Four years ago, I began my career as a writer with the admission that I do not know my biological father. In some ways, it was appropriate to begin my journey with this fact, a reality that shaped so much of who I am. For me, writing is, was and always will be about being real, and because of that my writing has a tendency to be on the personal side. I have been accused of airing dirty laundry - my own and black folks' in general. But I prefer to see my work in terms of exposing humanity - my own and that of black folks. Since no one is perfect, flaws are ultimately a testament to one's humanity.

Also about four years ago, I coached a basketball team at the local high school. The sassy young black and Latina girls I worked with had attitudes that incessantly surpassed their talent. I didn't mind that so much; I knew my girls had a lot on their plates at school, at home and the world, so I didn't knock them for having developed chips on their shoulders. Instead, I took advantage of the time we shared to talk to them about more than basketball. I fancied myself a mentor of sorts, helping them with writing assignments on long bus trips, checking in with them on their personal lives, encouraging them to have respect for themselves and not to worry too much about boys. "You only get one chance at being young," I would tell them. "Make the most of it."

I ran into a couple of the girls the other day while I was out shopping. One was largely pregnant; the other told me she has a four-month-old son at home. Neither girl is married, and neither one is in school at the moment, although they both claimed school was in their future. I asked about the fathers; were they still around? The young woman who was pregnant (she has since delivered her baby, a boy I think) showed me a ring and assured me she was soon to be married, while the other young mother just rolled her eyes. I told them both to call me if they ever needed any help, wished them luck, and we went our separate ways.

Seeing two of my former players, barely out of high school, with burgeoning families caused me more than a moment of conflict. When I was their coach, I worked hard to impress upon them that they were at a crossroads in their lives. They would tell me that everyone - teachers, "society" and, in some cases, their own families - had already given up on them. I would tell them that was no reason to give up on themselves. Even though they were city kids who weren't ever supposed to amount to anything, they could do better. They listened to me, even if somewhat skeptically. They listened, I should say, while I was there. After I left, I guess there was no one left to talk to them. When I saw them in the store, one of them told me that if I had stayed around, maybe things would have worked out differently for her.

I know it's not my fault that she got pregnant - hey, I wasn't there, and as of yet it's not scientifically possibly that the baby's mine - but her words stuck with me. I was angry that here was another young black woman about to bring another black child into the world who may or may not grow up with his dad in the picture. I was angry with her for getting in that position, and I was angry - with no one in particular - for how hard her life was about to become. And I was angry with myself, for not being a better role model when I had the chance. Even worse, I blamed myself, an unwed mom, for modeling negative behavior - something I struggle with constantly. Young people see me and say, hell, you turned out all right. But that's not the point - I struggled through this. Being a single mom has damn near killed me. I want better for my younger sisters - all of them.

There are plenty of black people, especially perhaps those who grew up in nuclear homes with loving mothers and fathers, for whom all this talk about the plight of fatherless black children probably seems a self-fulfilling prophecy. Or just another case of the airing of dirty laundry. Generally I'm not one to step up onto that proverbial soapbox, but this Father's Day, I feel I have to say something.

Growing up without your father is not the end of the world, and in some cases, it might actually be the preferred scenario. But it can be enormously challenging, for the mother and the child. As a community, we should be actively working to ensure that fewer of our young people get caught up in this vicious cycle. This is not meant as a character assassination, but it is meant as a challenge to everyone reading this. Volunteer, mentor teenagers, talk to your own kids more, do whatever you can to make sure that at least you tried to help.