Peace, peace, peace. I am Dr. Philip Rowntree
and you are tuned into Hashtag You Good Man,
a men's wellness conversation. This is a safe
space where we invite you into open, honest dialogue
around our healing, our health, and our attempts
at holding it all together in real time. This
week, I'm joined by a brother whose work lives
at the intersection of story, strategy, and soul,
Donnie Moreland Jr. He's a multidisciplinary
artist, storyteller, health educator and brand
strategist. He's a founding member of Fellowship
of the Grio, where Donnie is helping build community
through the voices of Black writers and their
allies. He's also the author of My Daddy Never
Taught Me How to Write a Love Song, a lyrical
and vulnerable meditation on love, legacy, and
fatherhood through the eyes of a Black man raising
a Black daughter. I definitely feel that. Donnie,
welcome to the show, man. I appreciate you having
me. Yeah, I was looking forward to this conversation.
So yeah, I appreciate the invitation. No doubt,
no doubt. So before we dive into the conversation,
I want to ask you the most important question
I'll ask you today. You ready for it? For sure.
How are you really feeling? Or more succinctly,
you good man? Oh man, about an hour ago I had
an incredibly intensive therapy session with
my therapist. I hadn't seen her in about two
months. So I'm still processing a lot of what
she put down. And I told her at the top when
we first met, don't hold back. I've been in therapy
since I was a teenager. Like, let's just get
into it. I have these needs and she been... Should
be going at it. So today was one of them ones.
So if I got that look in my eyes, like that's
my, I'm still, you know, but that's perfect.
That's perfect. You know, to kind of come into
this platform with that energy. Yeah. So for
sure. Thank you for that. To answer the question,
I'm here. No, and sometimes that's where we are.
Right. That's where we are with it. Right. Sometimes
we look for the extraordinary, but the ordinary
can be extraordinary. We need to be present as
often as possible. Listen, as a therapist myself.
that post -therapy clarity, it'll have you like,
who am I cutting off today? What has happened
in my life? I need to make a thousand changes,
right? So it's like fresh out the gym, right?
Or fresh out something where it's just like you're
energized, but you're contemplative, right? So
I appreciate you being vulnerable enough to share
that, right? And let folk know, listen, Therapy
is a is another safe space, right? And it's an
important space where us as black men specifically
need to find ourselves where we can have these
these healthy conversations that include healthy
pushback. So again, I appreciate you for that.
So so. So with that being said, right, I want
to pause and name something that's been heavy
on a lot of us. The passing of Malcolm Jamal
Warner. That hit us hard. So Donnie what came
up for you when you heard the news? Oh Man, so
um, I was driving to get some lunch yesterday
I got a text message from another poet here in
Houston and um, they broke the news Of course,
you know, some folks know that Michael Jamal
Warner was a poet or the damn good with that
You know some folks don't but like, you know,
I know him as it's an actor But then later on
down the line knew his work as a poet And that
was context of why the other poet hit me up.
I immediately called my mother. And the reason
I called her was because there's one thing that
she's allowed me, Space Force, I've gotten older,
is to be a container for conversations about
things I don't understand. Even if she doesn't
have an answer. If there are things you don't
understand, you can call me. Whenever you're
confused, you can call me. And I just had this
heaviness on me. I don't know Michael Jamal Warner,
right? It is not like a... I didn't have some
intensive relationship with his acting or his
work, you know, but there's something about just...
life, living, the susceptibility that we all
have. I mean, we're all gonna pass on, but we
think about our relationship with death, especially
as black men, early transition, and we recognize
the accident, but still, it's on you, right?
It's like 54, it's like, man, 32. And so I was
talking to her just about my thoughts I've been
having a lot lately just about how we affirm
life and, you know, how do we sustain a measure
of sacrality around life and living, especially
when we come from, you know, conditions where
we've been dehumanized to the point of it being
policy, right? Like it being policy. So we hear,
right? It's like, I ask the question all the
time, like, what does it mean to be bred? Like,
that's the beginning conversation for us, right?
