The cake was beautiful. It was topped with a blue icing that made the yellow and black image of the Transformers character Bumblebeelook as if he’d jump right out of the cake, transform into a car, and drive away. A part of me wished that I could, but most of me knew that I never would. The time may come for me to walk away, but it will not be today. Today, I am going to take my place, stand my ground and live vicariously through Bumblebee.

It’s December, the month of transition when one year ends and another begins. It also happens to be the month of my son’s birthday or the anniversary of when I became a father. I was 18 when he was born. I was floating alone with no direction like a message bottle in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. I’d like to say that my son’s birth was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I’d like to demonstrate in a haze of gestures and adjectives that stand alone how my life was changed at the instant he took his first breath. I want to tell you how it was love at first sight. But it wasn’t like that. Seeing my son summersault into the palms of the doctor and touching light for the first time did in fact bring a tear to my eye, but my life didn’t change much at all. It was a good nine months before my son’s mother and I separated and everything changed.


In the months leading up to and following my 18th birthday, on more than one occasion I was told congratulations not in commemoration of my birthday, but because I was still alive. A part of me took it as a compliment. I took pride in the fact that I had yet to be fitted with a pair of chain linked bracelets, placed in the back seat of a patrol car, read my rights, booked or so much as set foot in a prison-except to visit my father. Yet in still four years later when it came time to talk custody and child support the thought of appearing before a judge frightened me. Considering the fact that a black man is the poster child of not only crime and violence in this country but of absentee fathers as well, my non-existent criminal record did nothing to calm me. I stood at the foot of the court building like a child on the porch of his home getting ready to accept his lashings. Just as they say every dog has its day, I felt it was my duty to take my licks and move on with my life. How bad could it be?

I sat in the lobby of the courtroom talking to my rent-a-lawyer. I’d met with her on two previous occasions for her assistance in filling out paperwork. Filling out divorce papers at 25 proved to be much more difficult than filling out a request form for a marriage license at 18. Up until I filed the papers I’d assumed the divorce process would be cut in dry, as easy as 1,2,3 and even less than a piece of cake, the months leading up to the court date proved to be so trying at time I’d wondered if I’d bit off more than I could chew- not when I said I do or signed those papers, but when I decided to have unprotected sex. We’d been separated for over five years there were no joint accounts, shared titles or property. There was only a child.

I paid a one-time fee to have my rent-a-lawyer appear in court with me for just this one time. I’d been advised to do this, and although I took the advice I considered it a waste of money. In retrospect I see that the lawyer wasn’t there to represent me, she was my interpreter. Unfortunately the process was flawed. While she interpreted the courts feelings with no problem, she had a hard time capturing what I was saying. As simple as it was to me-the fact that I’d been a father to my child since his conception; how I had to fight for the position; the 80 hour work weeks and graveyard shifts; support payments that at times exceeded fifty percent of my income-she seemed to lack the vocabulary to express or even comprehend where I was coming from.


One of the things my lawyer interpreted for me so eloquently was the courts definition of child support. While I wanted to the amount of money I gave to my son’s mother on a monthly basis to remain the same, my lawyer thoroughly explained the court’s position, urging me to increase the amount on my own initiative so that I may appear before the judge on a positive note.

“It is the courts opinion that the child benefits from seeing the mother driving a nice car and having a nice car etc.,” my lawyer said as she nodded her head looking over her glasses. Her worlds sunk in like an ice cube, the cold melting over me. After so many years of waving my arms in protest and staking my claim as a father, the levees had been breached and the cold waters infiltrated my being. I began to question myself. Was I responsible for half her rent and utilities, credit card bills, car note and any and everything she decided to buy for our son? No one was responsible for paying mine. I kept a simple life, living within my means because there was no way I could afford to accumulate debt and support my child financially or emotionally-it’s hard to be in the present with your child on a Saturday afternoon after a 80 hour work week. “You are really fortunate, most father’s do not get this much visitation, you’re in a good position,” she said. She was serious. Her lips pressed together like a nurses. The whole time I considered myself a single parent, but in this building, in this system I wasn’t. I was like a babysitter caught in a parent’s utopian world where the sitter pays the parents to watch their kids.


