“Randy Moss ain’t shit!” That’s what my son’s father said to me when I was six months pregnant.
Actually he said, “Randy Moss, West Virginia ain’t shit.”
How Randy Moss got mixed up in my “baby daddy” drama over the last thirteen years makes about as much sense as West Virginia and Quantum Physics, but somehow Randy Moss, Quantum Physics, West Virginia, babies and various forms of daddies have all been entangled in my world and in the mental loop of this phrase, “Randy Moss ain’t shit.”
Let me explain. Or, wait…. Let’s go back to 1998.
It didn’t matter where I was in 1998 – when I told people I was from West Virginia, they would say, “West Virginia—Randy Moss!” It was a welcome respite from, “My uncle lives in Virginia.” (Nothing irks a West Virginian more than being called a Virginian) These comments gave me a sense of place while I was away from home.
These comments gave me a sense of place while I was away from home.”
I remember people would pat me on the back and tell me they saw “my boy on TV” and tell me how I didn’t sound near as “country” as he does.
Randy was ballin’ at Marshall University back in the 90’s- but, to tell you the truth, I didn’t care.
I had missed all of the high school and the college Randy Moss phenomenon. While everyone was crowding into gyms and fields to see him play, I was boarding planes and earning money modeling on national catalog photo shoots and commercials.
I started modeling at 12 years old in NYC with the IMG agency, then I became an Elite model, a Bethann model and was represented by various other power house agencies across the country.
My first job was for Calvin Klien and then Ralph Lauren and then I went back to West Virginia to twirl a baton. I took small modeling jobs in nearby Lexington (once as a underage Spuds Mckensie Girl), Charlotte or Cincinnati. I modeled during summers and holidays until I graduated high school at 17 and then I moved to Atlanta to reign as a teen catalog queen, then there was a Seventeen ad, national commercials, editorial spreads and then shazam, by 22, I had been modeling for ten years.
I came home to take a break from the stress of a big city and welp, I got pregnant by high school sweetheart. I was a modeling agents nightmare. But somehow after the birth of my first son I still managed to book national modeling jobs – from West Virginia. When I look back, I was incredibly fortunate.
At 24 I moved to Dallas with my baby boy and discovered how hard it was to travel for model jobs with a child and no family. I saw that Supermodel Nikki Taylor was able to do the young mother- model thing… but I forgot, I wasn’t a supermodel. I was just a working catalog/commercial $1,500 a day model and I was brown or “other” as I was always cast.
I started doing a bit of a WV to Texas to WV thing, missing my family and support. Then, at the ripe old age of 25, I started gaining weight – and discovered that my weight gain was another baby.
I knew 2 ½ things.
Modeling was over
I was officially going back to WV
2 ½: My second son would be raised not by his biological father, but by my high school sweetheart, the father of my first child, Archie.
Now stop your judgments right there – there was no hanky panky, cheating on Baby Daddy one for Baby Daddy two. In fact its way more complicated than that with a cast of scorned characters to add to the drama.
Just like in any life drama — real or on the screen — there is always a hero and a villan, and I certainly had mine- a hero at least and his name was (is) Archie.
On most days, Archie is a quiet man, but he spoke loudly on the day I shared I was pregnant. He gave testimony to the character and class of men that believe in family and have set out to change the course and direction of their own fathers. He told me that if that man (my new Baby Daddy) wouldn’t raise the baby, he would, as his own – forever.
He is a man of his word.
Archie and I married later in life (and divorced), but that is not what this story is about this is about, this “Randy Moss ain’t Shit” business.
See, when I was pregnant and transitioning from a Highland Park, Dallas life to “coming back” to West Virginia regret – I was balancing one baby on my hip and another in my belly – I came face to face with the fear of having TWO baby daddies.
I didn’t want to be THAT girl – “a two Baby Daddy girl” from West Virginia.
ONE by a man I could trust. And another by a man who was an actor in every sense of the word — an actor who was living in Hollywood, a New York City boy who, when I was 18 years old, helped me navigate the city as a young model. He took me under his wing and made sure I crossed the street without getting hit by cars, and could pronounce Diane Von Furstenberg, who often booked me for QVC.
