Las Vegas Review-Journal (Sunday)
Black Las Vegans talk about the lessons they learned from their fathers.
Dads’ lessons loom large in lives of prominent Black Las Vegans
A Smuch as we love our dads, Father’s Day has always been an afterthought. Mom gets a day filled with brunches and flowers and fawning. Dad’s lucky if he gets a tie and a couple of minutes of alone time. Father’s Day wasn’t even officially recognized as a permanent national holiday until 1972 — some 58 years after Woodrow Wilson set aside Mother’s Day.
Many African American fathers, though, have gotten used to having their accomplishments overlooked. Over the years, a certain stigma or dismissiveness has become attached to Black fatherhood.
With that in mind, we reached out to some prominent Black Las Vegans to ask about the best lessons they took from their fathers, most of which they’ve been able to pass on to their own children.
Anything you’d want to know about Black fatherhood, Javon Johnson can tell you, even though his first child isn’t due to be born for a little more than a month.
Just say the words “Black fatherhood,” and the director of African American and African Diaspora Studies at UNLV will take you on a rapid-fire journey of more than a century of slights, from the post-emancipation worries about “the Negro problem” up through the crack epidemic, mass incarceration and the exporting of the industrial jobs upon which many Black men once relied.
“It became, ‘Black men can’t hold jobs.’ We don’t talk about the shifting economies that took jobs,” he says. “This creates the narrative that Black fathers, because masculinity was tied to your ability to be a breadwinner, are inherently not capable of being fathers.”
Johnson, 39, knew better at an early age.
“What I know to be true about Black fatherhood is that it has always been a collective effort,” he says. “My uncles raised me. The pastor at the church also was a father to me. In addition to my football coach, in addition to my basketball coach, in addition to my actual stepfather, who actually raised me. For me, it’s really important to name that collective group because of how they all played huge roles.”
Those uncles would alternate picking him up from school and taking him to and from practices. His football coach would attend his parent-teacher nights.
When Johnson was a 13-yearold football player in Los Angeles, his team had lost only two games over the span of five years. Then it got cocky and lost its third.
“I was angry, and I wanted to fight, and I balled my fists up,” Johnson recalls.
He was approaching members of the other team when his stepfather, Foster Mijares, intervened and walked him to their car.
“He crouched down and said, ‘I know this one hurts. Cry it out if you have to. But you’ve gotta keep your head up. You’ve gotta figure out a way to get them the next time.’ That simple moment was the first time, at 13 years old, that somebody told me that I could cry.”
The effect was profound. As part of a military family, Johnson’s uncles, as kind as they were to him, had driven home the point that he was never supposed to shed a tear.
“What that lesson taught me is that masculine love and Black fatherhood is one of tenderness, one of care, one of holding the way someone needs to be held. … You don’t always have to be rough and rugged, but that we, too, can have soft moments.”
Once his daughter is born, Johnson will have that knowledge in his skill set.
“I want to also father with the sense of care of that very moment. That, ‘It’s OK. I’m here. We’ll figure out how to get ’em next time.’ ”
‘It has always been a collective effort’
‘ You don’t always have to be rough and rugged, but that we, too, can have soft moments. ’ Javon Johnson Director of African American and African Diaspora Studies at UNLV
“It’s unfortunate that the main advice that I received from my father and then I gave my sons as well, who are all young adults now, is about how to conduct themselves if they’re pulled over by the police,” says Craig Knight, general manager of KCEPFM, 88.1, better known as Power 88.
His father, Merald “Bubba” Knight of Gladys Knight & the Pips fame, gave him that talk. He’s given it to his two sons, two daughters and two stepsons. One day soon, he’ll give it to his three grandchildren, all of whom are under age 12.
“It’s the same talk that passes down through generations,” Knight attests.
Essentially, it goes like this. If you’re pulled over, roll down all your windows so the officers can see inside. Have your license and registration in your hands, and have those hands on the steering wheel at 10 and 2. Refer to the officers as “Sir” or “Ma’am.” Listen. Don’t argue. Stay calm. And, above all else, don’t make any sudden movements.
Unlike “the talk” many fathers have, the one about the birds and the bees, Knight, 55, doesn’t have this conversation just once.
“In this case, we’ve had the talk again, the refresher, because of everything that’s been happening,” he says. “And then we had the talk also about how to properly protest. How to protect yourself. Be aware of your surroundings. Stay in groups. Stay away from the agitators. Stay as peaceful as possible. And just be alert at all times.”
With Black men being found hanged from trees in recent days, Knight is having to ask his children, ages 22 to 37, not to travel anywhere alone and not to walk through strange neighborhoods. “Now we’re back to that again,” he says with a sigh.
One son, Raven, still lives at home. He works the night shift and gets home around 5:30 a.m. Knight and his wife, Nicole, don’t sleep much until then.
“We’re praying that he’s not pulled over. We’re praying that he doesn’t have a flat or his car (doesn’t) break down somewhere. So when we hear him come in and the alarm goes off, we’re, like, ‘Whew, now we can go to sleep for a few hours.’ ”