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I write letters to my newborn son, Myles, sharing my journey as a first-time dad and spreading the love I didn't experience myself. If you’ve been here before — thank you for coming back. If you’re new here, below are some good places to start:
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33 Weeks Old
Dear Myles,
I used to be deathly afraid of two things: flying cockroaches and drowning. I don’t have the stomach to talk about the first, but discussing not dying in water is a little more bearable.
Dorney Park & Wildwater Kingdom
I couldn’t have been more than 10. It was my first trip away from home. Only now do I understand why your grandmother was afraid of letting me go to the playground even though it was across the street. I wouldn’t let you near the front door either if I knew there was a potential that I could lose you.
It was a church trip to Dorney Park. I knew nothing of being in deep water; Brooklyn was surrounded by concrete. The only time I ever got wet was in the rain, and during "hold your breath as long as possible" games in the bath—both times I could feel my feet on something firm. But Dorney Park was different. The water was blue, and the air smelled like the inside of a medicine bottle—my first time encountering the scent of chlorine.
I remember watching kids with limbs much longer than mine scale the rubber lily pads with ease while holding onto the horizontal pole to get to the other side. I saw some kids not even use the pole, and even others just jump into the pool and completely ignore that the point of this all was to get to the other side. I decided to join the latter.
I went in and never knew how to resurface. I remember the sound of a whistle as I sank to the bottom like I was in an elevator with no roof and no ground. I can’t remember panicking, but I do remember a lifeguard getting me out. They said the water was 6 feet; at the time, I never knew what that meant, but just like being able to smell after getting over a nasty cold, I remember loving breathing just a little bit more that day.
Friend's Cousin's Pool
I was in college, and we were off-campus at a friend's cousin's home—I can’t remember how they were related. But anytime I thought about deep water, I remembered Dorney Park. After that day, I never got into the water without asking or checking the depth. I knew now, some pools are just deep, while others gradually get deep.This pool was 8 feet deep on one end but started at 5 feet on the other. I loved the water, but I was convinced it did not love me, so I stayed only where my feet could feel the earth beneath me, just in case the water wanted to take me.
That day, my friends laughed at my fear, and I laughed too, standing on my end, ten toes down on the pool floor confidently, as they easily did laps around me. One suggested that I just come to the deep end but hold on to the walls—foolishly, I listened. I scaled along the walls like a man scaling a skyscraper. They asked me to let go and just try to see what it feels like. I told them they never knew what it was like to almost die at 10. I wouldn’t listen, so they would show me.
One friend swam under me, positioned himself between the wall and my body, and pushed back with full force. I begged him to stop and clung to the sides of the pool as if there was nothing below. But my ten fingers pulling could barely withstand the full force of a man pushing the opposite way—the force was too much. I could no longer feel the security of the wall; I was drowning again, this time there was no whistle, only laughter. This time I was panicking, flailing my arms and legs, but the elevator kept sinking. I remember the hand of the oldest cousin of these friends, older and more responsible, pulling me out with such force that I knew there had to be angels pushing under my feet from the other side—God didn’t want me to die that day.
I was angry at the water and my friends that day. I knew the water did not love me, but now I questioned the love of my friends too.
Blue Hole, Jamaica
Your mother and I went to Jamaica with my cousins 5 years ago. One of the excursions was the Blue Hole: it’s stunningly, beautiful, and the water is so clear that, if it were possible, you could see the spit of a fish. We had a tour guide, M., a skinny man who spoke as if he and his words could float on water. We were outfitted with life vests and hiked to the high point where you could jump off a platform and into the clear blue water – M. clearly didn’t need one. To get to that side, you had to swim across; everyone went except my 60-year-old aunt, whose sole purpose of coming on this trip was to watch the baby; I decided I would stay back and babysit too.
Your mother begged me to come across the water with her and reminded me of the life vest I was wearing. My heart wanted to join her, but my body ignored the life vest and remembered the water when it was fully submerged in Dorney Park. My feet recalled the friend's cousin's pool when they begged for something firm to land on. The three of us told her no.
M., our tour guide, clearly growing impatient, had enough. He looked me in the eyes but said to your mother, “Leave him; he can’t even save himself,” and swam away with her, my wife, your mother, in hand across the clear blue water without even a life vest. I learned that day if a man wanted to steal my wife, all he had to do was put a body of water between us. The Blue Hole was 20 feet deep
Barbecue in New Jersey
One minute she was talking to me, and the next minute she dived into the pool when she realized her son lost his floaty. She was my co-teacher, but that day she became my hero.
I want to be your hero, but I can’t swim.
Since you’ve been born, I’ve been thinking about the water: the water in Dorney Park, the water in my college friend's pool, and the water and the Blue Hole in Jamaica. The waters that I almost died in for leisure are the same waters that drowned our ancestors; some by force, some for freedom.
Would the same water that tried to take my life over and over again try to take you too?
If I want to save myself, if I want save you, if I want to to be your superhero – I must learn to swim.
Since you've been born, I am now deathly afraid of three things: flying cockroaches, drowning, and the thought of watching you drown.
Love,
Daddy
This letter to Myles was inspired by
's The Water Spirits Will Carry Us. Kerra also shared her ancestral relationship with the ocean in this beautiful and touching documentary called Return of the Black Madonna. Kerra, thank you for you work.And if you’re on Substack Notes, and this this letter resonated with you, please hit that“Restack” button. If you really like it, please recommend this newsletter.
Take a deep breath…Let me know your thoughts:
What's your relationship with water?
Is there a fear you need to face? Is it for yourself and/or someone else?
Do you sometimes feel like you're drowning?
Any specific moment in your life that triggered a newfound fear or changed your perspective?
Did you know there’s a historical experiences and social context in Black communities about the fear of water? Read about it here.
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All proceeds collected from Raising Myles contributes to his College Plan. If you can’t commit to a monthly subscription, but still want to support, here is my Buy Me a Coffee page.
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While at a birthday party as a child growing up in Columbus, Ohio, I remember screams suddenly emanating from the pool area where the gathering was being held. I then recall seeing two men dive into the deep end of the pool and pull the lifeless body of a young girl out of the water. Witnessing that traumatic situation unfold created a fear of swimming for me that continues to this day.
Have you read Ta Nehisi Coates novel? Water Dancer. Maybe I have mentioned it before.
1. Love water but have respect for it.
2. Fear yes… try to face it or aboid it. It doesn’t always work
3. Do you sometimes feel like you're drowning? Yes.
4. Fear of writing has gone.
5. Did you know there’s a historical experiences and social context in Black communities about the fear of water? Yes.