Is there no connection for our children... nothing that whispers pride to them?

Contributed By:The 411 News

There’s a strange word that keeps popping up in my head. It’s different from most words that visit for a minute, and then are gone for weeks, even simple, everyday words I’ve used for years, words that name close friends, or familiar places. Those stay for an instant, and then disappear into nothingness when my tongue is poised to touch them.

Folks say that’s to be expected with age, that I shouldn’t worry “a whole lot” about it, and I look at them curiously and ask, “About what?”

The older I get, the more those words hide; but one remains stuck in my brain after all else slowly, methodically, goes on vacation. It’s there wherever I go… as I listen to people – even when I don’t want to hear them. Every time I make that turn to my house on a one-way street, that word is there, screaming, entreating, bouncing around in my head like a 4-year-old on a sugar high. It won’t be ignored.

Last week, it wormed itself into my head and onto my paper. It haunts me, though it stirs not an emotion in too many with whom I share this space, this piece of sod, this journey. That word, first in the title of one of my all-time favorite novels, is pride.

A dear friend sent me a link to a deep read [http://ndigo.com/2017/04/26/16475/] and, for the life of me, I couldn’t stop until I’d read the whole thing! I couldn’t help it! Entitled, “The Celebration of History Makers,” by Hermene Hartman, it told a story of talented, determined people who raised up a diamond: The South Side of Chicago! (I won’t tell you more; you have to, please, read it for yourself.)

At the end, youngsters had the task of engaging in conversation about what they’d heard, and, of course, it was a bit awkward. However, things that need to be done are often awkward, but that’s how learning happens. There’s a degree of effort that must be expended before a real connection is made, and too often, adults erase that.

Honestly, pride can be more easily recognized when there is ownership, identity. Boys have always had love affairs with their cars – washing, vacuuming, and shining them – even the holes – until the vehicle protests. Yet, whirlwinds of trash can travel down the street, right in front of them, matching step for step, their progress, and not one of them will pick it up. In fact, they’ll add to it. Their counterparts will shuffle to the fast food counter in fuzz-to-pilled pajamas, their heels mashing the tail end of house shoes with every step, and feel not one ounce of shame.

Could it be that the sense of ownership is gone? Is there no connection for our children, nothing that binds them to their community, nothing that whispers pride to them? Have we made it too easy for them to simply exist without committing? Have we raised a bunch of “soffies” without the t?

I remember a phrase from way back that said something about “high expectations.” We need to rummage around in some of the old discarded stuff from some of the old discarded schools, and find that saying; then take copies of it, and nail them all around town, kinda like Martin Luther did on that door 500 years ago!

Story Posted:04/29/2017