As a teen in the 1960s, I idolized Jim, my slightly older street-smart cousin who lived in a tough area of Baltimore. Murders were common at the bar on the corner from his home. I was Jim’s nerdy, naïve preacher’s-kid cousin who visited from suburbia. Sleepovers at Jim’s home in the city were exciting. “Downtown, where all the lights are bright…” You know the song.
Walking from the Yakamee joint, “Casanova” Jim coached, “Just say you love them.” While I wanted my experience to go beyond the stimulation of excessively close slow dancing to Marvin Gaye songs at un-chaperoned dark basement parties, lying to a girl to have my way with her did not set well. Doggone home training! I was nagged by the truth that it is wrong to use someone solely for my pleasure, not caring about how it affected her.
“Train up a child in the way he should go and when he is old, he will not depart from it” (Proverbs 22:6). In college, I tried to muzzle my conscience with drugs and alcohol. Fortunately, I did not produce any children out of wedlock.
Tom, another cousin of mine, had babies all over town, which destroyed his life. He was incarcerated numerous times for non-payment of child support. In those days, serial impregnators were considered dishonorable men.
Today, in 2013, the liberal Oxygen channel had planned to celebrate dishonorable behavior as representative of the “hip” modern black experience with a new reality show titled All My Babies’ Mamas. Canceled due to public outcry, the star of the show was a rapper whose serial sperm-donating produced eleven babies by ten women.