Like, we're not talking about the history of
Africa, but like, as Black folk in this country,
like, what does it mean to be bred? So, you know,
not to get too heady about it, but it's like
the idea of like, affirming life. Like, what
does that mean in practice, right? Because it's
like, You know, we look up, we lost Brenda Flack
this year. And I do believe there's something
to be said about, you know, people that use their
creativity to allow space for folks to feel or
engage with love, feel or engage with joy. I
feel like when those folks, when, you know, when
they pass on, we are missing something. There
is something missing. It's not categorizing them,
putting them in hierarchy, you know, people pass,
but it's just like, we talk about how it is someone
uses their life, right? To put out, you know,
whether it be messaging, art, you know, their
principles like that has to do with like sustaining
joy, sustaining love. When that person is gone,
it does feel like something missing. We're not
gonna get that back, right? We're not gonna get
that back. And so, you know, it's just talking
to her just about like, you know, again. creating
space for affirming life and how to do that,
how to do that in my work, right? Like, especially
like creating space for, for affirming life amongst
us, right? You know, amongst us, because, you
know, there's a different strategy, different
practice I feel like, different conversations
to be had. And so it hit me, it hit me the way
I wasn't expecting, but, you know, It was a long
-standing conversation I've just been having
about, like, sacrality in life, affirming life,
and how, as an artist, you know, how you do that
and provide space for that. Well, listen, I appreciate
you sharing that. And I'll offer my thoughts
on Malcolm Jamal Warner a bit later. But what
I will say is, for so many of us, especially
Black men of a certain age, Malcolm represented
something real. right he was for many of us he
was the first one to show us tenderness to show
us what it looked like to grapple with identity
emotions and relationships and public and so
that's what and that's part of what makes your
book so so needed and so timely so i want to
get into that right so your book my daddy never
taught me how to write a love song why this book
why now Oh man, I mean, you know, there's a lot
of answers to that, but I try to keep it succinct.
You know, it was, it was now or never really,
right? Like I've been working on different iterations
of this book for the last 10 years, and specifically
within this iteration, which covers, you know,
kind of my becoming a father, then becoming a
quote unquote single father. I'm trying to move
away from that, you know, that language. It has
a particular connotation I don't appreciate,
but either way, like being the primary caretaker
for my child, you know, there's a story that
comes with that, that I needed to exercise. And
I wrote the book, I wrote this iteration over
the course of like three months, and then, you
know, worked to get it in a publishable shape,
and then get it published. You know, part of
being a publisher is like, you get rejection,
rejections, rejections, being like, I'm moving
on from the story. I'm not gonna want to be talking
about this story when I'm, you know, I'm 32 now,
when I'm 42. Even when I'm 37, I think about
that a lot. It's like, I don't want to be in
that narrative. It's a part of my narrative,
but I don't want to be in it anymore. So it was
like now or never. And I reached out to a wonderful
artist in Wisconsin, Nakesha Roberts and... you
know, she has an organization and a publishing
company, John Urban Arts. I said, hey, look,
you know, I wanna, I would love to pitch my work.
I would love for y 'all to take on the work.
She was just, you know, without question. Cause
she'd already been, you know, incredibly supportive
of my, you know, of my poetry, especially for
like the last year or two. And so she was like,
without question. you know, that question. So
sorry. You know, it was, it was, it was time.
It was time. But I told myself a few months,
it was like few months before. If not this year,
I'm putting this up. We'll move on because I
can't live in this narrative anymore. I'll be
telling myself. lies about where I am now as
compared to where I was. And I don't wanna do
that. Like I've moved forward from certain things.
So let's just put this out, let's get it out.
