by Cheryl Barnette

Created on: January 26, 2010

We talked of the last time he had breast milk. Now at the stroke of midnight, he would morph into manhood at the age of 13. The days of lying in Mama’s lap having his hair stroked were surely limited. He recalled images of me while he was only a year old that were very accurate. His accuracy was frightening, and he recoiled when he talked of the pain he felt that I had felt during a car accident, and how we now bond like we are one, feeling each other’s pain.

 He feigns a sore throat to grab my affection, yet my affection is already there, poised and aimed at him like a loving arrow. After 12:00 a.m., we celebrated his manhood without the celebratory events. There were no elaborate festivities, no balloons or streamers (though tears did stream down my face at times) yet it was a very important time in both of our lives.

 He was transitioning into a teenager, and it was happening before my very eyes it seemed. I documented it on our video camcorder he was detailing his memories of childhood. While he ventured toward his future in his mind, I couldn’t but help notice the change. Yes, the change had happened. I glanced at the photo of him at the age of 4 or was it 5? The “chipmunk cheek” were gone and replaced with a more chiseled feature. Even his lips became more defined and outlined, in a more masculine pout. Even his eyes looked different, featuring a glance of his eyes that at one moment shook me, as he looked remarkably like his father, when at one time he had all of my features.

And although he still lay his head on my lap tonight, he was Man, my little Man, gaining a slow momentum and march toward his manhood, and leaving behind those childish ways. I could sense fear in him, yes, but a healthy one. It’s the same type of fear that envelopes one when they know the adventure outside seems a little bit scary, but in actuality is a wholesome experience, and well worth the risk.

 I believe I have read in some African tribes, they expose their youth to the most treacherous of rituals but in the name of love; in the name of custom and all things inherent and hereditary; things that the youth of America could never withstand, they are exposed to the elements, to the animals that live in close proximity, to prove their manhood and enter and transition into puberty, and allow bravery to be their next of kin. Without the slightest doubt, these young men perform rituals that would put most American adults to shame. And in their environment, they have been born into this culture, if not only to adjust, but to reeducate and entrust themselves to their outer wildlife, knowing that their elders spare them no challenges, lest they become stagnant toward life on their horizon.

So, the last night of my son’s life as a child was fun and emotionally fulfilling. We were together, no one else nearby, just us being very cozy and accepting of this life transition. I assured him that this was a time of renewal; a time of change; just like the other experiences we have throughout our lifetimes. But anytime he needed my lap to lay his head down on, I would be there.

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