I haven’t written anything here in a while, and it’s not due to some lack of emotional contemplation. I’d also hope it was not due to a lack of emotional and personal development. I’d like to think I’ve made strides there, but it’s honestly hard to always be sure. Some days I feel like I make a revelation of some sort, but without committing it to muscle memory, it’s easy to lose sight of that. And I’m not always the quickest person to pick up on changes in the emotional status quo.

I suppose I had been waiting for something to really strike me as something worth writing about and sharing, and I got that in a big way tonight thanks to a song. I happened across it by chance on Spotify. I knew of the artist from hearing him as guests on other people’s songs and in some mixtape freestyle things I heard on YouTube. Something told me to listen to this song in particular, and I’m glad that I did.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iatpCYNfbHg

At first, it just hit me as a really soulful and insightful song, paying respect to someone who was integral to him becoming the person he is today. And that’s something I can relate to. I think a lot, lately, about the efforts my parents have made in my development. But there was a certain moment where the lyrics and sentiment behind this song hit me in a way that, quite literally, brought me to tears.

The second verse of this song talks about his grandmother’s struggles and accomplishments. She was in a war. She became one of the first black female Captains in the military. That’s something anyone can feel proud of. I think of how she felt back then, when she was young, vibrant, and probably without any children of her own. She could have been some starry-eyed kid with ambition, and the want to care for the family that would become hers shifted her priorities. She gave of herself to raise her children, and then even her grandchildren. How profound is that?

There’s a set of lyrics in the second verse in particular where the artist asks, “But how am I supposed to say I’m tired if that girl from West Virginia came up in conditions I couldn’t survive?”

He compares his struggles to that his grandmother faces and sees no comparison. How can he look at the obstacles before him and feel they are too much or too much of a hassle when he knows there has been someone who’s been through so much worse and still had the will to make sure he turned out okay?

It makes me think of how selfish and thankless I’ve been. My life isn’t just about me. The life I have right now, one where I can financially support myself with a degree of comfort, can pursue the interests and dreams that I have, and where my problems are only ‘first world’ in nature, is because of the effort put forth by my parents.

My father and mother used to be young adults without any kids who had ambitions, thoughts, hopes, and dreams. But I changed all of that. I had to have, at least to some extent. I think back on when I was younger, and I never really knew what my mom ‘liked’. I knew her preferences on TV and things like that, but if she ever wanted to be a painter or something someday I had no idea.

I never asked my dad questions about what he wanted out of life. He had some interests here and there, but the highest priority always seemed to be looking after me and my sister. We were their worlds. Their lives.

I think of a parent teaching their child how to ride a bike and the child gets it and rides on their own for the first time. The teaching, coaching, and encouragement is the raising of the child. Being there to kiss boo-boos and be some form of support. Over the course of the child becoming an adult, the day comes closer and closer to the day they can finally ride. And then the time comes when the kid takes off on their own. Their balance may be a little wobbly, but the jubilation of finally pulling it off is unrivaled.

I think of the pride and vicarious excitement they have for their kid to finally succeed, and then I think of the parent seeing that kid ride around the corner to go off and start writing chapters of their own in life. The dust settles. The job, in its purest of forms, is done. What then?

To be a parent is far greater a sacrifice than I’ve ever really imagined or theorized. And it’s pretty sad that it’s taken me nearly 31 years to even really, REALLY come to understand what it means to love your child, but I’m glad that I did finally. I think there are a lot of people who never do.

It makes me want to be a better person.

What kind of jackass would I be to squander the efforts of my parents? How can I consider myself honoring what they’ve done for me if I don’t make the most out of what they’ve given me? How could I let them down?

Again, I like to think I’ve done pretty good for myself over, but looking at my life through this lens, I know there’s more I should have done. Whether it was moral decisions or just putting more of myself into something, I should dig deeper. I should try to make them as proud of me as I can be. I have to be worth the efforts they’ve made.

How could I live with myself if I didn’t?

I love my parents. There were some spiteful teenage and young adult years where I had said to myself that if I ever became a father that I would do things differently. Now I’m sitting here trying to figure out how I could ever be half as good as they’ve been to me. I guess that’s just another thing that gets filed under my increasingly rampant need to not let them down.

I have a lot of growing up to do yet.