Fatherhood Journey

Family camping can be a wondrous adventure — for some

(As published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette, Wednesday, September 23, 2015)

Our family loves to camp. From the time we met, my wife, Lori and I regularly ventured to wild places. Our wedding was at the top of a mountain in the foothills of the Colorado Rockies.

A year later, our first-born arrived in late September and by the following June we were tenting. I vividly recall our little Zoe — clad in fleece hat, top and bottoms — collecting pine cones as she crawled around our campsite.

After relocating to New England, welcoming a second child and adjusting to life as a family of four, we returned to camping. During one particularly memorable trip, Zoe and brother, Adam, spent hours — five days in a row — digging in the decomposing tree stump at the edge of our campsite, collecting and naming slugs, which they housed in the bottom of our canoe. They could not have been happier — or slimier.

Recently, with Adam, now 6 and Zoe, almost 9, we camped near the same tree stump, a short walk from the shores of Lake Champlain in northern Vermont. We slept and dreamt deeply for six nights, our bodies inhaling fresh air and resting after long days of biking, hiking, swimming, kayaking and exploring our natural surroundings.

On our fifth day of bliss — as we swam and basked in the sun — another family joined us at the water’s edge. The father was black, the mother white and the skin of the three young boys reflected their mixed race.

Adam easily merged with the boys and without words each continued to hunt for smooth flat stones, which their little arms hurled at the lake, counting the times they skipped and watching with delight as we fathers joined in the fun.

I chatted with the parents, she a native of a Montreal suburb and he of Burkina Faso, a small West African country. They were camping for a few nights before their boys returned to school, soaking in the same type of natural respite we were enjoying.

As our families shared the shoreline, I was aware of my whiteness — realizing that I rarely see people of color during our many outdoor adventures. This observation hung — unresolved — in my mind as we parted ways.

A couple of days later, after returning home, I read a column written by Nicholas Kristof of the New York Times, whose skillful and thoughtful prose I greatly admire.

In this particular column, Kristof reflected on his idyllic experience hiking a section of the Pacific Crest Trail in the remote California wilderness with his college-aged daughter. I imagined myself someday doing the same with Zoe.

But I also bristled at his claims that wilderness areas offer escape from the oppressive inequalities of everyday life, are inherently democratic and serve as “the last fully egalitarian places in America.”

So, then, why do I rarely see people of color when I am camping? I wondered. Granted, people of all races choose not to camp for a variety of reasons — fear of wild animals, fear of getting lost, the unwillingness to shed the conveniences of domesticity.

But I suspect for many people of color reasons also include barriers that block their access to wilderness experience.

The long history and current reality of racial discrimination and violence could understandably leave people of color feeling vulnerable about camping in wilderness areas that are frequented almost exclusively by white people.

People who live in urban centers — disproportionately people of color — may lack experience with camping and other outdoor adventure. And those of limited financial means lack vacation time and the income necessary for camping gear and car ownership required for travel to remote locations.

From what I’ve observed, wilderness may offer a form of escape for some, but it is not an escape readily accessible to all people.

So, while our family still glows from our recent camping trip — and we are already planning next summer’s adventures — I am also motivated to learn more about removing barriers and promoting access so that all families have the opportunity to experience the joy of camping.

John Engel of Florence is an organizational consultant and Director of the Healthy Men and Boys Network of Western Massachusetts. He can be reached through his website www.fatherhoodjourney.com.

A family makes room for different ways to replenish

As published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette, Tuesday, August 25, 2015, (Published in print: Wednesday, August 26, 2015)

Nothing like beach says summer. Sun, sand and surf equal fun, for many.

Beaches, in my experience are usually crowded, surrounded by development — ranging from the ticky-tacky to the clamor of outlet malls — and bland, leaving me subdued.

I prefer mountains and forests — preferably together — and their cool, clear streams and lakes. They tend to be quiet, sparsely populated, devoid of development and magnificently beautiful — restorative to my body and spirit.

My wife, Lori, and I met, fell in love, married and started a family in the Colorado Rockies. My connection to the natural world formed in the forests, lakes and rivers of the upper Midwest. These are the places where I feel most alive.

