Know Your Role

JUST... BRING IT.

I sat on the edge of my parents' bed, the faded pink floral comforter bunching under me, my eyes locked on him: Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned, gut hanging out, shades on, head tilted back as he "smelled what The Rock was cooking." My dad had charisma for days—the kind that made strangers feel like old friends. Cousins called him "Uncle Rock," but to me, he was just Dad—larger than life and cool as hell.

The room smelled like carpet powder and smoked turkey necks—warm, the kind of warmth you don't appreciate until it's a memory. The 19-inch CRT perched on the dresser buzzed with static as The Rock's theme music hit: IF YA SMELL... The crowd on TV roared, but I only cared about the man in the room. I was just a kid with everything—a Game Boy loaded with Pokémon Silver, wrestling on TV, The Rock, and my dad, teaching me what it meant to create your own moment.

I wish I could say I didn't know what I had until it was gone. But the truth? I knew the whole time. I watched him like you'd watch your favorite wrestler, trying to catch every move, every gesture, hoping some of that magic would rub off on me.

He didn't need a ring or a crowd. My dad was the main event. He'd stride right through the living room like he was ready to layeth the smackethdown, turning gas station runs into grand entrances. He had the juice, plain and simple.

It wasn't just wrestling, either. He brought that same energy everywhere—barbecues, family reunions, even at work. People gravitated toward him, and he loved the spotlight, wore it like a championship belt. He could take a quiet room and flip it, all jokes and big laughs. I didn't understand how someone could command a space like that, how they could just... decide to be the coolest person in the room and make it true.

For me, it was everything I wasn't. I was shy, socially awkward, and scared of saying the wrong thing. Daddy? He took all that pressure off me without ever saying a word. I wasn't just his kid—I was his favorite person to hang out with. In a world of millions, I was his Rock.

He never told me to be louder. He didn't need to. He just showed me that you could carry yourself with confidence even when life isn't perfect. And sometimes, that meant performing. Putting on a show, even when you didn't feel like it. He taught me that it isn't about being flawless—it's about owning who you are, jabroni or not.

When my dad passed, everything went dark for a while. Wrestling stopped being fun. The Rock left for Hollywood around the same time, and it felt like everything I loved about those nights had vanished. The world lost its background music, its electricity.

But I couldn't let it go. I'd rewatch old matches, hearing the same crowd pop when The Rock's music hit. I'd play Here Comes the Pain on my PlayStation for hours, pretending my dad was watching every move, calling the match in his booming voice. Those games became my lifeline—something to hold onto when everything else felt too heavy, when the three-count seemed impossible to kick out of.

Even now, when I see The Rock back in the ring, it's more than nostalgia. It's a reminder of those times, of who I was back then. Of the kid who thought his dad could go toe-to-toe with any superstar and win.

And somehow, I started to channel both of them—The Rock and my dad. I didn't realize it at first, but I started cracking jokes in tough situations, stepping into rooms with a little more presence, even when I felt like disappearing. It wasn't perfect, but it was something. It was me, finding my voice in the echoes of theirs.

I was never going to be my dad. That much was obvious. He could light up a room without trying; I could barely raise my voice above a mumble. But over time, I realized I didn't have to be him. I just had to carry a piece of him with me, like a wrestler carrying an old move from their mentor.

The Rock gave me the blueprint: confidence, showmanship, a little swag when the moment called for it. My dad showed me how to live it. I started small—cracking a joke here, standing a little taller there. At first, it felt forced, like a bad impersonation. But then it started to feel natural, like it had always been in me, just waiting to come out, like a finishing move you've practiced a thousand times.

Now? I'm a riot, even if it's sometimes a defense mechanism. I can turn a bad day into a decent one with a little humor and a lot of energy. When I walk into a room, I don't shrink anymore. I don't need people to like me, but I damn sure make them notice. I'm not afraid to fail and own it. And that? That's the kind of energy my dad would have loved. The kind The Rock would call electrifying.

When I see The Rock now—not Dwayne Johnson, the movie star, but The Rock—it's like stepping back into a memory. The music hits, the crowd goes wild, and for a moment, I'm back in that room: carpet powder in the air, the TV buzzing, my dad standing there, larger than life, showing me how to work a crowd of one.

It's nostalgia, sure, but it's more than that. It's a reminder of what wrestling—and my dad—taught me. Wrestling is random, dramatic, over the top. But it's also about telling stories, about going out there every night to perform, win or lose, and giving everything you've got. It's flawed and perfect at the same time, just like every hero we ever had.

That's the lesson I carry with me. My dad wasn't perfect—far from it. But he was perfect to me. He showed me that it's okay to take up space, to shine a little brighter, even when life feels like it's pinning you down.

Because as The Rock would say, "Know your role."

And mine is to step into the spotlight, even when it scares me—just like they did.

