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Reluctantly, I found myself in a city that, were it not for Dallas, would still be nestled deep in the woods. Traveling down those long, tranquil roads would lead you over train tracks and past quaint gas stations, where jars brimmed with pickled eggs and pig hooves immersed in tangy pickle juice. On Sundays, after church, stumbling upon a boisterous game of dominoes, with intoxicated uncles adding life to the gathering and nosy aunts inquiring about everyone’s affairs, was not uncommon. Children would run and play, relying on each other’s company, while observing the adults just as keenly as we watched them. This is the story of a Black man’s journey to healing after coming home from prison.

However, as the family grew and dispersed, they eventually carried the spirit of familial togetherness to bustling cities, where we became too occupied and weary to sit beneath our elders. So, I ventured to the backyard, where the air was thick with the aroma of barbecued delights, and my uncle greeted me with a joyful smile, resembling a dog that had found a dear friend. In that embrace, I felt the profound happiness of a man who had relied on family and understood the pain and turmoil of being alone. As he leaned back, his eyes held everything—love and loneliness—while his physical being, marked by scars, tattoos, and a protruding belly, reflected his spiritual state. Not in the materialistic way of equating wealth with divine favor, but rather in how a person allows their body to deteriorate as a means of avoiding the underlying reasons for its decline.

My uncle has navigated from one affliction to the next, never truly finding the time to sit and confront his pain. Most black men have no sanctuary, nowhere to weep, expire, or be reborn, but rather spend a lifetime on the road until eventually breaking down. We wake up at 25, 40, or 70, wondering where the years have vanished. We have reluctantly danced to the tunes of others, losing our own rhythm. It is vital for a man to heed his own unique melody; otherwise, he will seek refuge in various identities, dwellings, and roles, when what he truly needs is to face his demons head-on. Alan Watts speaks of the necessity of creating space and progressing, stating:

“The act of moving forward while simultaneously making space requires letting go. It demands a person to kneel before rising, thereby avoiding clinging to days long gone and moving along the wheel of life.”

My uncle must recount his tale, without waiting for love or sympathy, but rather to convey to those who have hurt him that his heart bears the weight of pain, trusting his narrative to resonate. Yet, some spiritualists may argue that he chose this path, that he desired the suffering, attributing his pain to his own negativity. I implore him to share his story, for the black family has guarded our image with great vigilance—out of necessity, mind you—but in doing so, we have silenced countless children and produced many embittered adults. Adults who attend reunions and family gatherings with their abusers, concealing parts of their story and avoiding certain glances, turning each conversation into a game of emotional contortion.

I pray that my uncle carves out the space to acknowledge the immense pain he carries while traversing this journey called life. May he realize that his anguish harms the very people who love him, forgetting that our lives require both assertiveness and openness. Fortunately, Alan Watts serves as a reminder of the cyclical nature of existence, stating:

“The wheel of life moves forward when we let go of the past, falling to our knees only to rise again.”

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