Since our family relocated to New England, however, I have visited the same physically unremarkable plot of beach on the Connecticut shore of the Long Island Sound nearly 50 times.

The immediate boundaries of the beach, governed by the Island View Beach association, of which Lori’s maternal grandfather was a founding member, are about 50 yards wide and 50 yards deep, at low tide. IVB, as the locals call it, is wedged between adjoining plots of sand, which are governed by other associations, a two-block reach from the frenzy of U.S. Route 1 and a mile from notorious Interstate 95.

The entire stretch of beach is less than a mile long. The water is often clear in the morning but murky by afternoon, churned by motorboat traffic and gray water run off. Across the sound, New York development is visible through the haze.

I have commiserated with others — men and women whose spouses grew up spending weekends and summers in the multi-generational beach houses that dot the eastern shore. We are an unenviable lot, moored through love to these bastions of New England custom we stand little chance of changing the course of family and regional history.

Still, I have been slow to assimilate.

My resistance has been a source of tension, for Lori and me. For her, this seasonal gathering place is more home than any she has known — where four generations of her family have summered since the 1940s. It is a place where her soul is replenished.

I witnessed this — the first time I visited the family beach house. Lori glowed in this place and while she glowed in the mountains too, there was something I noticed but lacked the experience to comprehend. Our first, Zoe, was already growing inside Lori and I knew I wanted for our child what I could sense in her mother.

As our seventh summer in New England wanes, Adam, born two months after we arrived is now 6, and Zoe, nearly 9. Both thrive at this beach, warmed by the sun, grounded in the sand and cooled by the surf — like their mother. They play hard, eat lots and sleep long, alongside their cousins and a gaggle of seasonal friends whose parents did the same, not so many years ago.

As a father and husband, my relationship to this place remains awkward, halting at times, an immigrant in a family of beach lovers. But while I sometimes find the whole of it — the beach, neighborhood and house — overwhelming, I recognize its sacredness, an oasis that has connected and enlivened generations — and now Zoe and Adam too.

I also delight with anticipation, as we — just the four of us — prepare to end the summer with a week of camping in the quiet woods, along a scenic lake, near beautiful mountains, where as a family we will experience everyday sacredness.

John Engel of Florence is an organizational consultant and Director of the Healthy Men and Boys Network of Western Massachusetts. He can be reached through his website www.fatherhoodjourney.com.

Lesson learned: Dad doesn’t need to be fixer-upper

As published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette

The conventional fatherhood box is tightly bound by roles of provider, protector and fixer-upper. I began my own fatherhood journey with this deeply etched in my psyche, joining generations of men who were raised to think this way.

I also welcomed the role of father as caregiver, spending significant time as an at-home father, starting when Zoe, our firstborn, was three-months old.

Each of these roles is fulfilling, but all of them together, I have found, can be stressful. A recent experience in my fixer-upper role has provided new insight on this modern fatherhood conundrum.

Our garage door is an old, heavy, wooden model. A few years ago, one of the windows in the door broke. With our young children rapidly growing and a son who loves to throw objects, I imagined myself replacing each of the four windows multiple times over the next 15 years. So I broke all four windows, replaced them with wood and painted the panels to match the door. Problem solved.

Of course this made the door even heavier, which made the extended reach and the weight more a source of strain on my wife, Lori’s shoulder — an occupational hazard for a physical therapist. So, when Lori recently hurt her shoulder lifting the door, her proposed solution was to hire someone to install a garage door opener.

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Mine was to purchase and install a garage door opener myself — not because I really wanted to, but because my default role of fixer-upper told me I should, even though I was already stretched by my provider duties.

My rational was predictable: “This will save us some money” and “How hard can it be to install a garage door opener?” Translation: I am not about to pay a man to come into my house to fix something that I’m supposed to be able to repair myself. It’s not about the money.

I found a door opener at a Big Box store for about $150, complete with a nice colorful picture on the outside of the box and a packet of step-by-step instructions — and the salesman said: “It’s pretty straight forward.”