I didn’t want to be THAT girl – “a two Baby Daddy girl” from West Virginia. I was naïve and worried about labels. I worried what people would think of me if I ever went back to city – so I didn’t.
At 24, I was pregnant, again. Living in WV, again. Broke, again. And various other “failures” of my 24 year old “agains”.
(I’m getting to the “Randy Moss Ain’t shit” part, hold your horses, this ain’t easy)
I remember trying to make casual conversation with the father of my unborn second child. It was one of those awkward phone conversations before you could hide behind texting or email.
By now, I’m 25, I’m pregnant, I’m feeling completely defeated, I have swollen feet, I spent the day at the WIC office and now listening to the arrogant selfish tone of his conversation — I’m trying to comprehend the fact that this man, whom I had known since I was 18, (literally: I met him at the NYC Supper Club on my 18th birthday – he was 28 ), the man told me stories of childhood abandonment, the struggles of his mother’s life as single Mom tell me he was NOT going to do anything for me or the baby.
Then, I did the strangest thing.
I had a bright and brilliant three year old, a baby in my belly and I was safe in the womb of my mountains.
Rather than curse or cry I deflected, I shifted. I started to let myself feel the beauty of being home. I had a bright and brilliant three year old, a baby in my belly and I was safe in the womb of my mountains. Instantly I knew it wasn’t going to be so bad. I had support, I had a ready-made job with all my hometown connections, I had people to check on and my life had slowed down to a pace where I could see the trees and the forest out my window.
I was home- and that was a good thing, a very good thing, for me and my family.
Well, then it gets weird, or I do…. I did what any good West Virginia girl from Kanawha County does when she’s talking on the phone to the man who always introduced her in NYC as being “from Georgia”. I always corrected him – “I’m from WV!”
Back to the point…. I did what any good West Virginia girl from Kanawha County does when she’s talking on the phone to the man who was sitting in California, making it clear he would always be thousands of miles away – I made small talk.
I said: “Ya’ know Randy Moss — the West Virginia boy from my county, Kanawha county, is going to the NFL, and he’s going to be freaking amazing!”
The City Boy’s words came back at me LOUD and clear, a bold four words, “Randy Moss ain’t shit.”
What did he just say?
Did he just say what I thought he just said?
Did he just say, Randy Moss ain’t shit?
I was struck.
I had four cans of West Virginia whoop-ass for his “Randy Moss ain’t shit” New York City living in Hollywood ass.
Next thing I knew that city boy gave me another four words that have been burned into my skin like a stretch mark, never to fade: Your baby. Not mine.
Instantly I knew city boys couldn’t teach my kids to fish; they never had a pocket knife when you needed one; and I hadn’t met one yet who could build a fire that lasted all night long.
I counted my losses right there. RIGHT THERE. I was home in WV, and here I could start licking my wounds and piece a family together.
Is there a difference between coming and going back? I asked myself. Still do.
I went back to college. l was becoming an Affrilachian ambassador, even though I had yet to learn the word. I was falling in love with West Virginia and being a mother.
That season, with my babies on my hips, I hosted a Minnesota & Mimosa party for the season’s first 1999 Randy Moss Minnesota Vikings game.
Every touchdown, every amazing leap Randy Moss did that game, and that season, was like Tupac saying:
When the NFL commentators announced “Randy Moss from West Virginia” I knew that Hollywood/ New York City boy couldn’t ignore that West Virginia still existed, that “I” was here, that he had a son here – and that Randy Moss was indeed the shit that season, and for many more. Randy Moss was ballin’ – he was playing defense, for me. (Check out some Moss rookie highlights)
Tupac played on …
You know it makes me unhappy (what’s that)
When brothas make babies, and leave a young mother to be a pappy
And since we all came from a woman
Got our name from a woman and our game from a woman…..
In 2000 I started my poetry game with the “Last Tuesday of the Month Poetry Slam” at a small club, The Empty Glass, on the East End of Charleston. I had no idea how to do a Slam or performance poetry, but I read a book about it.
