We had previously published writing by teenage mothers. Streams 5 took the theme a step further. It explored the theme of role models with writing about and by teenage fathers. In her poem “A Good Father” (p.44) directed at young fathers, Keesha expressed her feelings:
I think a good father should be made up of many aspects.
He should be like a recipe: 100 oz. of Love
Love should be like feelings. When the baby is hurting it should hurt you.
When he is happy you should be happy.
You should be able to understand most of his feelings.
You should enjoy things like a first step.
Love includes all of the other aspects of the recipe: 100 oz. of Understanding
Understanding when the baby does bad things.
You should understand instead of wanting to throw the baby down or beat him. Understanding is knowing the baby cannot do what you want him or her to do.
He can only do what he knows from instinct.
100 oz. of Time
Time should be spent with the baby as much as possible.
Spend enough time with the baby so the baby knows who the father is;
and also knows the father loves the baby.
You shouldn’t just come around when you feel like it.
100 oz. of Support
Support should be helping out; helping with pampers, milk and clothes;
helping out with things like baths and washing hair.
Moral support is also good because it encourages a child.
A great father should love his child as much as possible...
even more than he loves himself or just as much.
This is because the baby is here; so it is the father’s job to love it.
There is no such thing as a perfect father. But so far I am lucky.
My baby’s father does as much as he can, whenever he can.
There is nothing more I can ask for.
Though, Roy doesn’t see himself as a role model, his narrative, “My Experience as a Teenage Father” (p.52) expressed the difficulties he encountered grappling with responsibilities:
What is it like to become a father when you are a teenager? That question never troubled me, until I was 16 and my girlfriend told me she was pregnant. A lot of things flashed through my head, like I am a child myself. Can I take the responsibilities that lay ahead of me? When I got over the shock that I was going to become a father, I thought of the fun that I would have to miss, like not playing basketball with my friends in the park or going to parties on the weekend. But I also thought of the fun I would have raising my own child, like going for a walk in the park on Sunday.
Still, the worst part was telling my parents that I was going to become a father. I thought my mother was going to kill me, because she always taught me to have safe sex and talked about the use of a condom. Well, they didn’t take it as bad as I thought they would. My mother sat down with me and my girlfriend, T, to talk about OUR “responsibilities” together. She said (I quote her words), “You two made it together, and you two take care of it together.” Me, my dad and T’s father had a good talk about my future, the baby’s future and T’s future. My girlfriend’s mother lightened up a lot after four months into her being pregnant.
The problem that I had was that, instead of having a job, I was dealing drugs. Me and T talked about selling drugs. She asked me to stop once the baby was born. I told her I would. As time went on, I started to make mo’, mo’, mo’ money, and I could not stop, because I had a type of attitude about wanting my child to have everything that I didn’t have when I was a kid. Anyway, the baby was not born, yet. I was saving money like crazy now and buying my girlfriend maternity clothes. As the months went by, I was getting more anxious about the baby.
Now it was November 23, 1978. The day started as usual. I went downstairs to work out in the basement of my house. Then the phone rang. It was my mother telling me to come pick up something she had just bought. So I went to pick up the package. As I was leaving my mother’s job, my beeper started to beep. I looked at the number. It was my girlfriend, T. She was always beeping me, so I didn’t have to respond to the number at first. Then she beeped me again. This time I answered her call. When she picked up the phone she cried that she was in pain. She said to me, “It’s time to have the baby.” I panicked, then got hold of myself. Then I drove to her house. She was sitting downstairs, crying in pain. I told her to take a deep breath, so she would calm down.
On the way to the hospital, I was scared that she was going to have the baby in the car. We finally reached the hospital. I didn’t know what to do first. I got her a wheelchair. I pushed her into the emergency room. Then I told the doctor she was having a baby. He said, “I can see that.” He looked at me funny, and I looked at myself and realized that I was still in my workout shorts and tank top. I cleaned up, so I could go in the delivery room with her. Four hours later, my son, Anthony, was born.
I wrote this on November 20, 1990, in Rikers Island Correctional Facility; three days before my son’s birthday. This is the first birthday that I’m going to miss and hopefully my last one. I feel really f***ed up that I’m not going to be there on his third birthday on this earth. (The day that I got arrested, my girlfriend told me not to go to the spot, but I went anyway. To this day I think that if I would have listened to her, I would be home today).
I feel that this is my last time in jail, because I want to make a good example for my son. I don’t want him in a place like this, or to go through what I have experienced.
Streams 5
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