Arriving home, Adam, a recent kindergarten and Lego camp graduate, was eager to help, and so we set about unpacking the box, reinforcing the time-honored tradition of father as fixer-upper and son as fixer-upper-in-training. Despite my best efforts, 8-year-old daughter Zoe chose not to participate.

We spread the project out over the course of a week or so, Adam waiting with great anticipation for each work session. He repeatedly amazed me with his ability to look at the pictures in the instructions and locate parts for the next step. More than once he helped problem solve when we were uncertain how to proceed. His enthusiasm and excitement were infectious, helping ease tensions as we navigated challenges in the project.

And, I will always cherish the memory of him — wrapped in my body, near the top of the stepladder — helping to drill pilot holes for the header bracket, then cranking lag screws in with a socket wrench, awash with a priceless smile of accomplishment.

Eventually we finished and tested the door, which, to my surprise, worked, mostly — except sometimes the door would not go all the way up or down. Rereading the instructions, I realized I simply needed to program the unit by using control buttons on the motor — easy enough.

Just when success was eminent, tragedy struck! Either I failed to disengage the control switch in a timely manner or the motor failed to disengage — who’s to say? In any case, the entire metal framework began to bow upward and the metal arm that connects the chain drive assembly to the garage door began to bend.

My blood pressure escalated. I bit my tongue and then we took a break to make dinner. When Lori returned from work she asked about the project. I felt a sense of defeat. But, I also felt immense pride for the way Adam enjoyed and excelled at the work.

I said, “Adam and I did a great job. We ran into a problem and we need to get some support from someone who knows more about garage door openers than we do,” something I would never have said — or done — for my own benefit.

But, I was determined to show Adam that while being a fixer-upper can be fun and useful, asking for help is just as important.

It’s also a good strategy for reducing the stress, which fathers (and mothers) can experience when trying to wear too many hats at once — a lesson I hope to remember.

John Engel of Florence is an organizational consultant and coordinator of the Healthy Men and Boys Network of Western Massachusetts. He can be reached through his website www.fatherhoodjourney.com

Engaged fatherhood, a global call to action

As published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette

I remember learning I was a father. I had just returned from a few-days work trip. As we sat on the edge of our bed, my wife, Lori, handed me an envelope. When I opened the card there was a picture of a baby and written in Lori’s handwriting the words, “Congratulations, Daddy!”

For a moment I was confused, then tears of joy streamed down my cheeks. I instantly felt part of something bigger than myself — part of the human family as both child and parent.

By the time Zoe was born, over 41 weeks in the making, I had already turned 40. And before Zoe turned 1, she had already taught me more about life — and myself — than I had learned in all the time before her.

Today, at 8 and 5 — excuse me, 8 ½ and 5 ½ — Zoe and Adam continue to be my primary teachers. This is not to say that I am always an attentive student. To the contrary, my frequent inattentiveness means that they must sometimes work very hard to help me learn and relearn life’s important lessons about how to be the best father — and person — I can be. And, through their perseverance and my dedication, try I do.

So when my father, during his recent annual visit, said: “You’re a better father than I ever was,” it was a difficult moment. It seemed that his words were both compliment and apology — a difficult combination to hear.

Sure, in many was, but not all, I parent differently than my father did — that is part of his legacy, a son who prioritizes a form of fatherhood that was unknown to many of his generation.

I know he and I are not alone, for by the time I became a father, I had heard from many of my peers — men and women — that they wanted to provide a different type of fathering, and mothering, than what they received. I was no exception, and despite my best efforts, I accept that when they are older, Zoe and Adam may have similar feelings.

Still, it’s the idea of comparing fathers — making one ‘better’ than another that has limited value, for me. Instead, I recognize that my father — in 1966, at the age of 24 — received the standard message that his job — along with all the male peers of his and prior generations — was to be provider and protector, leaving most or all of the nurturing and care giving to my mother.

Increasingly, this narrow range of gender roles is viewed as limiting to children, mothers and fathers, while mounting research demonstrates that engaged fatherhood produces tremendous benefits. By actively nurturing and bonding with their children, thereby sharing caregiving roles and domestic roles with mothers, fathers enhance maternal and child health, father-child connection later in life, and men’s health and wellbeing overall.