I was introduced to poetry as a young model in NYC beside that NYC boy who taught me about The Last Poets and For Colored Girls.
He gave me another four words when I decided I wanted to be a poet.
He said: You Are No Poet, followed by another four words: You Don’t Know Craft.
I opened my first poetry show with a poem that ended,
“Randy Moss is the baddest mutha fukkin’ wide receiver in the league”.
I cursed. They clapped. It was a WV audience; we all celebrated the poem- even the Cleveland Browns fans .
I know. I know “Randy Moss is the baddest muthafukkin’ wide receiver in the league” isn’t exactly poetic, but remember WV had never seen a poetry Slam and my applause wasn’t for the words, but for the spirit and cause behind them.
I started to appreciate where and who I was from on that stage. I gained a deeper sense of connection to my home and my people –and I was challenging others to do the same.
For the first time in my life I looked out into the crowd and saw my own Mom and Dad, together, applauding me.
I was creating a poetic life and it seemed that, regardless of my Love Jones, I was Passing Glory. There was plenty to celebrate.
ALL IS FAIR IN LOVE AND CHILD SUPPORT
I managed to finish my degree after a ten-year pursuit, put on some business suits, win some awards, get a book review in the Huffington Post and do a Tedx Talk. It’s not much, but I was starting to scratch the surface of my dreams. I was only riding this momentum because Archie and his Mom have helped me raise my children – day to day, hour by hour, it’s been Archie and Granny May.
My second son’s father never made life easy for me, ever.
I remember being 20 years old and visiting him after a week of being wrapped in each other. There were NYC dinners, taxi cabs and loft parties — I opened my heart to him, I wanted to be with him, forever. This was a big step for me.
He answered with four words: Moving to LA Tomorrow.
Before I had any children, I kept a relationship with my second son’s grandmother. His mother was always good to me – she never missed my birthday or an opportunity to encourage or inspire me.
After my son — her grandson — was born, she continued to be my friend, a teacher, a confidant and a genuine support system for me. I always had a place to stay in NYC. She attended my first Nuyorican Poetry reading and she always sent Christmas gifts to ALL the children.
I think she saw herself in me. I know she did. And that is why in part, I never pursued child support from her son– not really. There was and is a $127/mo. order that was established when my second son was born.
This order was established only because, in order to receive a medical card and WIC in WV, you must name the father.
The State paid for the blood test. It came back in four words: YOUR BABY AND HERS.
The $127/ mo money order came the first year of my son’s life almost every month – and then it stopped. He’s 14 today.
$127/ month is what most minimum wage workers are required to pay- and my son’s father was being delivered to me on the cover of Essence magazine wearing a tuxedo. I started to question the struggling actor character who could never afford $127/mo.
Money aside, I managed. We have Archie, and we are always going to eat in West Virginia – I’ve never paid for a haircut, I’ve never really even set foot in the Barbershop, I’ve never bought a pair of sneakers or paid a little league fee. Child support with Archie has never been a conversation. We don’t need it — we provide, together — in separate homes, yes – but we do what’s called “co-parenting” and I think we do it well. We have fine boys.
Archie is the kind of man who has worked 6 days a week for 27 years — at the same job. Five years ago he started his own side company so now he works seven days a week and does double duty most days. He takes care of his mother, sister, nieces and raises our three boys and his daughter. He does homework and helps me organize birthday parties and schedules. He’s no Baby Daddy. He is a Father, a Daddy, a Pops, a real Dad.
Some may argue my position about not pursuing child support with a vengeance– but my Baby Daddy has two other Baby Mamas. I thought that, if I just laid low about the money, if I only asked on occasion, my “not asking” might encourage him to be a part of his son’s life.
I never wanted to be the “angry black” baby momma – especially since I was the only milk chocolate in his baby mamma vanilla palate. I didn’t want to be the angry “black” woman holding the “black” man down trying to make his way in Hollywood down. Not me.
I left it alone, the child support, for the most part.
