Boy (Wonder) Waring

Aside from my given name, I had many names growing up. In my neighborhood, they called me “’Dace,” and a few other names that I can’t remember right now. At school, my teachers called me “VOA (Voice of America) and other synonyms for Big Mouth and someone who talked entirely too much in class. My rap group (yep, I was in one in high school) called me “M-Luv.” Of course, this was the time when everyone was something “Love,” or “Luv,” so don’t judge me.

Though I embraced these names at various times and I now look back at them and laugh often, there was no name that I heard more often and later cherished more than the one that was given to me by my grandfather, Thomas P. Waring Jr. That name in all of its nomenclature glory was “Boy.”

I think I gained this name at birth, and it stuck with me until sometime in college. Even on his deathbed, though I wasn’t there, I was told some of his last words were, “I thought you were my boy come to see me…,” as he looked at my cousin/sister Tracy with her baseball cap pulled down low. They were about to wheel him in the back for his final surgery to amputate his remaining leg, in hopes of saving his life, but it was too late. His heart was so weakened by this time that he transitioned during the procedure.

But Boy wasn’t there. Boy was in California, unaware of everything that was going on. Boy would learn later that day about the fate of his grandfather. I was devastated, though he and I had said our goodbyes a month prior to his death. We knew that it would be our last time seeing each other on this side of the spiritual world.

“Boy, what are you doing?” “Boy, I’m not playing with you!” “Boy, go and get (fill in the blank).”

Those were the usual daily phrases that I heard directed at me. I am struggling now to remember when he actually called me by my government name. I think he did two handfuls of times. Perhaps when he was admonishing me, or when we were in church, and he wanted me to lead Sunday School opening and closing for that day.

If you think this is a piece about my being angry over being called “Boy,” I will tell you right now, you’re wrong. I didn’t mind being called “Boy.” “Hell, I might’ve thought it was my name, up until I started school. Looking at it now, I liked it when he called me Boy.

My grandfather was born in the early 1920s. He wasn’t rich per se, but he definitely wasn’t poor. Still, he lived in a world where the memories of slavery still existed. Back then, Black Men were called “Boy,” among other names, by white slave owners. Once slavery was abolished, “Boy” didn’t go away.

But my grandfather didn’t think about all of this. He wasn’t reflecting on the usage of the word “Boy.” He saw me as his grandson, his 5^th son in a way, and no matter what, I was always going to be his Boy.

And I didn’t mind.

“Boy, why are you moving so far away? “Boy, I’m going to miss you.”

I can still hear those words in the days before I was set to leave for California. It was a move that wasn’t as planned as it probably should’ve been, but that wasn’t my style. I made the decision a few months earlier, and after making arrangements for a place to live, I was going to move to California to front a rock band and later move to Trinidad to live out the rest of my life. I came home to tell my grandmother and grandfather goodbye. I’ve told this story before, so I won’t rehash it, but it was a happy time of reflection, coupled with a deep sadness that I was leaving the two people who I loved so much.

My grandfather had always provided for me. He and my grandmother made sure I had everything I needed and wanted, and by all accounts, I was spoiled. He was a short man, much shorter than me, and though I had heard about his mean streak as a younger man, that wasn’t really my experience with him. He never spanked me, though he would definitely scare the hell out of you if he needed to. To me, he always carried himself in a way that commanded respect without saying much. Everyone seemed to back down from him, though he didn’t walk around boasting or demanding respect from others. Never. Not once

As the saying goes, “Boys will become Men,” and as I grew and matured, I was no different. Yet, I always felt like my grandfather was “My Man. My friend. Had he been my age, he would’ve been “My Boy.” Referring to someone as your “Boy” is the easiest way of saying I trust him. I hang with him. He’s got my back, and I’ve got his. I love him like a Brother.

I loved my grandfather like my father, because in many ways, he was.

When I was born, I was the youngest grandchild. I was a sign that the Waring name would continue at least for 1 more generation. That mattered to people back then, though I believe this sentiment still exists today. My grandfather instilled a sense of pride in me about my last name. I often think about how proud he would be to know that I had three sons. I remember when we traveled home to Christen Legend at my family’s church in Charleston, I was sitting in the house with my brother, and Legend was in his car seat. It was only the three of us there, as everyone else had already left for whatever gathering we were doing. I felt a presence sitting near me. My grandfather always sat in the same place on the couch, and no one else really sat there, even after his death. I sat in his seat as I rocked Legend, and I knew that he was there. I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t afraid, but I felt his presence. I can only imagine him saying, “Boy, you did good.” Quickly followed by a “Boy, get out of my seat.”

Nowadays, at family gatherings, we laugh about him calling me “Boy.” My Aunt does an impression of him, “Boy get yo….” Family friends laugh about it. They jokingly call me “Boy Waring,” as they talk about Mr. Waring, Daddy, Grandaddy, or Uncle Tommy. And I don’t mind. I embrace it. I laugh at it, and I’m thinking about getting a shirt with Boy Waring on the back.

“Boy,” rightfully so, has many negative connotations for Black Men. Somehow, my grandfather made it into a term of endearment that I will never forget. Of course, I never referred to my sons like that (I have other words that I can’t type lol), but their lives were different than mine. Times are different. Children are different. Parents are different. And that’s okay. My three boys are the best parts of me.