This does not make engaged fathers inherently better than other fathers. Rather, the health outcomes associated with fathers who embrace nurturing and caretaking roles makes a compelling case for removing barriers that inhibit broader acceptance of engaged-fatherhood.

One step is eliminating the stigma for men associated with being vulnerable and sensitive — two core conditions that enhance one’s ability to be a nurturing caretaker of children and an emotionally mature co-parent.

Another step is adopting a national paid leave policy for mothers — the United States is one of approximately 15 out of 196 countries worldwide that lacks such a policy. Doing so empowers women and families to prioritize parenting, while maintaining access to economic security and making room for shared parenting roles.

A third step is eliminating the stigma associated with fathers taking parental leave from work, leaving families vulnerable to economic insecurity, and reinforcing strict gender roles where mother is caretaker and father is provider.

The implication of this shift — from narrowly defined fatherhood to a more engaged model of fathering — is staggering, given that an estimated 80 percent of men and boys — roughly half the world’s 7.2 billion people — will become fathers in their lifetimes, according to Men Care, a global fatherhood campaign.

So, on Father’s Day Sunday I celebrated the joys of fatherhood and accepted appreciation from Lori, Zoe and Adam for the way I choose to parent. I also celebrated the day as a call to action — joining the global chorus that challenges the limitations of strict gender roles, promoting instead models of fatherhood that promote the health and wellbeing of all people.

To be inspired by the global movement to promote engaged fatherhood, visit www.men-care.org and view the State of the World’s Fathers video. Consider it a four-minute, electronic Father’s Day card, to yourself.

Editor’s note: The recently published, “Dads Behaving Dadly 2: 72 More Truths, Tears and Triumphs of Modern Fatherhood,” edited by Hogan Hilling and Al Watts, contains stories written by fathers from throughout the United States, including two of John Engel’s earliest Gazette Fatherhood Journey columns. The book is now available through Amazon. Engel will donate all royalties, pennies per copy, to the Healthy Men and Boys Network of Western Massachusetts.

John Engel is organizational consultant and coordinator of the Healthy Men and Boys Network of Western Massachusetts. He can be reached through his website www.fatherhoodjourney.com.

For a nice surprise, leave playtime to the kids

As published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette

Something is brewing in our backyard. It’s called the Potion Club. It started last summer. By autumn our yard looked like the town recycling center, after a tornado.

My wife, Lori, and I informed our 5-year old Adam and 8-year old Zoe — along with their posse of neighborhood friends – that it was time for a fall cleanup. Winter followed and piles of snow offered different types of play.

Spring arrived, and our backyard — modest in size and unkempt in appearance — was again transformed.

The club lacks a formal mission statement or creed, to my knowledge, and when I asked its confident, young members: “What is the purpose of the club?” I was told, with matter of fact intonation: “To make potions!”

Exactly when and how the idea of potion making — collecting and mixing natural materials in recycled glass and plastic bottles — emerged in our neighborhood is an anthropological wonder. My hunch is that our nature-loving daughter, Zoe — who loves to collect flowers, leaves, berries, sticks and rocks for making art — had something to do with it.

Of course, parents have cautioned club members not to ingest the concoctions, and to the best of my knowledge no potion has ever been consumed, nor directly applied to any creature, living or dead.

As the love of potions hit critical mass, the number of budding herbalists grew to include most of the 17 kids (ages 5 to 14) who live on our one-block dead-end street. Some members began wearing latex gloves — pilfered from family first aid kits — when engaged in the messy work of mashing berries and mixing wood ash with rainwater.

Others donned faux safety glasses. All assembled stashes of yogurt containers, egg cartons, soup cans and the like for storing collected materials.

The group began convening club meetings to discuss the art of blending and brewing, offering members the opportunity to practice both writing and mathematical skills in individual notebooks where alchemical secrets are recorded.

Still, the need to manage the emerging enterprise became apparent — even to the youngest members — and so political and economic systems were formalized.