Carry Me Home

It's Valentine's morning, 1925, and Mae is carefully cutting out red paper hearts at the kitchen table. The South Side stirs outside their window—the rattle of the train, a fruit vendor's call, and the faint strains of jazz skipping through the crisp February air.

Mae begins to softly hum the melody of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" — weaving serenity into the quiet.

Eleanor freezes, the plate of eggs and bacon trembling in her hand. The tune fills their small apartment, blending with the aroma of coffee and breakfast, and suddenly Samuel is there, his voice glowing in the morning light. She steadies herself against the counter, remembering how he’d hum that hymn while polishing his silver pocket watch—now tucked safely in her apron pocket.

"Mama, is it time yet?" Mae's voice breaks through the memory. She's holding up a perfectly cut heart, her brown eyes beaming. The mason jar sits high on its shelf, catching the winter sun—a secret keeper of love and letters waiting to be shared.

"Not ‘til four-thirty, sugar. You know how Daddy liked to keep things just so." Eleanor pulls out the watch, running her thumb over its engraved initials. "That's when Daddy—" She pauses, pushing down the lump in her throat. "When we have our special time."

Eleanor sits at her sewing machine by the window, watching life unfold on the street below. Women in smart coats hurry to the streetcar, bound for domestic work in white folks' homes up north. Men gather at the corner store, their laughter rising to her fourth-floor perch. The needle’s rhythm recalls Samuel’s hands. The hands that guided her that night. The hands that taught her how to survive.

The afternoon brings a biting chill. Eleanor stokes the fireplace, and the smell of smoke makes her hands tremble. In the wavering heat, she sees another fire, feels the weight of Mae in her arms, hears Samuel's whispered urgency: "Go north, honey. Don't come back." She opens the watch's back cover, where a small photograph shows the three of them in front of their old house. The image is creased from constant handling, but Samuel's smile remains clear—one hand on Mae's shoulder, the other holding Eleanor close. The memory makes her shudder, and the photograph slips from her fingers, fluttering to the floor.

When Mae returns from school, Eleanor notices how her nose scrunches against the cold, just as it did when she was a baby. Mae clutches a handful of Valentine's cards from her classmates. For a moment, Eleanor’s heart lightens—here, Mae can just be a child.

At precisely four-thirty, they settle at the table. Mae reaches for her finest paper while Eleanor lifts the mason jar off its high shelf. Over the years, it has filled with their careful scrawls of love and hope, forged in loss.

"Can I read my first letter, Mama?" Mae asks. "The one from when I was little?"

Eleanor nods, admiring Mae carefully unfold the paper, her small fingers treating it like treasure.

"Dear Daddy, Happy Valentine's Day! I miss you so much. Mama helped me write this. I been real good and I think about you every day. I miss playing with my friends, too. Mama say we safe now and… "

Mae’s voice trails off as she picks up the fallen photograph, studying it with quiet intensity—a look so much like Samuel’s. Her lips moved silently, tracing the words on the paper, as if searching for missing context. "Safe how, mama?"

The question wisps through the air like smoke from an extinguished flame. Eleanor sees the sun setting over the city—their new city, where they've built a life from the ashes of the old. The church ladies brought food those first weeks, and neighbors never ask about the past but understand the silence. The sweet potato pie and collard greens almost taste like home.

Safe. The word reminds Eleanor of Greenwood Avenue and the world they built and lost. In her mind, she walks those streets again, their rhythm steady as her heartbeat. Shoes clicking on sidewalks, shop bells ringing. Samuel stands in his shop doorway, a tape measure draped around his neck, his smile bright enough to light the darkest day. The memory is so vivid she can almost feel the warmth of the afternoon sun and smell the spring blooms in Miss Clara’s flower boxes.

A soft rustle pulls Eleanor back. Her gaze falls on the worn photograph in Mae’s hands. "That was our home in Tulsa," she whispers, her voice steadying. “Your daddy made sure we could write these letters. And you, baby—you’re going to build something just as fine. That’s what we do. We rebuild.”

She pulled Mae close, the soft beat of her daughter’s heart grounding her. "You see, baby, we had a whole world there—beauty shops, grocery stores, doctors, lawyers, all our own people. Your daddy had a tailor shop on Greenwood Avenue. Called it 'Harris & Sons' because he always said you might have brothers someday." She smiled, a memory tugging at her lips. "It wasn’t just a place—it was a kingdom. Folks walking proud in Sunday suits, little girls in ribbons and lace, church bells ringing louder than the trains. And your daddy… oh, he could make a suit that would turn heads all the way to Paris."

She placed the watch in Mae’s hands, watching her study it like she might uncover its secrets.

“Do you think Daddy would let me sew the buttons?” Mae asked, breaking the quiet.

Eleanor chuckled, tracing Mae’s frayed braid. It reminded her of herself at that age—full of questions and dreams. Some stories must be told, she realized. Some memories preserved, even when they burn like fire in the telling.

So she continued.

