We From Uptown
“Run through that MUUVAARF—KA! Why you PUSSYFOOTING?!”
Uncle Henry could cuss. He elevated profanity to an art form, wielding words with the finesse of a master painter blending colors on a canvas. He was constantly inventing new cuss words, stringing them together in combinations that left us both shocked and impressed. I can still hear his elongated “F—CKKK” reverberating through the house, whether he was cooking up a storm in the kitchen or sprawled out on the couch watching Westerns, eyes glued to tales of lone cowboys and endless open plains. Maybe he saw himself in them—a solitary figure against the odds, carving his own path.
I knew it was my mom’s brother up in the stands, making sure I could hear his disappointment in my unwillingness to lower my shoulder. As if running over my own larger teammate was somehow indicative of how I would approach life.
Uncle Henry’s voice thundered across Marist's Stadium, slicing through the din of cheering students and parents like a blade. Even the priests at the chapel a mile down the road paused at the echo of his booming exhortation. It was our high school spring football scrimmage, and there he was, perched high in the bleachers, shouting loud enough to make the saints themselves blush. Respectability politics? Not his style. My uncle encouraged me to cuss, to argue, even to throw a punch if the situation called for it. But doubt? Uncertainty? Those were cardinal sins. Hesitate? Not on his watch. He’d correct me with a swift pop to the back of the head or a sharp remark that landed like a well-placed jab. In his world, doubt was never an option.
To Uncle Henry, not running through that cornerback wasn’t just a missed play—it was an affront, an expression of doubt, an unacceptable lack of confidence. I often thought the man was out of his mind. What is this?... Sparta? But that was his code: you were strong, or you pretended to be. Life wasn’t about showing fear; it was about bulldozing.
Summers in New Orleans meant splitting time between my aunts’ houses, but Uncle Henry’s place in the East had its own pull. His presence made everything feel larger than life, as if he was the maestro orchestrating the world around him. He carried himself as though no challenge was insurmountable, no task too daunting. He was Uptown, a living embodiment of its people's grit and swagger. In fact, if I ever dared to say I was hungry around him—especially in public with mixed company—he’d pop me on the side of the head. I was always punished for my outbursts. I, too, am a Winder, so I never learned my lesson. He’d cuss me out on the spot! Didn’t matter where we were or who was listening. To him, complaining or asking for anything were signs of weakness and vulnerabilities to be smacked out.
When my mom wasn’t looking, he’d make me slap box with him in the backyard or the living room. It really didn't matter. “Hands up, chin down, Punk!” he’d bark, his eyes gleaming with a mix of seriousness and mischievous challenge. His swings were controlled yet firm, testing my reflexes and resolve. I believe it was his way of toughening me up, of instilling in me a readiness to face whatever came my way. He believed that a real lesson couldn’t be taught without a little physicality.
To be fair, when I shattered my ankle, it was Uncle Henry who drove eight hours from New Orleans to Atlanta to look after me while my parents worked. And even then, he didn’t make it easy. There were rules: I had to eat, and I had to study. No excuses. Maybe, just maybe, while I was laid up—helpless and frustrated—I caught a fleeting glimpse of softness in him. A subtle adjustment of my pillow, red beans cooked just the way I liked it. But that was...about it. The man did not do “soft.”
To Uncle Henry, life was about grit. Surrender? "Nah, Youngblood." He believed growing up in the suburbs was making me soft, diluting the toughness he deemed essential. I'm sure he thought of bringing me back to New Orleans on several occasions for a proper tutorial. How was I supposed to learn resilience if I never got into a fight? In his eyes, you only grew stronger by being tested, by facing adversity head-on. Fear? That wasn’t an emotion he possessed. Uncle Henry lived by his own rulebook, one he demonstrated every day.
I can still picture him gliding across the dance floor to Grover Washington's “Mister Magic,” showing the Atlantans how to do the Bus Stop. In those moments, he moved with a grace and fluidity that seemed at odds with his tough exterior. He’d tease me for what he called my softness, and I’d roll my eyes, ALWAYS challenging him back. But praise? That wasn’t in his repertoire. He didn’t do a “good job” or “atta boy.” Instead, I’d get a semi-approving smirk.
Then came the call: Uncle Henry had suffered a heart attack. He was in the hospital, fighting for his life. It seemed impossible. This was the man I believed could survive anything, a force of nature impervious to the frailties that plagued lesser men. But even in death, he went out swinging, battling until his body finally surrendered. The man knew no other way—he fought, quite literally, until his last breath.
When he didn’t make it, something inside me shifted. It felt like a piece of the armor he’d forged around me had been stripped away, leaving me exposed in ways I hadn’t anticipated. Without him, the world felt less certain. Scarier. More than a decade later, I finally realized it was at this moment that he gave his final lesson, one that he could only teach posthumously: at some point, my Uptown Sensei wouldn’t be there. I’d have to leverage my own indomitable spirit. After all... Uptown runs in my veins.
Still, I like to imagine Uncle Henry out there somewhere, probably still innovating new cuss words and being tough. I'm sure he's challenged an archangel or two. Tough as he was, my Uncle Henry's lessons were more than words; they were a shield, a set of principles to navigate with. They still are.