The club’s governance system is simple and effective. The younger children appointed one of the elder members, then a recent 5th-grade graduate, as the club’s first president. Maddy, in her grand benevolence diffused inter-personal conflict with grace, holding her ground when warranted — especially with her boisterous brother, Jasper, and our stubborn Adam.

Remarkably, at the start of the club’s second season, a peaceful transfer of power occurred when Maddy imposed a one-season term limit on herself, abdicating leadership to the younger members. A power vacuum threatened to topple the fledgling democracy as some members jostled for position with verbal force.

Overhearing the unfolding controversy while I worked in the garden — fearing the impending need for martial law — I meekly offered that members consider taking turns being president.

A roar of approval followed, as did adoption of a rotating presidency, and a roster of successors was selected by random pick of numbers that appeared on crumpled slips of paper.

To reduce frequent territorial squabbles, each club member selected a designated workspace (technically called an office) — prime real estate includes the corner of the patio, behind the Norway maple, both top and bottom of the play structure, and next to the cluster of sugar maples. In addition, club members agreed not to enter another club member’s office without permission, nor disturb another club member’s materials.

Similarly, the club’s economic model has reflected remarkable efficiency. Given the use of natural and recycled materials, both start-up and operating costs have been zero, excepting the occasional box of food coloring and bottle of liquid soap (to add color and bubbles to the potions).

The club adopted a formal currency system — small stones, which are readily collected in the nearby alley. Quickly learning the consequence of unregulated commercial activity — the wanton expression of greed by a few cunning members — the kids imposed a rule that strictly prohibits the wholesaling of potions.

To date, only three parental rules have been imposed: Hours of operation are 9 a.m. to 5 p.m., all potions must be stored in containers that are capped at days end, and members are required to clean up before leaving the yard.

If anyone had tried to convince me that a way to engage a roaming pack of young children is to have them collect natural objects and put them in used containers, I would have politely smiled and thought them foolish.

And, if anyone had suggested that the activity would bond a neighborhood of kids (and their parents), cultivate an experiential understanding of governance and economics, and keep a dozen kids entertained for hours at a time — all for free — I would have said, “That’s child’s play,” because no adult would ever think of that.

John Engel is a father, husband, organizational consultant and the coordinator of the Healthy Men and Boys Network of western Massachusetts. He can be reached through his website, www.fatherhoodjourney.com.

How do standardized tests benefit children?

As published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette, April 21, 2015

Parenthood is filled with challenges. So when pressures mount I try to remember the desired outcome. I often do this by asking: What kind of adults do I hope our children, Zoe and Adam, will become?

Asking this question affects me in two ways. First, the crisis of the moment begins to feel smaller, less problematic and sometimes simply laughable. Second, as my tension ebbs, the big picture – what is most important – becomes clearer.

I found myself recently applying this strategy as I became activated by the ground swell of controversy over the mounting nationwide practice of administering standardized tests in public schools, including the local school attended by our kindergartner and second-grader.

Local commentary and bus-stop talk suggest that one impact of standardized testing is intense disagreement about its value and appropriateness, and another is increased stress for at least some students, parents, teachers and administrators.

Here in our hometown, the controversy seems to be prompted by the transition from the use of MCAS (Massachusetts Comprehensive Assessment System) testing to the PARCC (Partnership for Assessment of Readiness for College and Careers) system.

Interestingly, a Massachusetts state education official reportedly stated that the PARCC system, which is aligned with the national Common Core Standards, is very reflective of what colleges and employers expect in high school graduates.

As both a former high school and college educator — and now as a parent — my feelings are mixed about the efficacy of standardized testing in schools. On the one hand, I find it a reasonable expectation that public schools be held accountable to both the local citizens who help fund the schools and the state board of education who oversees the schools. On the other hand, I find the mechanism imposed on schools for assessing their effectiveness — standardized testing — is increasingly dubious.

Two trends influence my evolving perspective on this.

One, it appears that an increasing number of colleges are moving away from the decades old use of standardized tests — principally the ACT and SAT — in the college admissions process, reportedly because student performance on these tests is a poor predictor of college success. This leaves me wondering how effective PARCC testing is at predicting college and career readiness.