Let's get this out there, yeah. Yeah. So with
that being said, what were you reckoning with
as you wrote it? And so having somebody who's
navigated. I'm here today, right? Because I was
questioning, vacillating whether I was going
to say successfully or not. But again, I'm here
in this moment, which is truly the only thing
that matters, right? So that is success. And
so I can only imagine me writing my story about
navigating fatherhood, being the father of a
daughter and now a son, all the things that may
come up for me in this. So again, with that being
said, what were you reckoning with as you wrote
it? I mean, quite a bit, you know, it was, the
first thing is like, you know, how do you protect
people, right? Like, you know, I don't, I'm not
a father without other people, right, who are
involved in my becoming a father. So how do you
protect that person, right? How do you protect,
I mean, the title of my daddy never taught me
how to write a love song. Like, how do you protect
my father? How do you protect certain people
that, you know, are pivotal to, you know, the
poems in this book without it being exploitative
and extractive, but it being to sustain, it existing
to sustain my voice as the primary kind of attention
-bearer and holder for the audience. Like this
is not about. them this is about me because they
have stories their own you know and and they
get to own those right but how they show up in
my story i get to own but it's all but it's still
navigating within that how do you protect people
that's one thing and second thing is like my
kids gonna read this one day you know it's like
what you know i need to make sure that it's something
that when she picks up she's not looking at me
like Like, what's going on? Like, you know, why
did you write this? And third, you know, it's
making sure it's truthful, right? And truth can
be, truth is already a gray area word, right?
There's a lot of ambiguity in truth. Like, what's
my truth for sure? Oh, it's your truth, my truth,
and the truth. It's like, there's really no truth.
Like, it's all stories at the end of the day,
right? It's like operating from places of memory
that is, you know, could be. could be filled
by misinformation and, you know, filled by, you
know, whatever else that can, you know, interrupt
the facts of, you know, the facts of history,
personal histories otherwise. And so, okay, what's
the truth here, which ultimately is asking the
question, like, what's my truth and the complete
truth? Like, where was I a contradiction? Or
what was I contradictory? Like, where was I at
fault? Where was, you know, where am I the person
that needs to hold or bear the responsibility
of the story, regardless of how I feel, regardless
of the resentment I bear? It's like, I have ownership.
I need to take ownership of certain things and
be honest about that if I'm going to write this.
Because if I can't do that, you'll need to write
this. So all those things, right? And then, of
course, there's the artist thing. It's like,
do I have the talent, the skill enough to pull
this off? So, you know, those are the different
things I was working through. You highlighted
this idea of protection, right? When we're writing
stories that involve other people, as you articulated,
we aren't necessarily single fathers. We interact
with so many different entities that influence
how we show up as fathers. It reminded me of
my dissertation, which was, I'm not going to
bore folk with the details, but it's an autoethnography
of stories of me navigating my mental health,
which is based in a memoir, and then juxtaposing
that with Black men's mental health here in Philadelphia
and here in America. And one of the things I
learned when writing this auto -ethnographic
endeavor was this idea of triangulation, right?
When it comes to specifically coming to, because
it's data, right? It's data. And so when we talk
about this idea of truth, right? And so we have
this emotional truth that exists, right? These
feelings connected to these experiences that
we have. And then when we're able to step outside
of that emotion, we have this cognitive awareness,
right? That, hey, this what was happening, this
was the context of which it was happening. Not
to say that invalidates how you're feeling, right?
But we also have to be mindful of that. And then
we have this input from others, right? Because,
again, there's other people in this story, which,
again, goes to the ideas of protection. How am
I going to tell this story that's authentic to
me? while still respecting that somebody else
who's a part of this story and who I may be talking
about didn't necessarily experience it that way
and see it this way. And so I think you highlighted
how we're consistently negotiating that when
we are writing from this first person perspective.
So I appreciate you bringing that up. Now, in
your book, you talk about legacy, right? You
talk about learning to love with intention. What
did writing this book reveal to you about love,
and maybe what love isn't? So, you know, the
title, my daddy never told me how to write love
songs. Love songs, you know, are an anchor for
the book, right? Because that's, I look at, you
know, I look at soul, R &B, blues. I look at
the legacies of this music. that kind of illustrate
for us how love should be. But a lot of that
stuff is like, you know, it's people know now
is trademark, it trademarks codependency, right?
