Celebrate Father's Day and Juneteenth: A glimpse into lives of Black Indianapolis dads

This year, the celebrations of Father’s Day and Juneteenth fall on the same day.

The first Black fathers on American soil in 1619 did not have the legal right to parent their children.

They would not be granted this right until over 200 years later when President Abraham Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation in 1863, ending slavery.

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However, it wasn’t until two years after, in 1865, that enslaved people in Galveston, Texas, would receive news of their freedom, a moment which is now commemorated by the celebration of Juneteenth.

Even after emancipation, continued racism created challenges for Black fathers, prevalent today: incarceration at disproportionate rates, removing them from homes; race-based denial of home loans and business loans, eliminating generational wealth; health inequities, cutting lives short.

To honor Black history and Juneteenth, IndyStar is celebrating Black fatherhood by sharing a glimpse into the lives of four dads who – despite the legacy of racism and its impact – showcase selflessness, love, compassion and commitment.

Defining his role as a father by his partnership with his wife

James Melton was on the eve of becoming an empty nester.

He and his wife had two daughters in college working toward medical school, while their youngest son, an honor-roll student, was a junior in high school, soon off to college himself.

But in January 2021 things took an unexpected turn.

A heart attack sent his wife’s sister to the hospital. She ended up on a ventilator for nearly a month. Then, the difficult decision to remove it was made. She died, leaving behind four sons ages 22, 13, 11 and seven.

The biological father of the boys said he wasn’t ready to parent full-time. He asked the Meltons if they would take the younger three, a move Melton said he anticipated.

When his wife looked to him for approval, Melton, who defines his role as a father as “being a partner to my wife,” agreed without hesitation.

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“I did not want her to feel,” Melton said, “as if she were making this decision alone.”

He then drove over 700 miles from Pensacola, Florida, where the funeral was held, to Indianapolis with his expanded nuclear family: wife, son and three nephews.

His remodeling plans to make the house suitable for “just the two of us” were halted and reversed.

Where Melton, 53, was once hanging white curtains above white carpet in the soon-to-be all-white living room, he was now moving in bunk beds and buying backpacks for back-to-school.

His old parenting methods were dusted off and reapplied.

“The things that worked well for our kids,” Melton said, “we want to do the same for them.”

For his nephews, this meant establishing an unfamiliar set of expectations like folding laundry and cutting the grass; going to school on days they didn’t want to; waking up for church on Sunday mornings; exchanging video-game time for extracurriculars like football, basketball and bowling instead.

For Melton, this meant regularly waking up at 5:00 a.m. to ensure his nephews were up for school and breakfast was ready before the bus arrived.

The transition was difficult for all. But it was particularly challenging for the oldest nephew, who Melton said is on the autism spectrum and had frequent disciplinary issues.

However, after 1.5 years of “consistency, genuineness and love,” Melton said there’s been a drastic difference in each child’s behavior.

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He's kept their dad in the loop during the process, buying the oldest nephew a cell phone to maintain contact with his dad. Melton sends photos of report cards, sporting events and birthday parties to their father too.

“I have a good relationship with my dad. My son has a good relationship with me,” Melton said. “I want the same thing for them, and I don’t want them to feel any pressure between loving me and loving their dad.”

Restoring peace among his family and the community

Like many fathers, Daniel Mallory wears a variety of hats.

With his fiancé’s 18-year-old son, he holds deep conversations, helps with Spanish homework and hands out gas money.

With his own 26-year-old daughter – whose life he witnessed mostly through photographs, having spent over 15 years in prison for battery, armed robbery and other charges – he sometimes has hard conversations and works to repair their relationship.

With his five-year-old grandson, he tries to relive the experiences he lost with his daughter, teaching him the alphabet, celebrating birthdays and sharing laughs.

“I’m a father, man, so I love my family. But I’m not just the father of my biological family,” Mallory said. “I feel like I’m big uncle, big brother, you know, to a lot of these youngsters out here who don’t have that.”

Mallory’s presence as a father figure extends beyond his immediate family and into the streets of Indianapolis where he once roamed. Streets where he said he’s experienced homelessness and drug addiction. Streets where he’s lost loved ones to gun violence and narrowly escaped death himself, having been shot five times, he said.

Those encounters motivate him to maneuver as many people away from that trajectory as possible.

“My mission,” Mallory said, “personally, I just want to help who I can help, when I can help them. And if that means that I’ve helped somebody keep their life, that’s a goal.”

Mallory, 43, who grew up seeing his own father incarcerated, believes his history could have been avoided if he had better role models like he aims to be for others.

Although Mallory said he’s always been a mentor to young men on the streets, in 2020 that role was formalized. Two years after his last release from prison, he began teaching classes at the Edna Martin Christian Center, helping others learn how to do things like create a resume and open a bank account.

Outside of classes, he found himself helping in other ways.

“A lot of these guys were coming home from prison, probation, things of that nature,” Mallory said. “I know the language. They looked up to me. So, it was basically me just showing them like, ‘yeah, I know what you’re going through.’ And I kind of became the go-to guy for guidance.”

