An unknown to white and many black Americans, Jack and Jill has provided a safe meeting place for black upper class kids since the 1950s.

"I want my daughter to be in Jack and Jill so that she will have someone to date."
– Elite law firm partner to his wife, in 2006

Last night, my wife and I had a fight.
 
On second thought, scratch that image.  "Fight" connotes a brawl, a knock-down, drag-out free-for-all between combatants. Neither my wife nor I had the energy for a fight. Let's say we had a philosophical clash of ideas about relationship excellence. That's better. And, like most middle-aged disputes, this clash had been simmering below the surface for some time.
 
I did not grow up in Jack and Jill, an elite, service organization for black mothers. An unknown to white and many black Americans, Jack and Jill has provided a safe meeting place for black upper class kids since the 1950s.  When you imagine Jack and Jill, think Skull and Bones for black moms. I exaggerate for effect but not as much as you might assume. I first learned about Jack and Jill at the University of Virginia. A close friend from Jamaica warned me that Jack and Jill was yet another feature of Black American culture that he disdained. I suspect he held his opinion because his mother had not been asked to join.
 
Like Skull and Bones, Jack and Jill can be clubby. You can become a member in one of two ways. Either you are born into Jack and Jill as a legacy. Or, you are sponsored by a member. That's it. Wealth will not get you in. Political power will not get you in. Academic success like producing four Harvard graduates will not get you in. (Read Our Kind of People by Lawrence Otis Graham for the low-down on Jack and Jill)
 
Little did I know that this group of black moms would enter my life one day.
 
I next came across Jack and Jill while dating my first girlfriend. One never forgets one's first love. We clicked on every level. One day, without warning, she asked me, "What Jack and Jill chapter did you belong to?" Pause. She did not ask if I had heard of Jack and Jill. Nor did she ask if I had been a member. She assumed membership, an assumption that raised my eyebrow. She seemed disappointed when I said I had not been a member.
 
As fate would have it, I married a legacy Jack and Jiller. Not only was my wife President of the Brooklyn chapter, her mother and her mother's mother were involved with Jack and Jill. And the heavy hand of the past has guided our three children into Jack and Jill as well. I am outnumbered!
 
So, why did my wife and I have a clash of ideas last night?
 
My wife is a true believer in Jack and Jill. She believes that black children need that sense of identity, particularly in high school. She grew up in Jack and Jill and she wants our children to have the same experience.
 
While I see her point, I also observed that she devoted a lot of her free time to serving Jack and Jill. Sometimes, it seemed that the majority of social outings were becoming linked to Jack and Jill, like the La Jolla production of The Wiz, the pumpkin patch adventure, and the Padres baseball game. In my mind's eye, I thought my wife might be limiting her relationships.
 
"How come you're not more active in the Yale Alumni Club?" I asked. "That's another rich vein of friendships you could develop."
 
"I'm not comfortable with them. I'm a mom and I want to do mom things with other black moms," she said.
 
"Why aren't you comfortable? These Yalies are your peers. And they might be able to deepen your experiences and help you grow," I rejoined.
 
"I care about my black identity!" she said, as she mustered up fatigued passion. "I want the children to have the same experience that I had."
 
"It's not a question of identity. You're seeing the same people (roughly 37 black moms) over and over and over again. How are you growing?" I countered to no avail. My wife knew only Jack and Jill as the safe passage to black adulthood.
 
And so I turned over and went to sleep.
 
I applaud the wonderful work of moms in Jack and Jill. From the dangers of prejudice and discrimination, black moms created an identity based upon blackness and high social class. The moms are to be commended.
 
But I see three weaknesses with Jack and Jill in 2006.
 
First, relationship excellence requires making friends with youngsters from all groups. My wife might argue that most of the Jack and Jill kids attend predominantly white schools anyway. Jack and Jill is simply providing Black Identity for impressionable minds. However, who's defining the Black Identity? Are we taking a vote? And where do West Indian moms fit into this picture? How about African moms? What about mixed race moms? How about white moms of black children? In today's diverse world, life is about more than black and white. Even black and white isn't always black and white.
 
Second, does Jack and Jill risk becoming extinct in a multicultural world? Increasingly, the best and brightest black students are raised in a world that is accepting of blackness, however one might define blackness. Has the premise of Jack and Jill changed with the changing times?
 
Finally, all parents recreate their childhoods. My wife is recreating her Brooklyn experience with Jack and Jill. I want to recreate my suburban, conservative experience in Chesterfield County, Virginia.  But there's an irony here — our children are growing up in San Diego. Their lives are less influenced by ethnic enclaves and white flight. They are learning Spanish at school and on the soccer field. They know desert sands and mountain towns. I suspect that, while mommy and daddy clash, the children are creating their own identities, one day at a time.