Two, as an organizational consultant I read widely on the conditions that promote organizational and workplace success, including leadership and hiring practices. A trend that seems to be gaining momentum is priority being placed on social-emotional intelligence as an important predictor of leadership and success at work.

A recent article in the Education Life section of the New York Times, under the title ‘Leadership Checklist,’ cited the work of Daniel Goleman, global-thought leader and a resident of western Massachusetts. Goleman’s research indicates that social-emotional competencies such as self-awareness, self-management, empathy and relationship skills are increasingly regarded as predictors of effective leadership, and therefore increasingly valued by hiring managers.

As a parent of 5 and 8 year-olds, I can attest that these are the same competencies that are at the center of most, if not all, preschool curricula and pedagogy. While, in our experience, local teachers at the elementary school level continue to support the development of these core skills, it is all too clear that as children age the focus of education is more and more on content-based achievement as assessed by standardized tests, and less and less on demonstrating social-emotional capacities that are key to success at work and contentment in life.

Next year, we — Zoe as a third-grader and my wife, Lori, and I as parents — will be presented with the opportunity for Zoe to participate in standardized testing. We are undecided about whether she will.

Anticipating that Lori and I will feel conflicted about this decision, I return to my question: What kind of adults do we hope our children will become?

My first answer is that they become socially and emotionally well-developed adults — competent in the areas of self-awareness, self-management, empathy and relationship skills.

And second, that they have a basic academic foundation — probably including a college education — that positions them to both participate in making the world a better place as well as earn a fulfilling livelihood. I don’t see how standardized testing promotes either outcome.

John Engel is a father, husband, organizational consultant and the coordinator of the Healthy Men and Boys Network of western Massachusetts. He can be reached through his website, www.fatherhoodjourney.com.

A father finds lost time, and more

As published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette

Monday, March 16, 2015

(Published in print: Tuesday, March 17, 2015)

An hour lost, is an hour gained. So I recently experienced when daylight savings time abruptly returned.

The night we set our clocks forward, I bemoaned the loss of the precious hour of sleep that my body was expecting. Then, in an act of defiance, I stayed up three hours past my normal bedtime, chatting with a colleague in the lobby of a New York City hotel.

We were among 700 activists and researchers from 90 countries who gathered to share resources and create networks aimed at effectively engaging boys and men — as partners with girls and women — in a global mission to achieve gender equality.

While the hour grew late and my body weary, the conversation helped me gain insight about how the conference had affected me both professionally and personally.

As the coordinator of the Healthy Men and Boys Network of Western Massachusetts, I was humbled by worldwide efforts to promote healthy manhood and relations between men and women, and eliminate gender-based oppression and violence.

As a husband, I felt gratitude for the degree to which the values my wife, Lori, and I hold, and the choices we make for our family, are aligned with this global movement and the promise of a better world for our children, Zoe and Adam.

As a father, I was inspired by the ways other nations, communities and families have developed policies and practices that promote equal parenting, reduced rates of male violence toward girls and women, and better health for boys and men.

Despite my enthusiasm, the next morning’s wake-up call seemed particularly loud. I desperately wanted to reclaim the lost time — just one more hour of sleep, I thought. Then, with my departure fast approaching I began to think of other losses.

It was four days since my son, Adam, had grabbed my hand, and — in daily ritual — guided me with a sly grin into his room so that we could wrestle on his carpeted floor.

It was even longer since we dug tunnels in the unusually heavy snow that blanketed our yard. And, I had missed the last game of his first season playing basketball, unavailable to console him — in the moment — about missing all three of his attempted shots or to celebrate his particularly energetic defensive skills.

So, while I was gaining an appreciation for the global importance of engaging boys and men in making the world a better place, I was also missing opportunities to be with my own son.

When Lori and the kids met me at the train station, we all celebrated a return to family life. Lori’s eyes, not surprisingly, showed the fatigue of three days and nights of solo parenting. Eight-year-old Zoe asserted her silliness. Our kindergartner, Adam, was uncharacteristically quite, wrapped in a coat, hat and blanket in his car seat, feeling the effects of a fever.