Because from the razing of a forest springs the seeds of tomorrow’s harvest. And her daughter, with her determined eyes, was beginning to sprout.

What We Called Bravery

We stood beneath a heavy gray sky at the hero’s funeral, rain drumming softly on black umbrellas like distant gunfire. The word brave passed from lip to lip, each repetition more hollow than the last. Eulogies painted courage in glowing detail, while damp pamphlets passed hand to hand, his faded photograph staring out. Discerning eyes, set jaw, the perfect image of resolve.

I nodded along, my wool coat growing heavier as it absorbed the rain. But brave felt wrong on my tongue, like something meant to be indulgent but filled with artificial sweetener instead.

I had watched him fall. I had seen his face in that final moment - not fearless, but frozen. His eyes wide, his hands clenched so tightly that his nails drew blood. He hadn’t chosen death; it had been forced upon him. They had found him out, exposed him, punished him publicly - not for his courage, but for our collective cowardice. He was made an example precisely because no one had been brave enough to stand beside him.

Calling him brave now was nothing more than a shield. A comforting Lie we passed between ourselves to justify the silence we'd chosen. Labeling him courageous afterward was easier than facing the Truth: that in the critical moment, none of us had courage for him. He broke alone because we had stood quietly, hidden safely behind our carefully constructed cowardice.

***

His death became legend overnight. But I remembered another story.

The one we had buried.

Thomas, with his ink-stained fingers and wire-rimmed glasses, had refused to approve the falsified reports. While we scrawled our names in hurried compliance, his pen remained capped. I still hear the scrape of his chair legs against the floor as he pushed back slightly from the table. The only sound in that tense silence.

I could have stood with him. When our supervisor’s face darkened, when Thomas quietly gathered his notepad and walked out, I could’ve spoken. Instead, I kept my head down, following the tide of perception. Later, I joined the others in mimicking his stiff posture, his quiet “I cannot in good conscience” - a phrase we turned into an office punchline over bitter coffee.

After that, Thomas ate lunch alone. Steam from his mug fogged his glasses as he read by the window. His isolation wasn’t defiant; it was the quiet consequence of clarity in a room full of cowards.

***

Now, standing at this funeral, wrapped in whispered platitudes, I caught the scent of mud and wet grass. Behind me, soft laughter. It was someone mocking another Thomas in the department. Another refusal. Another difficult fool.

I realized that we had spent months praising the forced bravery of a dead man while mocking the deliberate courage of one still living. The pain of that realization wasn’t abstract. It was sharper than the audacity of my denial.

It hurt, not because it was unfair, but because it was true.

Because I had finally met my own definition of a coward.

***

I stood among mourners, their comforting repetitions still ringing hollow. My shoes sank into the muddy grass, as if the earth itself pulled me deeper into the Truth I had always avoided. I shifted my weight, feeling not just the wet ground beneath me but the inevitability that it rests on.

I hadn’t just misunderstood bravery - I had sustained The Lie.

It tore through me like a fracture widening inside, leaving no blindness to return to. The boundary I had upheld for so long revealed itself as the prison it had always been.

***

The rain fell harder, dripping down my collar, cold against my chest.

The illusion dissolved quietly.

The hero’s courage, loud and publicly celebrated, had been convenient. True bravery had always belonged to silence. To Thomas, whose hands never trembled when he declined to sign. Whose voice never wavered when he spoke a simple Truth. His courage had nothing to do with overcoming fear; it was standing firm in the face of certain isolation.

I had mocked him because recognizing his bravery would expose my cowardice.

Now, standing in the rain, I could no longer hide from that recognition.

***

I stepped away from the graveside, my shoes squelching in the wet grass - loud enough to make my shame feel audible, though no one was listening. Behind me, the murmurs faded into the rain.

This internal fracture was undeniable. But within the discomfort lay clarity.

Real bravery was never found in the men we praised after tragedy, but in men like Thomas. Never seeking validation. Never expecting recognition—but I still owed it to him.

Not because he needed it, but because it was inevitable.

After one of his deaths or before one of mine.

***

Tomorrow, I would pass Thomas in the corridor, his thermos clutched in one hand, glasses slightly fogged. For three months, I had looked away, staring at floor tiles or walls. Anywhere but at the quiet clarity I knew he carried.

Tomorrow, I wouldn’t look away.

But this was never about him. Not really.

Bravery isn’t granted. Not by confident cowards huddled under black umbrellas, not by faded photographs printed on damp pamphlets. It isn’t bestowed by whispered reverence or stripped away by quiet ridicule. Bravery is not a word passed emptily from lip to lip beneath gray skies.

Bravery is a first-person truth. It cannot be given. It can only be felt, owned, and chosen.

Tomorrow, I would look Thomas in the eye. Not for his sake, but for mine.

Because clarity alone isn’t courage.
Because acknowledging truth demands more than recognition.
Because if bravery is real, it must be lived.
Because bravery must transcend thought and become action.

Tomorrow, I would finally choose.