Fire Shut Up in My Bones
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My parents have reconciled to some degree. They were never again romantically involved, but they developed a loving relationship. My father still brought food, even after my brothers and I were gone from home. My mother makes him plates whenever she has extra. She chastises him for being a scoundrel when they were younger. He takes it without retorting or retreating—his way of showing remorse. He has stopped squandering money, and occasionally shares a little. She does his taxes. A relationship that was afflicted in youth has become cured by age.
As their kindness to each other grew in the shadow of bad memories, they demonstrated the resilience of love, the power of forgiveness, and the possibility of moving forward and growing in grace.
When I called my mother to tell her about this book, as I was finishing it, and to tell her about Chester’s and Uncle Paul’s betrayals, and the way that I had come to consider myself, she asked rhetorically, her voice quivering and full of ache: “And you didn’t think you could tell me?”
She cried.
A couple of weeks later, my father called me for the first time in my adult life. I was sure that my mother had told him about our conversation, because I knew they now discussed things with civility and concern. But he didn’t let on. When I answered the phone, he said, “Char’es. It’s me. You jus’ run across my mind, so I needed to call and check on my boy.”
I cried.
As my parents transcended who they’d been, they provided a path for me to do the same. My role as a columnist quickly evolved, so that my prose held more weight than the accompanying visuals. I would write mostly about politics, because I had long been fascinated by it, but I would also allow the column to be a digest of my interests and experiences, sometimes extremely personal ones, all of me. I would highlight the plight of children like the one I had been—the poor, the lost, the most vulnerable. I would advocate for the equal and honorable treatment of those who thought themselves different, because I thought myself different. I would warn against the dangers of gun-saturated societies, because I had grown up in and operated in one. I would caution about the corrosive effects of hazing, because I’d participated in it. I would exalt teachers, because one had reached out and saved me. I would campaign against bullying, because it had nearly destroyed me. And I would write about parenting, because being a father gave my life profound purpose and centered me.
I would harness the truths that had been trapped in me like a fire shut up in my bones. I would give my life over to my passions, my writing, and my children, and they would breathe life back into me.
About the Author
CHARLES M. BLOW has been a columnist at the New York Times since 2008 and has appeared on MSNBC, CNN, Fox News, the BBC, Al Jazeera, and HBO. He lives in Brooklyn with his three children.