Like emotional abuse, manipulation, emotional
terrorism, like all these things. And I talk
about that, right? But for me, it's looking at
what are the, there's a section that's specifically
was my experience learning how to care for my
child by myself, like principally by myself.
or as the principal character. And, you know,
thinking about like the pop cultural imprints,
thinking about the cultural imprints, thinking
about all the things that kind of show up in
the world around me as I'm like trying to navigate,
how do I do this? And then looking out and seeing
like, oh, these are the relationships in my community
that I'm seeing take shape around me, or these
are the relationships that I'm seeing kind of
unfold. And it's like, that's not love. That's
not what it should be. I may not be able to name
what it is, but it can't be that, because, you
know, where are y 'all? I had these neighbors,
there's a poem I wrote about my neighbors, like
every day it was F -U, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah,
nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah,
nah, nah, nah, nah, nah existed in my family,
exist in my family, right? Like that their friends
could kind of call upon as like touch points
of like, you know, where they've seen people,
you know, try to find love in these explosive,
you know, emotionally terroristic terrains. And
there's a lot that goes into it. But to me, one
of the most important things was like, naming
what it isn't, right? Like where it wasn't in
my story. with people I've dated, with the relationship
with my child's mother, relationships I've had
with paternal figures of my life, places where
it wasn't, without naming or without shaming
or passing judgments like, but this just wasn't
what it was. And maybe this is why it wasn't
what it was, but still the name of this wasn't
what it was. But it still gets to be, it's just,
we're gonna figure it out next time. But right
now, we talk about what it's not. Because a lot
of touch points for people, like what it is in
popular culture, in the things we hold on to
very tightly, right? Like music, the arts, it's
not an expression of love. It's not an expression
of what love has to be for us to get to the place
that we want to. We have other conversations
about our people, right? So that was the me.
what I was learning in real time, but then also,
you know, what I was attempting to illustrate
and how all these things play a role in just
like my day -to -day, right? And loving my daughter,
learning to figure out what loving my daughter
looks like. Learning to figure out what loving
myself can look like, you know, while raising
a child. So yeah, just a lot of heady work. No,
I think that's important to go a little bit deeper.
When we talk about writing as a tool, it's not
just for expression. It's also for healing. It's
also for coping. It's also for understanding.
I think we talked about Malcolm Jamal Warner.
He's grown up. God bless the ancestor. He's grown
up in the spotlight from a young teenager. to
an adult man on television, right? With the Tracee
Ellis Ross show, which was him and Tracee Ellis
Ross on, I believe it was BET, right? We've seen
this change, right? This evolution. Again, we
don't know him personally, right? But then when
we see him in the spotlight and we see him talking
about Black folk, when we hear him through his
music, when we see him through his poetry, it's
just this profound love. that he has for folk.
And we like, that used to be Lil' Theo. Now Lil'
Theo is this grown man who, again, who centers
Black folk. So what I hear you talking about,
again, it's about healing. It's about coping.
It's about understanding. And that's why I believe
that writing is such an important tool when we
talk about this healing journey that so many
of us say that we're on. Writing can be such
an integral part. Can you speak to that? Absolutely.
I'm going to actually, you know, I have this
book here, this is my book, this is Essex Hemphill's
Ceremonies. And I always, you know, I always
talk Essex Hemphill when I talk about my work,
because like that, he was, he's my North Star
in a lot of ways. There's a few authors and poets
that are my North Stars, Essex, Chris Sabani,
and so on and so forth. But Essex, you know,
he was, he was deeply involved in, you know,
in the 90s, you know, during the AIDS crisis
as a Black gay man, as an artist, as a poet,
as an activist. But he did it, right? It's like,
we talk about writing with vigor, emotional vigor.
writing from a place of love, even when it seems
like love can't be found, right? You're talking
about a brother who passed away in 94 in D .C.