I agreed to increase the amount of support with the thought of the new car I just purchased on my mind. It was my only debt, yet I wondered how I would afford it now. The previous year I moved out of my grandmother’s house. My son was four years old and I’d lived at home with my mother the majority of those. Even though I worked two full-time jobs I couldn’t afford my own place. I soon found a job that paid enough where I didn’t have to work two jobs and I could afford rent. Two months after I moved into our new place, my car was stolen. Up until then my son’s mother and I split visitation 50/50. I still paid child support, simply because I thought I was supposed to. Although I felt my position as a father was sorely underestimated and it was something I wrestled with often, something in me felt obligated to contribute to my son’s mother’s expenses even though I could not afford my own.

Unable to drop off and pick-up my son from school, my visitation changed from half the week to three-day weekends. To this day I curse whoever stole my car not for stealing the car itself, but for stealing time with my son away from me. I’d just moved out and couldn’t afford a car right away so I spent the next year riding the bus, paying off debts and saving money for a down payment on a car- all the while continuing to pay child support. Never did I let my situation get in the way of my financial or emotional child support. Not having a motor vehicle in Los Angeles can be trying, but its not enough to stop you from being a father.

There was one time I did miss having a car-and it had nothing to do with my son. One evening my night class ended at 10pm instead of 9:45. It took me two busses to get home. After getting off the first bus I walked to my next bus stop, knowing I was too late. Although it was a well lit and busy intersection the boulevard was stale. In the back of my mind I wished the bus was running late, so I sat and waited 30 minutes. thought about walking, but the absence of a scenic route made it easy to decide on catching a taxi. I’d never attempted to “catch” a taxi. Standing on corner of that wide and gaping intersection trying to flag them down, watching their hood lights go off, or eyes stare forward I wondered if they just couldn’t see me. And then I recalled the jokes about a black man not being able to catch a taxi.

At the time I was so conscience of my spending I hesitated to call 411. But it was almost 11 and there were no other options. The first taxi company given to me by the operator did not service my area, so I had to dial 411 again. The second one said it would take about 25 minutes to get someone to me. I waited, all the while continuing to try and flag down a taxi. Finally I one passed by me and made a quick u-turn to come to my rescue. He was a nice guy. The three mile drive was $13 and I gave him $20 believing he deserved it. It was almost mid-night when I walked through my door.


A year later and here I was again waiting for someone to come to my rescue. My lawyer had made the child support offer to her very real lawyer and he quickly accepted. As wide and empty as the hallway outside of the courtroom was, a part of me wished that taxi driver came barreling down that cavernous hallway to rescue me.

By the time I walked out of that courtroom I felt as if I’d been convicted of a crime. Convicted of a crime I did not commit. Today I feel as though I’m serving time for my father’s crime. He wasn’t there when I was growing up. He didn’t come into my life until I was 18-just in time to see my son. In fact my father has been to more of my son’s birthday parties than he has been to mine. I walked through the court building doors with my held high and walked out with my chin sunk deep into my chest fumbling with a lighter and cigarette thinking to myself “I guess they couldn’t get the handcuffs on me so they put on child support.”


I sat in the courtroom next to my lawyer. My son’s mother sat on the other side with her lawyer. I was dressed in my best suit. I always said the best thing my mother taught me was how to tie a tie, because it was that and learning to type that had allowed me to infiltrate companies at the entry level and work my way up. I was dressed like I was going on a job interview.

It was painful to watch the cases that proceeded. One man was ordered to pay child support. When he questioned the judge about forcing his child’s mother to comply with visitation, the judge told her lawyer (because she was absent) that she was breaking the law by not complying to a court order. And that was it. Another man went before the judge with two lawyers. With his ex’s one lawyer there were three bodies between the two. The interpretations were murky. The man’s two lawyers spoke over each other denying assets. The man whispered in their ears and they’d echo what he was saying. His ex was quite and solemn. Her communication with her lawyer was non-existent. At one point the judge grew tired of the man’s two lawyers and finally ordered only one to speak. I sat picking my cuticles feeling sorry for the woman.