My mind raced forward at the news. I quickly calculated that since Lori had been adjusting her work and personal schedule while I was away, and that Adam was too sick to attend school the next day, Lori would be going to work and I would be staying home.

Initially I felt angst, knowing that the full day of work I had carefully scheduled while coasting home on the train would have to be rescheduled. Could I find an extra hour – or two – for attending to the most pressing matters on my to-do list?

So, Monday morning, all of us still groggy from the time change, Lori departed early, I walked Zoe to the bus stop and returned for a day with Adam.

Like the days of years past, when Adam was younger and big sister was in school, we lay on the futon, propped up on pillows, his head resting on my shoulder as my arm wrapped around him and held a book. We worked our way through the full volume of Nursery Stories of the World and a collection of other favorites.

We enjoyed a brief snack, Lego play and then returned to the futon to listen to a CD of Magic Tree House stories. And, curled together, warmed under a blanket by each other, Adam listened to his treasured stories while I gave way to my tiredness and fell asleep — for about an hour.

John Engel is a father, husband, organizational consultant and the coordinator of the Healthy Men and Boys Network of western Massachusetts. He can be reached through his website, www.fatherhoodjourney.com.

One white father’s attempts to address racism

As published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette

Talking to my kids is getting harder. Like all families, we have communication habits in our home, some healthy and others not.

My wife, Lori, and I work at practicing and maintaining healthy communication with each other and our kids, Zoe and Adam. It is often difficult, maddening at times, and because it enhances our personal and family well-being, we keep at it.

But it turns out, that’s the easy part. As our kids’ age, the topics Lori and I talk about with them are increasingly complex.

Stranger danger was one of the early — and ongoing — difficult conversations, along with the death of family members.

Still ahead: pedophiles, drugs and alcohol, cyber- stalking, safe sex, sexual assault, and driving — at night, distracted and under the influence — to name a few.

These are the difficult conversations facing all parents. But it is the recent tragic events in Ferguson, New York, Chicago and elsewhere — and the national dialog they have sparked — that have made me realize that those who parent boys of color have always been burdened by another difficult conversation — “the race talk.”

For generations, these parents have told their boys that others will be afraid of them and accuse them of wrongdoing, simply because they are black — or brown. These parents have coached and disciplined their boys to ensure that they take extra precaution to stay out of harms way.

As parents of a white boy, we have the luxury of not having this difficult conversation.

Unlike a black peer, our son probably will not be viewed as a threat when wearing Nike shoes and a hooded sweatshirt, profiled for shoplifting, or “randomly” pulled over while driving. Women will not necessarily shift their purses to the other side of their bodies when they see him approaching, nor will pedestrians cross the street to assume a safer distance. Chances are, parents of teenage girls will not worry about having him showing up at their doorstep.

And so I have been asking myself, in order to be part of the solution — to father in a way that helps eliminate racism — “What is the race talk that needs to happen in our home?”

I believe this conversation must start by understanding the subtle and pervasive privileges I have been afforded because I am white.

No one has ever accused me of being accepted to a college, awarded a scholarship, hired for a job, or granted a promotion because a racial quota had to be met. Rather, it has been assumed that I earned each of these.

I have never been racially profiled and accused of a crime. I have never been denied a housing lease or an opportunity to buy a home in a certain neighborhood because of my race.

As a student, I was taught that white people are better than people of color — because nearly all of the books I was given to study were filled with great thinkers and leaders that were almost always white.

While being entertained by movies I was led to believe that nearly all heroes are white, rarely black or brown — those are the colors of villains.

So, in our home, the race talk starts by acknowledging the privileges our family experiences because we are white. This perspective helps serve as a reminder of the plight of others, and that we have choices about how to help eliminate the conditions that perpetuate racism, starting with ourselves.

I acknowledge that I am late in joining many others who have been engaging in these conversations for a very long time. But now, as a father, I want to help create a future where all parents are having honest conversations about race, and where parents of color and those who parent children of color no longer need to have “the race talk.”

John Engel is a father, husband, organizational consultant and the coordinator of the Healthy Men and Boys Network of western Massachusetts. He can be reached through his website, www.fatherhoodjourney.com.