Like what else happened in D .C. around that
time? May and May had marched. There was a lot
of brothers who weren't there that should have
been there. But, you know, for him, the anchor,
you know, is... Joseph Beams, you know, one of
his comrades who also passed, that Black men
loving Black men is a revolutionary act. So,
like, what does that mean, writing about Black
men when it seems like there's a lot of brothers
that don't love you? How do you write about love
in that respect? So when you work from that,
you know, you did it, right? And people can talk
about, like, some extra contradictions. Well,
we all have contradictions, but it's just, like,
for me to get to, you know, my book, it's like...
I gotta start with those who already did it,
right? Essex, Baldwin, Chris Sabani, right? These
cats that like, they took into a writing with
vigor, they took it on. But it also is poetry
as intervention, right? It's something I'm also
looking to explore. You know, poetry that could
be, it could operate as a tool. It's like, it
doesn't always have to be cathartic. I feel like
catharsis is fine, but when we talk about art
operating as a tool for wellness, as a tool for
violence prevention, as a tool, as a public health
tool, it's like, it can't just be cathartic.
But how do you write out of catharsis and move
into writing with a kind of vigor, writing with
a kind of emotional truth, writing with a kind
of intention to be impactful? And that takes
reading the cats that have done it. It takes
reading the cats that have written in kind of,
written from a place of like, written from an
emotional real estate that... is so vast and
so grand and encompasses so many different complex
colored emotions like Essex had to do with ceremonies.
You got to do the knowledge. You got to study.
You got to read. You cannot be a good writer
if you're not a reader. And not just reading,
but processing. Right. Um, so you gotta you gotta
read nothing to me. It's like that. That's where
it begins, like knowing who's done it. I'm not
the first one to do it. And there's a lot of
things I still need to do to get to where I would
like to. But, you know, yeah, you know, I shout
out Essex when it comes to being a model. Yeah.
And what you're talking about, right? You're
talking about tradition, right? We're talking
about tradition of black men using storytelling.
as we can't even get to healing if we're not
surviving, right? So first and foremost, we're
talking about survival. And so with that being
said, and you being a part of this tradition,
I'm certain that'll be a black boy, a black man,
or somebody who loves black boys and black men,
who'll watch this and who'll look at you as,
hey, you know what, you're my North Star. Right.
So what's a prompt that you can offer to those
who are watching for them to begin their own
reflection process? What's the problem? That's
a good question. That's a good question. I would
say you start with the basics, like write about
what it means to feel good. Yeah, write about
what it means to feel good. Yeah. Yeah, I'm gonna
tell you what Sonia Sanchez, you know, the Jagna,
when she told me I was writing the aforementioned
dissertation, I was sitting in the coffee shop,
shout out to Uncle Bobby's, my cheers. And I
was sitting in there and she came in, you know,
I'm on chapter like. like four or five, whatever
chapter I was on. And I was like, listen, I'm
going to say something to her. I just got to
say hello, right? I got to say hi. And so I went
up to her. She's so short in stature, but big
in personality and all of these things. And so
I said, listen, I'm struggling, Sister Sanchez,
to just get my thoughts out for this. And she
said, Phil, listen. She said, just write what
you see. Write what you see right now, right?
And I'm like, Initially, I was just like, huh?
Wait, what? No, I'm supposed to be writing on
this. I got to write for the assignment. I have
to write for the work. I have to just write what
you see. And so that's what I did. I sat. I had
the person next to me who was drinking coffee,
who was laughing. I had the person outside just
walking back and forth. And I started writing
about these things. And what that did was that
freed me up from the bondage that was this writer's
block. And so, hey, what feels good to you? That's
a start. It doesn't have to be anything, again,
extraordinary, even just an ordinary, a smile
or so forth. So I appreciate you offering that.
Now, with that being said, will you feel comfortable
in sharing just a short piece from your book?
For sure, for sure. Just the equivalent of, I
don't even know if you old enough, you 32, right?
You might remember the boy who outside the store
hustling in the city. He's like, yo, I spit high
five. Well, give me something then. Give me something.
