nothing, aspiring to nothing, feeling nothing. I am such a failure.

Acceptance. This is where I am now, three weeks after learning that my beloved daughter—the brilliant actress, artist, singer, writer, veterinarian, and preschool teacher—has decided that she doesn’t know what she wants out of life, what to feel about life, or what to contribute to life.

It has been three weeks since I reminded her of the two choices I gave her, the two paths by which she could gain skills, and the consequences of each.

The first: Attend school full-time to learn—wait, not just learn, but master—a trade that will provide the lifestyle you want.

The second: Work full-time now and gain on-the-job skills for the lifestyle you must accept.

There was no third option that included lying around at home and working part-time at McDonald’s. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It is respectable employment for those who aspire to it or for those who have settled for less than they can do in an economy that shows no favorites. But I come from a family of edu­cators. My mother was an English teacher. My father was a chem­istry professor. My grandmother was a substitute teacher who quit her job to take care of her three grandchildren because her daughter contracted multiple sclerosis at the same time that she lost her hus­band.

And my grandfather? He was a powerfully built, stocky man with skin the color of coal. He had a sixth-grade education, but he al­ways made sure we could afford good schools and books. That’s right. In the structure he built while working in a cotton mill, cleaning up lawyers’ offices downtown, and driving a cab, we had a beautiful, loving home with a library of our own. I read our World Book Ency­clopedia volumes as much as my Nancy Drew mysteries. I knew the works of Langston Hughes and James Baldwin and Ernest Heming­way. I revered Lorraine Hansberry and Alice Walker. I still remember crying after finishing A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

There was never a time in my life when I didn’t know I was going to college. It was not an expectation. It was the law.

I raised my daughter the same way. We journeyed from “Whoville” to the shores of Normandy. I introduced her to The Cat in the Hat and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. We traversed history and math and science together—all in preparation for the day I’d drop her off on a campus to study these things alone.

The day I did drop her off, I felt like I was living a rerun. I had been here before a thousand times in my head. But in my head, I did not lose her.

That day, as I walked out of her pink-on-pink-on-pink room, watching her watch me, her head slightly tilted and smiling that glo­rious, goofy grin she gives me when she thinks I’m being silly, I didn’t realize I’d lost her. If I had, I would have moved in and embarrassed her royally, but I would have done anything to keep her in school.

Instead, I drove home and pretended that she was grown up. I wasn’t there while she made discoveries of her own.

She discovered music and clubs and boys and freedom.

She discovered sleeping until three in the afternoon and having breakfast for dinner.

She discovered a life that didn’t involve asking me for permis­sion.

She loved it, and she really hated that school got in the way.

Oh, we all have our freshman traumas. I shall spill neither here, nor to her, the mistakes that I survived when I first made my own rules. But I didn’t quit.