On Cunningham Street in the Upper Brickyard of Clarksdale, Mississippi, Clement Edmond was a man’s man—respected and beloved by all as a bedrock of his community. He reminded me of my pops in his ability to express every aspect of what it means to be a leader and fully human. He was a traditional husband who worked while his wonderful wife, Louise, kept a safe and loving home for their thirteen children. A truck driver during the week, he could appear as an imposing figure. Yet, behind that rough façade was the tender heart of a man who loved to joke, play cards, and enjoy sports, much like his wife. Together, they produced children (boys and girls) who are tough as all get out and can also make you laugh all day long. Because of this, the Edmond household was the place where all the neighborhood children gathered as a refuge of joy and comfort. Moreover, Mr. Edmond had another quality that highlighted his dimensionality. He could cook! And, when I say cook, I don’t mean that scramble an egg or make a few sandwiches stuff. I’m a child of the ‘70s and ‘80s when people initially thought that the radiation from microwave ovens would kill us. (For those of you born after the late 80s, stores used to post “Warning microwave oven in use” on their doors because, again, many worried that we were being secretly nuked by this new technology.) So, when I say cook, I mean using multiple ingredients to make things from scratch, on top of the stove and in the oven, including his wonderful fried chicken and peach cobbler. (As an aside, two of the top cooks on our street were men as Mr. Robert Willis was a chef at a local eatery.) A man who can cook and replace a timing chain is what we in the country call multifaceted. Mr. Edmond and Mr. Willis, along with my pops and grandfather, gave me a more diverse sense of what it means to be a man. They were not singular in how they defined themselves. Being a man meant doing whatever needed to be done to care for one’s family and community. And, Mr. Edmond did this daily. I remember when I wrecked my mother’s car, and Mr. Edmond found out. He was so disappointed. When he said my name as if he was shocked, I dropped my head in embarrassment. Then, his face and tone softened. To be clear, he didn’t let me off the hook, but he didn’t crucify me either. What I remember most is him saying, “You know better than that.” It’s a very simple and common southern phrase that carries a lot of weight. In this instance, he was admonishing me—underscoring how diligently parents in our community worked to give us a better life and the responsibility that we children had to be grateful and not make life more difficult than it should be. All of that was communicated with a stern look and “You know better than that.” Then, that was it. That was the conversation because a man’s man doesn’t take forever to make a point.
When I got the news of Mr. Edmond’s passing, man was the first word that came to mind. The next was liberation. Thanks to Mr. Edmond, Mr. Willis, my pops, my grandfather, and so many more, I was never chained or enslaved to a false, one-dimensional notion of what a man is. None of these men were perfect. Yet, each of them demonstrated that love is an action verb that is only manifest in what we do. Furthermore, each of them showed me that the manliest thing that I can do is love my family and my people, which includes providing, protecting, and nurturing. The Edmond clan will continue to be a bedrock in all of the communities in which the children and grandchildren plant their feet because they are following a blueprint that breeds benevolence. R.I.P. a Man’s Man, and long live the legacy of his life.