Black M.O.A.C.A.

I am Black. I am a baby boomer. I was born a Negro, somewhere in that narrow gap between Colored and Black, which means I’ve lived long enough to watch language change, music change, politics change, and common sense occasionally pack up and leave the country altogether. More importantly, I am now a man of a certain age, old enough to have experienced a lot of things and young enough to still believe I can do a few more.

When I turned 50, I announced to my family that I had officially reached old man status and could now say whatever the hell I wanted. AARP even sent me a card, which felt like some sort of official government certification. My children’s response was immediate: “You’ve been doing that our whole lives.” They weren’t wrong, but there is a difference. Before 50, I was just opinionated. After 50, I became an elder. Now when I say something completely inappropriate, I can blame it on age, wisdom, or a senior moment. That’s old people privilege.

More than a decade later, I think I’m more comfortable speaking my mind than I’ve ever been. It shows up most in my writing. As Dr. Dre once said, “When I get mad, I put it down on a pad.” I understand that completely. There’s a freedom that comes with reaching this stage of life. You stop worrying so much about who agrees with you and focus more on whether what you’re saying is true. I’ve come to appreciate the power that comes with being a Black MOACA—Black Man Of A Certain Age. Unfortunately, that acronym sits entirely too close to Black MAGA, which y’all know good and damn well I am not.

Nobody tells you exactly what this stage of life is like. There is no instruction manual explaining how to properly jump off the porch when you’re a senior citizen. There’s no chapter titled “Things That Suddenly Hurt for No Apparent Reason” or “Why Falling Down Has Become a Community Event.” One day you realize that leaping into the air without effort is something you used to do. My sons step off curbs without a second thought. I approach curbs like a civil engineer assessing a bridge. I look at the angle, evaluate the landing zone, and consider the long-term consequences before proceeding.

Here’s what nobody tells you about being in very good shape at 63: your body will still snitch on you. I work out three or four times a week. I watch what I eat. I take reasonably good care of myself. Yet every single time I stand up from a chair, my body insists on providing a soundtrack. Grunts. Groans. Audible evidence that joints and muscles are participating in a negotiation I was never invited to attend. The sounds are involuntary, which means they are also impossible to defend. My kids have taken to imitating them and have collectively labeled them “old man noises.” I want to be offended, but the prosecution has overwhelming evidence.

Sometimes I’ll stand up and make a noise so dramatic that I have to stop and ask myself what exactly hurt. The answer is usually nothing. Apparently existing now requires sound effects.

The truth is I’m embracing aging. My dad used to say, “You don’t ever want to F around and miss a birthday,” and the older I get, the more wisdom I find in that statement. Every gray hair, every ache, every unnecessary groan when getting out of bed is evidence that I’m still here. A lot of people I’ve loved didn’t get this far. I try to remember that whenever I catch myself complaining about being old.

Every Father’s Day for the past 17 years, I’ve run the Race Against Hate. It’s a 5K, but for me it’s always been about more than fitness. The race means something in our community, and over the years it has become a family tradition. My sons started running it a few years ago, and now Father’s Day includes gathering at the starting line, talking trash, pretending we’re all in peak condition, and then discovering who was lying.

Last year my youngest son ran it for only the second time. Because of construction, the normal 10K was shortened to an 8K, so we decided to do that instead of the 5K. He trained exactly zero days. I’m fairly certain he ate Popeyes the night before. He showed up looking less like an athlete and more like someone heading to a family barbecue. Then he proceeded to beat both me and his older brother by a margin that suggested he had secretly been preparing for the Olympics while we weren’t paying attention.

I still finished in 53 minutes, comfortably under my goal of 55. More importantly, I wasn’t the least bit upset that my sons outran me. I was proud. That’s MOACA energy right there. I’m not trying to be 28. I know exactly what this 63-year-old body can do, and I’ve reached the stage of life where competing against younger versions of myself feels unnecessary. Watching my sons fly past me isn’t a loss. It’s the entire point. That’s what I raised them to do.

In three weeks, we’ll run it again. We all agreed that a 5K is plenty. There’s just one problem: I’m battling plantar fasciitis and haven’t run in over a month.

Plantar fasciitis may be the most MOACA injury ever invented. There’s nothing dramatic about it. No heroic story. No tale involving a basketball court, a football field, or an act of bravery. Your foot simply wakes up one morning and decides it no longer wishes to cooperate with management. That’s it. One day you’re walking normally, the next day your heel has filed a formal grievance.

I’ve done everything they tell you to do. Stretches. Ice. Compression socks that make me look like I’m recovering from experimental surgery. Rolling a golf ball under my foot while sitting at my desk. Reading articles written by people who seem far too excited about foot pain. My foot remains completely unimpressed by these efforts.

Still, those of us from the “rub some dirt on it” generation don’t let a sore foot interfere with commitments that matter. We understand that some things transcend comfort. This race is one of them. I’ll be there. Maybe slower than I’d like. Maybe limping afterward. Almost certainly making old man noises for several days. But I’ll be there because some things you do whether your body agrees or not.

The boys don’t have plantar fasciitis. The boys don’t have anything except youth and the audacity that comes with knees that simply work. They don’t stretch before getting out of bed. They don’t discuss recovery techniques. They don’t have conversations about arch support. They wake up, move, run, jump, and continue living their lives without ever considering the miracle of functioning joints.

What I’m learning at 63 is that the freedom isn’t just in speaking your mind. The freedom comes from knowing your limitations and showing up anyway. It comes from understanding that life isn’t a competition against younger people. It’s a privilege denied to many. It comes from watching your children surpass you and feeling nothing but pride. It comes from accepting every gray hair, every ache, every groan, and every mile as evidence that you’ve been fortunate enough to keep going.

So in a few weeks, I’ll lace up my shoes, fire up my 5K playlist, and let the music carry me wherever my foot is willing to go. There’ll be some X-Clan, some Digable Planets, some Poor Righteous Teachers, maybe a little Tribe, and always some Prince. Music suitable for Black Men Of A Certain Age.

MOACAs.