Sitting waiting for our case to be called, I couldn’t help but wonder how it came to this. I’d married my child’s mother in an attempt to give him what I never had-the model home with two parents under one roof. And after we separated I struggled to make our situation appear as close to that model as possible. The courtroom did nothing to resemble that model. There was nothing homely about its beige interior and dark attired occupants. Maybe a window and a little of sunshine could have made a difference. Perhaps a vase of roses, or just a framed picture of a family that actually made it would have changed the tone of the interpretations. However that’s not the feeling they were going for so we sat divided, neither a couple or parents of the same child, just two people hoping the judge’s interpretation of our situation would favor our own.


When the judged called our case, I felt my heart swell and its beat echo like a scream under water. “Here we go,” I thought to myself. The judge reviewed the file staring beneath his glasses, eyebrows raised. He sat on his bench surrounded by stacks of files that resembled skulls on an ancient battleground. He accepted the amount of child support my lawyer and my son’s mother and her lawyer agreed upon. Just as I thought it was all over, her lawyer moved for full custody. It didn’t surprise me but it shook me because I knew anything could happen.

“I see no reason to grant full custody to either parent,” the judge said. Yes, I thought to myself.

“The child is in private school, and the respondent refuses to pay half of the tuition cost, therefore my client would like full custody,” the lawyer said. His interpretation skills were flawless. My son’s mother didn’t need to speak a word. Her lawyer’s attempt to put a monetary value on custody instead of the well being of the child did not seem to be out of line to anyone except myself. “Otherwise my client would like him to be responsible for half of the costs of tuition in addition to child support,” he said. This was business to him and ironically “going for broke,” making sure he did the best for his client so that when her case was finished, she would be satisfied enough to refer someone else to him.


Moving his attention toward me he removed his glasses and asked, “So you don’t want to pay for the tuition?”

“That’s not true your honor,” I said. “We alternate paying the tuition. I have no problem paying it; my only problem is the fact that she can’t afford it when its her time to pay. We live around perfectly decent public schools, I don’t understand why she insists on our son going to private school if she can’t afford it,” I said. My voice was trembling. I was having a hard time understanding the interpretations of the court. Why was this even a discussion? Half of the tuition was almost 50% of what I had already been ordered to pay. I’d already committed me to an amount that was too high in my opinion. My voice grew emotional and took on a pleading tone. I hoped if the judge couldn’t interpret my words he would be able to interpret my emotion. As I spoke, the rent-a-lawyer tapped my arm, but I continued. I had to get it all out, because if I didn’t who else would.

“Like I said, I see no reason to grant full custody to either parent, but I’ll grant you half the tuition,” the judge said.

“There’s no way I can afford that,” I said. My lawyer gripped my wrist. “You have my finances right there, I have no debt, I live a simple life so that I can support my child. The child support is already a lot, but fine, I’ll take that. If you add on half of the tuition I’ll be crippled.”

The judge again removed his glasses, folded his hands on his bench and said, “Well raising a child is expensive Mr. Robinson.” At the moment I felt like doing this:



Raising a child with an ex is expensive. While parents typically compromise and communicate for the benefit of their children, when they separate for some reason these two vital actions are thrown out the window. After a separation the same couple that once discussed matters of money in regard to their children and made adjustments when need be, fails to see the benefit in continuing to do this. And the family court system does little to encourage this. Instead situations are usually interpreted through a lens that places the financial burden on one parent, typically male, while the other parent receives sole discretion on financial expenditures.

A friend once asked me how it was to be a single parent, “It must be nice to not always have your child- to get those breaks in between.” I guess on the surface it does look like somewhat of a beneficial arrangement. For me personally, my son’s absence allows me to give more attention to my studies, my writing and various hobbies. But when I have him, the pressure to fit a week and half worth of time and nurturing into a three day weekend can be overwhelming. Especially when I’m not all that fond of the “influences” he receives when he’s not with me.