No, this is for the beast. So I'm writing what
you see. This piece called Unit 201. Yeah, I
think a lot of times we can... so wrapped up
and kind of moving forward like we we tend to
forget that things have happened and those things
should be memorialized um and we should still
hold space for like honoring those things so
uh this is unit 201 i wonder if my sweat haunts
the shower water or if what i heard was my upstairs
neighbors or just us from the year before i knocked
on the ceiling but no one answered me At night,
I swear I heard stomping above my head. Thing
is, it sounded like my daughter during lunchtime
running away from the choo -choo train of carrots
smushed in the carpet, and that was her first
wake. And that woman who used to say my name
before confession, I wonder if the floorboard
still accounts for her weight. The pounds that
have gone missing since I've become a single
father. And new paint keeps our family dinners
secret to new tenants, but we did live. We did
fight and dance and miscommunicate and added
too much salt to our jollof rice. And we did
arrive as two and became three before we departed
in our original numbers. And what is the mathematics
of a poltergeist if the hallways are a record
of a family that didn't keep? Call it an archive,
a tomb, but we did live. I wonder if the Uno
cards left in the closet are Ouija board and
if the children who occupy my daughter's room
can conjure the first time she rolled over. And
I wonder if they could give that back to me if
I ask nice enough. I wonder if they ever cleaned
out the microwave or if the kitchen still smells
like two kids who didn't know what to do, but
still we did live. We did. We lived and cried
and double socked infant feet up to the ankle
when the snow suffocated the winter. And we ignored
the mail piled on the counter until it was a
mountain. Does the counter weigh the same? How
much of my breath lingers in the liminal space
of the second floor hallway? I ask the same of
the songs I hummed to carry me. Where are the
fingerprints on the books we've read? The same
for the crib we built. Do the mothers who can
walk through the living room feel her contractions?
And when I asked her what they said, when I asked
her what they would say, if all that were found
here was as we left it, she replied, they'd say
they tried. A few studies there, but yeah, you
get the idea. No, no, that's love. We ain't gotta
do that. Well, you got to do that. No, that was
the wow. Wow. Thank you for that. Thank you for
that. Listen, Donnie, I want to thank you again
for coming through and for sharing so vulnerably
today. How and where can folks support you and
your work? You know, a beautiful thing. You said
to me before, it's like when you Google a book,
it's pretty easy. You can look me up, Donnie
Moreland on Google. You'll see everything from
my link tree for Fellowship of the Griots, which
can be found on Instagram, Fellowship of the
Griots. Or you can find me, you can say Donnie
Moreland. I'm all on the first page of Google.
So, you know, you'll find my writings, the book,
all that. But if you want to know like more specifically,
Donnie Moreland, link tree, everything's on there.
So we're we're well, thank you again. Thank you
again, brother. I appreciate it. Listen, before
we close, I want to offer a reflection of my
own, something I wrote after learning about Malcolm
Jamal Warner's passing, because this loss hit
different. Here's what I wrote. This Malcolm
Jamal Warner def has me in shambles, more grief
and loss for black folk of a certain age to process.
Certain celebrities have such a profound impact
on our lives. Through his portrayal of Theo,
Malcolm showed me vulnerability, naivete, and
identity grappling. He introduced us to neurodivergence
through strength, not shame. In his roles, Malcolm
showed us the importance and influence of Black
boy and men relationships. Malcolm showed our
tenderness, evident in his booming smile and
always elegant reflection on Black life. He loved
us. This hurts. Malcolm loved us, and that still
matters. He showed us what it could look like
to be seen, not just for our strength, but for
our softness. And Donnie, your work is part of
that same lineage. To those watching, I want
to leave you with this. What's something you
inherited from a man in your life that you've
had to unlearn? What's a kind of love you're
still learning how to give? Take a moment. Write
it down. Speak it aloud. Tell someone you trust,
because when it comes to men's mental health
and wellness, the road isn't easy, but it's worth
it. Peace.