My brother and I shared whitey-tighties until I was 10 years old. I was a college athlete, my brother is one of the most athletic freaks I’ve ever met. We did not get that way by playing inside. The things we were doing to these Coscto six-packs was ungodly.

They would all sit in the bottom drawer of his dresser drawer. That meant I had to knock on the door of a moody thirteen year old who found me to be incredibly unworthy of his time, interrupt whatever he was doing behind that locked door, and get a pair of clean briefs. Wars have been started for lesser trade arrangements.

This was my parents’ fault. We were the definition of middle class- everything we needed, most things we wanted, and a solid top-down budget. We had enough money to buy separate underwear. We also had enough money for a sharpie to label who’s who and to put my initialed underwear in my room so I didn’t have to risk life, limb, and post-shower towel to get a pair of drawers.

This socialism came to a stop when my brother turned 13 and peer pressure took us out of North Korea. Welcome to “getting dressed out” for P.E.- a right of passage where a young man realizes that dicks come in different sizes and the only thing you can control is what you put over them. It took less than one day of school for big bro to come home and relay to mom that he needed boxers. I learned about this because I was told the following day, “Don’t wear the boxers, those are for your brother.” And just like that, at the age of 10, I finally had my own, previously enjoyed whitey-tighties, Meanwhile, my brother and his fellow Lord of the Flies classmates risked testicular torsion while they played flag football for the sake of looking cool for the 10 seconds they go from athletic shorts back to khakis. It was 2000, I guess boxer briefs weren’t popular enough to be an option.

The boxers were important. Looking back, I think everyone did the right thing (not the sharing underwear thing. That’s insane). A 13 year old boy deserves his parents support in limiting the damage his peers can inflict no matter how stupid it seems. I am glad my parents saw the importance of fitting in. They always put us in the best position to succeed outside the walls of our home. They deserve all the credit.

We weren’t raised soft. They did not put us in a bubble and my dad made sure we had both emotion and control. Most of the time, for me, the former was too strong to have the latter. I can see a flaw of over-promoting control in my children. Their mom does a great job of balancing that out.

A great friend and neighbor told me once, “The world is a hard place and it’ll make your son hard. You don’t need to worry about making him tough. You need to be the one place he knows it’s ok to be soft.” Thanks L. I’ll never forget that.

I sat in church today with all six of us. She was dressed like her sister. Her brother was wearing a shirt that was originally his older brother’s but had been passed to at least two other neighborhood boys and boomeranged around chronologically proving the unrelenting nature that is Cat & Jack apparel.

I sat there mid-worship music thinking, “Do my kids appear black enough?” Now, go ahead and spare me with, “What do you mean by that?” bull shit. If I make fun of white parents who put their kids in those horrendous onesies with the high socks, big collars, and plastic shoes and think they look cute like some neo-nazi, sound of music dweebs than certainly there is a line beyond that when it comes to dressing up black children in I-Zod. Practically speaking, put my man O in a pair of Sketchers, take away just one of dude D’s flat bills, or tell B he cannot wear his chains today. Never would I ever. Never would they ever.

Meanwhile, my son sits in church in sketchers and has the worst haircut a boy his age could have (not our doing, came as is). He’s a baby, but are we making him share white-tighties with white culture? I can afford the jump man logo- do I do that now or is that a blowhard move from a pressing dad buckling under the burden of knowing every word to J. Cole’s “Fire Squad.”

His sister loves wearing what her sister is wearing. If it’s a dress day for one, it’s a dress day for all. Thank God for her hair as it sits beautifully cornrowed (I think that’s what you would call it) in a unique design and is met on each side by beaded pig tails. Please Lord, let this uniquely cultural hairdo be enough for me to save face until I figure this thing out a little more.

There is this battle inside me regarding my new family. How do you share everything you believe, everything you love, everything you know to be good when you think your children deserve the same quality experiences in life but deserve them so beautifully different because of who they are. I don’t even know if that makes sense. How do I give my children an opportunity to be black in everything this white household has to offer?

I know someone is reading this saying, “All that matters is that you love and take care of those babies.” Again, spare me with that Disney bull shit. These kids deserve so much more than that. Love and protection is the floor.

I need your help.