I’m the broke friend.
You know, the one who always finds a way to the party but never actually pays for anything. The one who shows up for every birthday and graduation dinner (however dreadful) and orders water, with lemon of course, and tries to find the cheapest appetizer on the menu because *cough* I ate earlier and I’m really not hungry. Oh, the lies.
I’m the broke friend.
You know, the one who gets put into GroupMe’s for planned trips to Jamaica and Dubai and festivals like AfroPunk and Broccoli City Festival with all of his educated, engaged and successful HBCU graduate friends. The one everybody decided to add, just because you’re a part of the crew but knows he won’t make it. And the one who leaves the group several days later with no notice (even though everybody knows why.)
I’m the broke friend.
You know, the one who had the full athletic scholarship but never made it to the league. The one who walked across the stage. Twice. Slept out of his car and on YOUR couch. The one who worked dead-end jobs in pursuit of a career with the master’s degree he still has to pay for. The one who realized that his purpose doesn’t include a benefits and incentives package. The one with more influence than income.
Yep. That’s me. The dreamer. The one with more hustles than Donald Trump. The one who finds more comfort in burning the midnight oil than early morning meetings with a boss I can’t stand. The one who found himself raising a child in a world he has yet to fully discover — and one he definitely can’t afford. The one with a million contacts, not a mil….you get the point.
Yes, I’m the broke friend.
And you know what? That’s okay.
Well, for the sake of this article it is — hear me out.
No one wants to be the broke friend, especially among young, successful black college grads who all have similar “started from the bottom” stories that include somebody’s mama having to work multiple jobs and surviving on chicken Ramen noodles (cuz beef is nasty) all through undergrad. But that friend is me. And although acknowledging that fact has taken a lot of humility and a few tears, it has also made me realize the value in being just that: The broke friend.
When you’re the broke friend, you learn how to find intrinsic value in what you offer and what you bring to the table. When you’re the broke friend, you can’t lead with what you have but instead who you are. You learn how to leverage personal and professional relationships in exchange for goods, services and opportunities. Being the broke friend has taught me, and most times forced me, to dig deep into myself and solve my financial problems through job creation, not job applications.
It’s taught me the power of self-affirmation and knowing that my bank statement DOES NOT accurately measure my value.
But didn’t you say you were a father?
How can you proudly call yourself a father AND the broke friend?
Well…I don’t really have a good answer for that. But I do have my truth.
Being in a situation where my daughter is well taken care of financially, despite my financial shortcomings, has been a humbling one. From daycare to diapers, her mother and I have busted our asses to make sure that she’s provided for in every way. But the reality that the primary financial responsibility for my child does not fall on me is something that tries to kill me slowly. Every meme, every gif that jokes about broke, deadbeat black fathers, while not applicable to my situation, sometimes finds me second-guessing and questioning my role as a protector, provider and leader for the daughter I love so much. I won’t lie, as I write this it brings me to tears simply because of that honest reality, but it has also does something for me that “financial security” never could.
As a licensed counselor, published author and entrepreneur, I have created a platform for myself in these years of “broke” that speaks to what it means for me to be a black father. It is a platform that finds my masculinity rooted in something other than my spending power. One that now finds strength in performing domestic duties, knowing that childcare is as important a job as any. Everything that I am, everything that I do, speaks to the life I wish for my daughter to have. One full of inquisitiveness, curiosity, passion and no limitations. One that includes a father being able to attend dance and tennis practices, practices that my mother never could due to a strenuous teaching schedule. One that not only says, but shows, not only directs, but demonstrates how to recognize that greatness isn’t something to be attained, but uncovered. And when I’m in my feelings (like tonight), my daughter reminds me that being the broke friend just means that I’m taking care of my responsibilities. Because organic, whole wheat Teddy Grahams don’t pay for themselves, you know.
I’m the broke friend.
And, on most days, I’m okay with that. Because on most days, I know without a shadow of a doubt that the things I’ve been able to accomplish with little to nothing are the stuff of legends. Yep. I’m a legend. At least this is the mentality that being the broke friend has created in me. A world where the next opportunity might just be THE opportunity. Being the broke friend has taught me how to remain focused on the work, because sightseeing is usually done in place and I have places to be. Being the broke friend keeps that chip on my shoulder and that fire under my ass. Because as genuinely happy as I am for my friends when they post their vacation pics from experiences overseas, I would much rather be the one holding the camera.
And if you’re the broke friend reading this article, please read this next line carefully.
“Just because you’re broke, doesn’t mean that you’re broken.”
As the broke friend, I’ve spoken at a Fortune 500 company, published books, created a social engagement platform with thousands of followers, partnered with companies and city government on social events and initiatives, and counseled individuals in need of help in their daily lives among other things. As the broke friend, I’ve been able to spend time discovering myself and meeting the person I was created to be. And as the broke friend, you are able to tap into parts of yourself that you might otherwise have never known existed. You finally realize that this path we’re all on is more about self-worth and discovery than it is about net worth and deposits.
So yes, I’m the broke friend. You know, the one with all the options now. The one creating jobs and not looking for them. The one who didn’t focus on the money but knows that it’s coming. The one who found peace in poverty but also the motivation to never remain there.
I’m the broke friend. And that’s okay.
Why?
Because I’m only the broke friend for right now.
And if you’re anything like me, the same applies to you.
So keep going, with ya’ broke ass. You won’t be for long.
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