I focused on being a “cool,” don’t-rock-the-boat kind of mom, always encouraging visits and communication. I never wanted the conditions of child support to be debated in court. I never wanted to be a that kinda baby mamma. My Girlfriends told me I was crazy.
I wrote a poem…
He turned 44 after he voted Obama
44th President of the United States—
Read it on his Facebook page.
There along with 4, 044 of his other,
Facebook friends. 44 in common/
I can watch his virtual life unfold.
His interests: Getting Obama elected
About Him: I love my family deeply.
Notification: He’s been tagged “NYC Roller Skating King”
- as his son was learning to shoot the duck.
His son/ my son/ is not mentioned. He does not exist
on his Facebook profile, his routine.
His man-dated child support of $144.00
is 44 days late. 44 years the number of
knowledge—said to represent desire/insight/wisdom/reason.
The 44th President and his wife age 44—
said too many fathers are missing. Everyday
Facebook asks the question for me: What’s on your mind?
We follow each other on Instagram, me and my Baby Daddy — well we did. He deleted me from Facebook after I posted my 44 poem. I always wonder if he thinks about me when he posts his pictures – pictures that tell a very different story than a struggling actor.
I was laid off for a few months this year. No income. I was running out of Juice. I started asking my Baby Daddy, flat out, for some help. Archie had lost both his Grandparents and his Dad and had all the responsibilities associated with family deaths. His car wasn’t running, and it was painful seeing him struggle to provide for his family and the boys. He was doing the best he could. I was, too.
When I asked my Baby Daddy for some help he always said he didn’t have anything to share. He offered four words: Can’t. I am struggling.
Often, being resourceful has worked against me. When you’re resourceful, people expect you to figure it all out.
One of my big, resourceful ideas was to get my Baby Daddy to help me sell poetry books by directing a poem video for 44.
I thought: ok, you have no cash, but you have talent and “followers.” Besides, it seemed like a fair modern parent arrangement – he could share his talent to help me sell books while telling his side of the story to the poem 44. Crazy idea, but guess what? He said yes.
I took my sons to NYC to visit one of my dearest friends.
Baby Daddy didn’t bother to come see his son, didn’t call or offer any excuse. His mother let me and my son know that “his Dad” was busy – she told me I should have called and given a heads up , she said they didn’t know we were coming.
I wasn’t going to argue with this woman whom I respected – but he knew. I told him a month before, then again when we got on the road, and then again when we arrived.
I should have called “Ilyana Fix My Life” months ago when she was seeking mothers whose sons have absent fathers. I didn’t.
I stared at the application but thought what will people think of ME? My Baby Daddy will be mad at ME. His mother will be mad at ME. I will tell a family secret and a few of my own. Why national TV?
So here we are.
“Randy Moss ain’t shit!”
Those four words still echo – they reverb against the words that my sons NYC family labeled him last summer – though what they said may be different than what I heard, what I heard was, “He’s never going to be anything but a West Virginia boy.”
What the hell does that mean? I gave away my all my cans of whoop ass- otherwise, this certainly was an occasion to pop that top.
I have always been more the Greenbrier Resort kinda West Virginia girl, invite you over for Tudor’s sweet tea and let’s talk about it kinda gal – until you piss me off.
Well, I’m pissed. I’m pissed at all these years of hoping and waiting and wishing for something that was never going to be there: consistent support for my Son.
I made excuses for all the comments of others over the years. But I also let them motivate me.
Being resilient doesn’t mean you’re not scared.
Reality is crashing in on me. I know my value as a Mother and my Son’s well-being was — and always had been — pushed up against negative perceptions of who and what we were from and that we “could make it.” I was resilient to a fault, until I wasn’t… and then I was an excuse.
At 14, my son is becoming “just a West Virginia boy” and, I’m proud.
“Randy Moss ain’t shit” echoed.
Being resilient doesn’t mean you’re not scared. I was always scared to say anything too aggressive to my Baby Daddy, afraid that my son would be pushed away from his family and have no contact (I knew what that was like – I met my own father as a teenager) and I never wanted that history to repeat itself.