His advice: “I don’t want to see you in prison. I want you out here with your kids, successful, safe and alive.”

That message has become increasingly important in Indianapolis amid record-breaking homicide years. And in January 2022, Mallory was hired by the Indianapolis Office of Public Health and Safety as a life coach to help curb city violence.

He counts his “blessings” by the impact he’s able to have, like seeing a former felon go from wearing prison-issued khakis to a suit and tie, or, talking someone through a desperate situation who called him at 3:00 a.m. contemplating robbery.

“God designed this, you know, this path for me,” Mallory said, “and I'm just walking.”

'The family I made is one I'm proud of'

Brandon Woodson was barely of legal age to watch R-rated movies when he found out his high school sweetheart was pregnant.

He was a senior at Lawrence Central High School, a star defensive back on the varsity football team with multiple scholarship offers.

She was a junior at Lawrence Early College High School, his most fervent fan who never missed a game.

In the words of Woodson, “one thing led to another,” and in 2008 he had to answer a very adult question: “Do I want to repeat the same cycle I had growing up,” Woodson said, “living in a fatherless household?”

Woodson, 32, never knew his own father, who he said was lost to gun violence when Woodson was just two months old.

When Woodson walked across the stage with his high school diploma in May 2009, his one-month-old son watched.

“For me,” Woodson said, “what was most important was being there every day of my son’s life. It wouldn’t have been fair for her to take care of something we did together.”

He rejected his football scholarship offers, delayed college and remained in Indianapolis to support his new family.

She continued living with her parents, who Woodson said didn’t approve of them having the baby nor their relationship afterward.

“They were telling her a lot of things like, ‘he’s not a good dad. He’s not going to be there,’” Woodson said. “We were on our own. It was just us against the world.”

Still living with his mom, Woodson scrambled into survival mode: he worked nights at an Amazon warehouse; spent his days in an electronic technician program; occasionally picked up his girlfriend from school; attended doctor's appointments with their son. And, he bought diapers.

“I was just so determined to provide,” Woodson said.

She graduated in 2010. Together with their son they drove to Terre Haute and moved into a tiny one-bedroom apartment offered by Indiana State University, where day care services were provided.

But before he could finish his sophomore year, she gave birth to their second child, and Woodson dropped out to work full-time while she continued her studies.

“I just feel like it was something I knew I had to do,” Woodson said. “I wasn’t going to let her drop out, work and take care of me while I was in school.”

When she graduated in 2015, they moved back to Indianapolis, got married and rented a house.

In January, their third child was born. This time it was intentional, a distinction Woodson emphasized.

He looks back on his journey filled with gratitude.

“I was working for something,” Woodson said. “I was working for a happy home.”

He loves his oldest son’s charisma, his daughter’s determination and his baby boy’s innocence.

“The family that I made is one that I’m proud of.”

This dad works hard to 'be there more'

When his son was three years old, Quinton Collins bought him a pair of LeBron basketball shoes, drove him to the gym and walked him through his first-ever basketball training lesson.

A photo of his son from that day – Collins’ favorite picture – hangs from a gold necklace around his neck, forever memorializing the moment.

Moments like these are not only ones Collins, 32, cherishes, they’re also ones he didn’t have as a child; raised alone with four other siblings by their mother, while his father’s presence was in-and-out.

“Even if you didn’t have a dad, you still learn how to be one,” Collins said. “You know what you missed. You know what you didn’t have. So, you give that to your kids.”

Collins gives his son everything: He gave him those late-night hours when he was an infant, making bottles and feeding him.

He gave him his PlayStation controller when his hands were big enough to hold it, even though he was too young to play.

He gives him honesty, advice and open communication.

“I enjoy when I sit him down,” Collins said, “and say, ‘What do you think I can do better as a parent?’”

He gives him his heart, which was broken once four years ago when Collins asked that same question and his son responded, “be there more.” It was shortly after Collins had separated from his son’s mom and moved out of the house while his son stayed behind.

“After that,” Collins said, “I did everything I could to be in his life more.”

Where others occasionally lose hope, Collins leaned in closer.

He amped up efforts to increase one-on-one time. He offered to pick his son up from school on the days he wasn’t scheduled to see him. He took him to watch Pacers games, shoot hoops at the park and eat ice cream.

And when his son, now 11 years old, moved to Atlanta, Georgia, last year where his mom now works, Collins remained committed to being there more, adding thousands of miles to his car on trips to watch him play basketball, more than once.

Why?

“To let him know,” Collins said, “that I still love him.”

Contact IndyStar reporter Brandon Drenon at 317-517-3340 or BDrenon@gannett.com. Follow him on Twitter: @BrandonDrenon.

Brandon is also a Report for America corps member with the GroundTruth Project, an independent, nonpartisan, nonprofit news organization dedicated to supporting the next generation of journalists in the U.S. and around the world.

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This article originally appeared on Indianapolis Star: Father's Day, Juneteenth mean twice as much to these 4 Black dads