The Making of a Father

by Alex Barnett

“Give him a banana!” the man shouted at the stage.

I looked at him then scanned the rest of the crowd, reeling, as if I had been slapped in the face.

Seconds before, I was a stand-up comic regaling the audience.  When I segued into the part of my routine in which I noted that my wife and I were an interracial couple expecting the birth of our first child and that I was concerned about being a white man raising a biracial son,  he interrupted and stopped me cold.

That he had such an ignorant and hate-filled thought was disturbing.  That he said it in public was mind-boggling.  We weren’t at a minstrel show in the antebellum Deep South.  We were at a comedy club in the New York suburbs in the Age of Obama.

The room went quiet, as the audience processed what had happened, looked at the man, then at me and waited for my answer.

I stared back at them, furious, nervous and panicked, and in milliseconds, raced through various responses and the likely consequence of each.

I wanted to leap from the stage and pummel the guy.  He had ruined my show and insulted my unborn child.  I fantasized about pounding him until he was transformed into a mound of formless Jell-o.  But, at 5’4” and 140 pounds, I had no chance against this man who looked like he had been plucked from central casting to star in the Goon Squad as henchman number one.  In addition, the club frowned on actions that exposed it to liability, and, as I practiced law for years before embarking upon my comedy career, I knew the punishment awaiting barroom brawlers.

If not brute force, then how about raw profanity?  I envisioned the venom-filled curse words flying from my mouth and imagined with some delight the man shrinking under the sheer intensity of this barrage until he was quivering and pitiable.  I didn’t do this either, again worried about souring my relationship with the club or inciting the guy to the point where he left me bruised, battered and in a hospital bed.

The alternative to a frontal assault was the assassin’s blade, the knife to the ribs, even as I maintained my smile and my humorous disposition.  I groped for a witty remark, one that would win over the crowd and shame this racist.  After all, part of my job was to handle hecklers with skill.  Yet I feared a misstep that would alienate the audience, and I lacked the confidence to take the risk.

I forced a nervous half-laugh and proceeded as if unfazed.  Even as I did, I seethed and sensed that I had failed an important test–or several.

I transitioned from law to comedy after a checkered career in which I was fired from four of the five law firms for which I worked.  Now, here I was practicing my new profession–my passion–and I was failing at it too.

The impotence of my response was even more stark as I was the white husband of a black woman and would soon be the father of a biracial child.  Throughout my wife’s pregnancy, I wondered whether my son’s mixed heritage would leave him conflicted and worried that it would cause him to resent me and transform our father-son relationship into an Oedipus Complex akin to the Civil War.  I feared that I was ill-equipped to handle the challenges of bridging this racial divide. I had no idea what I’d say if our son asked for advice on being a black man in America.  When I tried to imagine having a conversation with him about slavery that didn’t leave him hating me, I couldn’t help but think of the cruel irony that he’d be spending his childhood living in my house, working chores for no pay, and being required to obey my orders without question or otherwise face disciplinary measures.  The thought of discussing the N-Word with him similarly filled me with anxiety and dread.  It wasn’t like I could tell him how it felt when it happened to me.  With all the parenting books I read, I never found Dr. Spock’s Guide to the N-Word or Dr. Seuss’s What’s That You Say?  What’s That I Heard? Please Oh Please Not the Dreaded N-Word!  And, now, given the chance to take action that would prove my fears groundless and make my boy proud, I cowered.

Worst of all, I did not guard the cave and protect my tribe, not even when given a stage and a microphone.  I put my need to avoid embarrassment and to gain the approval of strangers ahead of my family, revealing a shameful lack of character.  While I finished my set, it wasn’t triumphantly and with excitement, but timidly, head down, demoralized and flustered like a rookie.  It left me feeling weak and small and afraid I was not a suitable trustee of my child’s future.

What would happen the next time?  I wondered.  A next time being virtually assured, given that my family and its racial composition were at the core of my set.

And, that’s when I realized something disturbing.  The heckler and I actually had something in common.  We both had made assumptions about people based on race.  Yes, his comments were malicious and my concerns were borne of good intention, but the parallel was there.  It was inescapable.   My family and I were supposed to be the embodiment of Dr. King’s Dream in which people were not judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.  The only problem was that I was judging my son and myself by our respective skin colors.  I couldn’t help but wonder how I could be a good role model and father if I was shackled by my own form of racism—a prejudice that my son would not be capable of independent thought and objectivity on matters relating to race but would be limited to viewing white people with suspicion or even hostility.

Not long after this incident, my son was born.  To our horror, he had trouble breathing and was taken to the NICU for observation.  As we approached the unit, a staffer instructed me to wait outside.  “No,” I said. “I’m going with you.”

For hours, I stood guard over the small, plexiglass bassinet and cast wary glances at anyone who approached.  When the nurse inserted the tube down his throat and the I.V. into his arm, I stared at her, my eyes narrowed and jaw clenched.

After a battery of tests, they found nothing wrong. It appeared he had swallowed some meconium during birth, a not uncommon occurrence.

I insisted that he be released from the NICU.  I was told they would have to keep him overnight for observation.  “No,” I said. “If there’s nothing wrong, release him now.”

Conferences were held.  Phone calls were made.  Within an hour, he was released from intensive care.

As we returned to my wife’s room, I thought about my interactions with the hospital staff.  I was shocked that I had been so poised and assertive.  It was in stark contrast to how I had behaved at the comedy club just weeks before, and I was proud of myself for having acted so decisively to protect my son.  It made me believe that I wasn’t as much of a disaster as a man and father as I thought.

It also made me see that skin color really was not the issue.  The question wasn’t whether I knew what it felt like to be called the N-word.  I didn’t and never would.  I’d read about it and sensitized myself to the issue in hopes that I’d be prepared, but I’d never be able to fully understand the sting of that word.

So, what then?  Give up?

No.  Just the opposite.  The point was not to focus on what I wasn’t and what I couldn’t do but on what I was and what I could do.  I wasn’t black and never would be.  But, I was a man and a husband and a father, and the question put to me now was whether I would be there day-in, day-out, in good times and times of crisis to protect my son, nurture him and give him all the tools he needed to grow into a good man.  Sure, I understood that it was one thing to challenge a hospital staff member in a one-on-one conversation and another thing entirely to handle a hostile audience member in front of hundreds of people and in a setting where my career was at stake, but at least it was a start.

Someone once told me that that when you have kids, it brings out the best version of yourself.  I didn’t know if that were true.  But, I knew that it made me want to find that best version, dust it off and display it proudly.

Planning to be in the New York area July25? Me, Alex and Abiola Abrams are going to be in Brooklyn’s Rustic Tavern talking the highs and lows of swirling. More details to come!