I held on and created a relationship with my son’s grandmother, because I needed her support and I wanted him to know his family, – and she was my friend, but then the shit hit the fan.
ONE THING I DONT NEED IS ANY MORE APOLOGIES – Ntozake Shange
In NYC, last week, I sat with this woman, this woman whom I had admired since I was 18 years old. I watched her make excuses and cast blame; I had felt the coldness from her to me since her son moved from LA to NYC. I was sincerely struck by her delusion, her accusations. She was standing by her son like a good mother should– but where was the outcry for him to take a 15 minute cab ride to see his son?
I thought of Archie and his Mom — and how Granny May would have literally whooped Archie’s grown black ass down, and with a shoe.
I was starting to see the truth– it was glistening like the gold on the WV capitol dome. She was enabling a man almost 50, a man living in her house. I had been enabling him for years too.
My own denial was over. I did a Randy Moss, “One Clap”
I had four words: Baby Daddy Aint Shit!
Randy Moss has created his own league—- the NFL, National Fathers League (Ok, I made that up). Every Father’s Day he hosts a BBQ. He gathers men of all ages to celebrate being a DAD in Rand, West Virginia.
My Baby Daddy will never be drafted into this league – he has only been to WV once in 14 years. On that occasion he stayed one day, gave a speech at West Virginia State University, and then skipped out in the middle of the night. He left a note- four Words: Had To Leave. Sorry.
But if he did choose to come out, to try for the NFL ( National Fathers League) by taking his son to school, watching his performances, meeting his friends or all the things that NFL Dads do, there is still a chance he can score a touchdown.
I needed to put on a Randy Moss I don’t give a shit what you think 84 jersey. I needed that bravado to get through some of life’s challenges. Somehow, in Randy Moss, I always heard Tupac sing…
Thank the Lord for my kids, even if nobody else nobody else wants em.
Cause I think we can make it, in fact I’m sure
And if you fall, stand tall and comeback for more
Cause ain’t nuttin worse than when your son
wants to know why his daddy don’t love him no mo’
That weekend in NYC, I sat in my hotel overlooking Ground Zero, and I cried. I called Archie and I thanked him from ground zero, literally.
I was looking at my beautiful sons, 10, 14 and 17. I thought about loss and restoration.
I heard Tupac.
While tears is rollin’ down your cheeks
Ya steady hopin’ things don’t fall down this week
Cause if it did, you couldn’t take it, and don’t blame me
I was given this world I didn’t make it
And now my son’s gettin’ older and older and cold
From havin’ the world on his shoulders
JUST A WEST VIRGINIA MAN
In West Virginia, one might say I’m forcing my Baby Daddy to eat some crow, eat some dirt, or a shoe, or a hat. We are full of country idioms.
“Tongue wagging at both ends” is one of my favorites.
I’m not wagging my tongue. I’m telling my story. In fact, I’m owning a bit of my own shit too.
For the record, “Baby Daddy” is a vulgar description — but it applies and offers a bit more credit than “sperm donor”. To me, Baby Daddy is as culturally relevant as my use of “shit” or “the shit”. And, you can take the Baby Daddy out of my story and insert Baby Mamma in a lot of Fathers’ stories.
What matters is the presence of caring parents: adults that children can depend on and trust in.
My story is not about blame – it’s not about a city dad vs. country dad. I know that a city dad can be just as great as a country dad, or just as bad. I know that location and region have nothing to do with parenting, and neither does gender.
What matters is the presence of caring parents: adults that children can depend on and trust in. And yes, it’s about the power of Dads, father figures and stability.
My boys are blessed – they are fine West Virginia boys (and if you wonder about West Virginia men, just ask Steve Harvey).
My boys are being raised by a fine a West Virginia man surrounded by a fine community of NFL Dads who take this Superbowl of life seriously. They are the shit – to me.
This is a story, its my story about a Mama who is tired of shit — my own excuses included and a Mama who is thankful for the men who keep singing these four words….
Keep your head up