“Not Good Enough? Impossible!”
Foreword
Today is June 1, 2018, and it has been exactly three years, five months, and eighteen days since I originally released Dear Woman. Words cannot express the gratitude and humility I feel after receiving some of the testimonials from its readers. You are surely in for a treat. Thank you so much to everyone who has messaged me on social media, emailed, and stopped me on the street. All of your kind words and heartfelt praise are the fuel that still keeps my fire burning all these years later.
While we have a few pages before you get into my work, let me tell you a bit about myself. First, obviously you know my name is Mike. As I type this, I am a thirty-three-year-old African American male from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. I am a proud product of a single-parent household. I was fortunate enough to have witnessed the struggle of watching a mother try to provide for her children alone at first hand. So, to those women who are currently living in that truth: I see you, I love you, and I pray for you daily.
I also have a younger sibling whom I love very much. My sister Charlonda is about four years younger than me, so in addition to being raised by a woman, I also had the amazing opportunity of attempting to assist in raising one. These responsibilities, which while growing up felt like handicaps to my own personal growth and development, are the pillars on which I stand today.
Witnessing those experiences firsthand: a father walking out on his children, a woman attempting to process and accept an unsuccessful marriage, a daughter trying to grasp why her father isn’t around anymore, were pains that I eventually turned into a beautiful purpose. So, to those who are struggling with pain today: fear not, for what you do with that pain can turn burdens into blessings.
I was in the third grade when my father left. Domestic violence, drug abuse, alcoholism, and infidelity were the wedges that drove my parents apart. Talking to my mother years later, when I felt we were both mature enough and healed enough to have a real conversation about it, she said, “Maybe if there were only one or two battles to fight, it could have worked.” Unfortunately, having so many holes in the armor of their marriage left her in a position of hopelessness. But instead of being the final nail in the coffin of her attempt at love and family, that hopelessness became a seed. A seed that our “new” family planted and watered daily with love, strength, God, and each other.
I did my best to be a good son—with a few bumps and bruises along the way, most of which were inflicted by my mom. At 5’5”, sometimes she felt as if the only way she could discipline her 6’2” 180-pound “man-child” was with an iron fist—and sometimes even an ironing board. This proved to be useful to a point. Eventually her discipline shifted to tough love by way of cutting her strings of support. As I got older, I was faced with having to fend for myself for the things I wanted. If I was grown enough to skip school, talk back, and miss curfew, I was old enough to learn how to provide for myself.
This form of discipline was tougher than any “beating” she ever gave me, but it was what most certainly catapulted me into manhood. I started off with summer jobs at the age of thirteen that continued through high school. By seventeen, as a senior, I was splitting my time between classes and a part-time job at McDonalds. Eventually, I had my first dance with the law; that put my dreams of being a nurse like my mother to the side. Two months before my eighteenth birthday, I found myself in Great Lakes, Illinois, with a shaved head, in sweatpants with no pockets. My juvenile status as a defendant coupled with my father’s influence as one of the most respected social workers in the city (how ironic) left me with the options of either being put through a series of rehabilitation services in Philadelphia or joining the military.
My 3.3 grade point average and SAT score of 1220 out of a possible 1600 gave me the option to choose which branch of the military I wanted to join. I chose the Navy. This was such a huge stepping stone in my elevation into manhood. The military taught me all the things that my mother didn’t, and that my father didn’t want to. To all those reading this who have also served our country, I offer my salute. To all the mothers looking for ways to rescue their own “man-child” from the ways of the world and of the streets, I would take a strong look at the military. The sense of honor, courage, and commitment to myself, as well as to something bigger than me, proved so useful to me and my future.
Fast-forwarding a little, after five years of award-winning military service, I found myself back in Philadelphia. My heart was set on pursuing my education as a healthcare professional and being the big brother and son that my family needed. That was the plan, until I had the bright idea of falling in love.
I have always been drawn to women, more so than to sports, school, hobbies, or video games. Growing up in the inner city in the ’90s, street corners were peppered with young men. I was in the house. Cooking, cleaning, doing laundry—truly a renaissance man in the making. My mother’s schedule—student by day, nurse by night—left me with a lot of free time, time that I used to invite girls over. I thought it was cool that I could show off my culinary skills and attentiveness to them. They rewarded me with praise for my “from scratch” alfredo sauce as well as for my desire to hear all about their goals and dreams. As you can see, even at a young age, my desire to cater to women came long before my ability to write.
Writing came later. In the fall of 2011, I was three years into the most fascinating, heartbreaking, roller-coaster ride of my adult life to this day. I was in love. I was head over heels for the woman who for all three