Although I’ve grown used to the amount of child support I pay, I’m still not okay with it. When the discussion of child support comes up many like to say, “It’s not all about the money, it’s about the child.” License to use this seemingly valid and common sensical argument is only given to recipients of financial child support-typically women. If a man/payer of financial child support were to ever use this argument it would be interpreted as a copout. It is my belief that this is one of the few points that can be interpreted the same by both sides- to say that money isn’t an issue is a copout meant to avoid any real conversation about money, no matter which side uses it.

It’s C.R.E.A.M.: Cash Rules Everything Around Me Everybody.


That said, it’s not all about the money. It’s more about the principle. Non-custodial parents, typically fathers, are usually held to a stricter standard of financially supporting their children than custodial parents, again typically mothers. And it is only financial, not emotional. A father must pay child support no matter what. Any slip up and he is held accountable. You can have your driver’s license revoked and even go to jail for not paying child support. On the other hand, there is no accountability for how money is spent.

At the time I didn’t realize how high the stakes were. I didn’t walk into the courtroom prepared for battle. But that’s exactly what it was-a battle. She won and I lost. They say history is written by the winners-it’s true. She gets to write it because she has more resources, more time and the law of the land. I have to work twice as hard at parenting as she does.

I walked into the courtroom a parent and walked out a “non-custodial parent.” By the courts interpretation I was not a/the primary parent. The line drawn by the court between non-custodial and custodial parents creates and reinforces a dynamic that is similar to that of White Privilege. Peggy McIntosh describes White Privelegeas “an invisible weightless knapsack of special provisions, maps, passports, codebooks, visas, clothes, tools, and blank checks.”

In closing I’ll post a few points that McIntosh called the “daily effects” of White Privilege. Below each point, I’ve edited her points to give you a view of the concept through the framework of “Custodial (mostly female) Privilege.” The italicized points are benefits that exists in the “invisible weightless knapsack of special provisions” women, who are the majority of custodial parents, have.

Keep in mind that as with White Privilege, Custodial or Female Privilege is perpetuated by the system.

1. I can if I wish arrange to be in the company of people of my race most of the time.
I can if I wish arrange to be in the company of my child most of the time.

2. I can turn on the television or open to the front page of the paper and see people of my race widely represented.
I can turn on the television or open to the front page of the paper and see mothers represented.

3. When I am told about our national heritage or about "civilization," I am shown that people of my color made it what it is.
When I am told about parenting or about raising children, I am shown that people of my sex made it what it is.

4. I can remain oblivious of the language and customs of persons of color who constitute the world's majority without feeling in my culture any penalty for such oblivion.
I can remain oblivious of the language and customs of my child’s father without feeling in my culture any penalty for such oblivion.

5. I can criticize our government and talk about how much I fear its policies and behavior without being seen as a cultural outsider.
I can criticize our family court system and talk about how much I fear its policies and behavior without being seen as a dead-beat parent.

6. If I declare there is a racial issue at hand, or there isn't a racial issue at hand, my race will lend me more credibility for either position than a person of color will have.
If I declare there is parenting issue at hand, or there isn't a parenting issue at hand, my sex will lend me more credibility for either position than a male will have.

7. My culture gives me little fear about ignoring the perspectives and powers of people of other races.
The Family Court system gives me little fear about ignoring the perspectives and powers of my child’s father.

8. I can worry about racism without being seen as self-interested or self-seeking.
I can worry about the Family Court/Child Support System without being seen as self-interested or self-seeking.

Just as white people often fail to see these benefits so do women when it comes to the family court. And just as white people fail to see them until they themselves are put in a situation where they are the minority, women fail to see the injustice within the Family Court/Child Support system until they themselves are on the other side- when the father is a brother, uncle, cousin, friend or they are dating a man who pays child support for a child conceived during a previous relationship.