Why I whoop when there is good reason to
‘Drum roll, please. . . . Straight ‘A’ Honor Roll, MillionWord Club . . . More to come . . .” read my Facebook post about my boy.
He sat toward the front of the gym for the quarterly academic honors. I sat in back, poised to whoop.
“I’mabout to stand and cheer at this sixth-grade honors assembly like I’mat a ballgame. Why not? We get excited for all the wrong things. My boy is for real slam dunking!”
I even made a sign to flash: “My son made straight A’s. Now that’s how you slam dunk . . .”
As his name and series of awards were announced in the assembly, I let out a “Woo-oo-ooo!” Kids— and adults— turned to look. They laughed.
My lack of decorum later drew a gentle rebuke from my son’s teacher, who remarked with a smile: “You’re going to get me in trouble with your whooping.”
I don’t remember exactly how I responded. But suffice it to say: There is a reason why I whoop.
I will whoop for good grades. I will whoop when my son with his saxophone stands and plays. I will whoop for a million words read. I will whoop for a good kid who works hard to get ahead. I will whoop sitting in my chair. I will whoop with my hands in the air. I will whoop eating green eggs and ham. I will whoop, Sam I am. (OK, maybe I got a little carried away there, LOL.) Seriously though, I will whoop.
I admit that I’ve been told by at least one somebody over the years, basically: You brag too much on your kids. “We don’t talk about our children in that way.”
Whatever, dude. In what way? You don’t root for your children, encourage them to pursue their dreams, or openly, unapologetically praise them when they do good, excel, achieve? Huh?
My aim is never to offend. But I can’t imagine why anyone would be offended by another parent’s praise report or mere expression of parental pride. Truth is, neither I nor any other parent should ever feel threatened or offended by some parent’s joy over their kid’s success. But such is life, I guess. Some folk get bent out of shape about any- and everything.
Life has taught me that not everyone is going to be happy for your— or your child’s— success. That while proper decorum indeed has its place, children need all the love and support parents can give them. And that’s our job.
The sad fact is also that among African-Americans academic excellence too often is not highly esteemed. I have seen black boys cower at honors assemblies when their names were called, unwilling to accept public acknowledgement for fear of acquiring the label of “smart,” “geek” or “bookworm.”
I’ve seen scholastic success too often run a distant second to sports success. Witnessed football stadiums and basketball gymnasiums roar with pandemonium and academic assemblies sullen and silent. It’s a shame.
I have also seen mothers wail at prison sentencings for their sons. Heard the whoop and wail of families grief-stricken by news of some wayward son gunned down in the streets. I have ingested the blood-curdling cry of a grandmother bending over the casket of her 11-year-old grandson just days after he himself committed murder.
So I whoop. Hoping to inspire some other kid, as well as to celebrate my own son, I whoop. For the right stuff, I whoop. With sign in tow, I’ll whoop. In the eighth grade now and 13, my boy still has me whooping.
And I would rather whoop any day than to have to wail.