I never thought single fatherhood was going to be easy, especially as a Black man. But damn. 

I used to think parenting was about raising upstanding citizens, well-adjusted creatives, maybe even future homeowners with 700+ credit scores and definite opinions about Merlots vs. Malbecs vs. Pinot Noirs. 

I thought it meant stability, guidance, and maybe a few awkward conversations about boys, money, and doomed sports fandoms. But then I was “blessed” with kids. Two Black girls, one “woke,” artsy, and angsty at 13; the other autistic and gloriously unfiltered at 8. And suddenly I realized: I’m not raising kids. I’m raising rebels.

It hit me one random Tuesday. I was trying to explain to my oldest why she shouldn’t microwave fish (again), and in the same breath, trying to help her make sense of why some schools might not be teaching their students about Harriet Tubman next semester. Her questions about both were equally sharp. That’s when I realized that the same fire she uses to question me (when she side-eyes my advice or debates my taste in music) is exactly what I need her to harness to confront the world.

Because 100+ days into the Trump administration redux, America has made it painfully clear: this country is no longer pretending. It is openly hostile to the last generation’s civil rights gains, to the fragile scaffolding of gender equality, to the thin social fabric that once suggested we might be building something inclusive. And while the press is still debating decorum and donors are still hedging bets, the rest of us are watching the walls close in — fast.

This ain’t a metaphor. This is the school board banning books. This is DEI being dismantled like it was the problem and not the privilege that necessitated its inception. This is reproductive healthcare being rolled back state by state, while courts are stacked like rigged Jenga towers ready to collapse on everything that once passed for progress. 

My girls don’t need me to give them vague advice about “working twice as hard.” They need me to arm them with survival tactics and remind them daily that their identities — Black, female, neurodivergent — are not deficits. They’re targets. And we’re not just dodging fire. We’re returning it.

I don’t mean with violence. I mean with vision.

I’m teaching them that curiosity is a form of rebellion. That asking “why?” again, and again, and again, is revolutionary. That empathy, radicalized beyond their own experiences, is insurgent. That long-term optimism in the face of immediate oppression is how movements begin.

This version of Black fatherhood is different. It’s not about preparing them to persevere despite who they are. It’s about showing them how to thrive because of who they are. I’m not shrinking their worlds to keep them safe. I’m expanding their arsenals so they can move smart, live loud, and take up space.

The truth is, I’m not parenting anymore. I’m leading a resistance.

And I’m doing it while still getting yelled at for not knowing how to braid.

Because yes, I am tired. And yes, the stakes are high. But I don’t get to check out. I don’t get to retreat into soft nostalgia about how things used to be better when we were kids. Because they weren’t. The difference is that back then, they worked harder to lie to us about it.

Now, the mask is off.

They’re not trying to fix public education. They’re trying to sanitize it. They’re not questioning gender norms. They’re reinstating them, with barbed wire. They’re not neutral about race. They’re writing policy like Blackness is a problem to be solved, not a legacy to be honored.

And that means my daughters aren’t just navigating the usual awkwardness of adolescence. They’re navigating systems that treat their full selves as threats. So I don’t tell them to play small. I tell them to be dangerous.

Dangerous with their insight. Dangerous with their confidence. Dangerous with their love.

Because a Black girl who knows who she is? Who walks into a room without shrinking? Who listens to her gut, trusts her gifts, and doesn’t flinch when they call her “too much”? That’s dangerous. And necessary.

My 8-year-old already understands this in her bones. She is clinically incapable of giving a damn and makes no apologies for how her brain works. And I see how the world flinches when it meets her rawness. But I also see how much power lives there. She is her own blueprint. And my job isn’t to chisel her down to size. It’s to build the world around her that makes space for all of that brilliance.

This is the work. This is Black fatherhood, now.

My teen? She’s asking the hard questions. About race, power, gender, systems, everything. I see the frustration in her eyes when the answers don’t come easy—or at all. But I tell her: the questions are the work. Keep asking. Keep seeking. Keep pushing.

It’s late-night talks and side-eye-worthy dad jokes. It’s protest playlists and making sure everyone’s getting therapy. It’s letting them pick their outfits, even if it’s shorts in the winter and hoodies in the summer, because self-expression isn’t something I can dictate. It’s showing up to parent/teacher conferences as equal parts caregiver and ass-kicker. It’s telling them that America might not love them, but they’ll always have me. And more than that, they’ll have themselves.

I’m not preparing them for a fair fight. I’m preparing them for their fight.

Because the doors I thought would open for them are now being welded shut. But they still have keys. Their minds. Their hearts. Their refusal to quit.

And me? I’ll be right there beside them. Being the ladder. Being the shield. Being the one who never lets the world convince them they’re anything less than revolutionary.

They’re not just my kids. They’re the future. And I’m raising them to meet it with fists unclenched, eyes wide open, and joy in their souls.

That’s the job now.

And I will not apologize for making sure my children embrace their inner rebels. 

SEE ALSO:

What Does The Bible Say About Mothers?

Positive Images Of Black Fathers And Their Children