On January 8, 1996, Okla Jones II transitioned from this life to the next. Born and raised in Natchitoches, Louisiana, he was a man not defined by his circumstances, but empowered by them. After earning his undergraduate degree from Southern University, he attended Boston College Law School and went on to become the first African-American City Attorney in the history of New Orleans. A civil servant, a federal judge, a community pillar, and most importantly, my father. He was the greatest man I’ve ever known.
His death, nearly 30 years ago, left an immeasurable void. One that I didn’t fully understand until I became an adult. It showed up at different times—trying to tie a tie, wrestling with questions about sex and identity, changing a tire on the side of the road, or even navigating a first date. These were moments I had to figure out on my own. But last month, something unexpected happened. I watched Forever, Mara Brock Akil’s new series on Netflix, and for the first time in a long time, I felt seen. Not just as a son, but as a Black man who knew the value of a father’s presence.
Forever centers on the Edwards family, led by its patriarch Eric Edwards, played by Wood Harris. Harris’ portrayal of Eric reminded me of my father’s own demeanor: wise, disciplined, and always there. What struck me most wasn’t so much the character, but the how he was written. Eric was a father who led with action, and an anchor to his family.
In our conversation, Harris spoke candidly about what informed his performance. “I was raised by a man,” he tells me. “My brother and I were raised by my father and my mother as well, but in that order. So what you see is a father that was fathered, and all of that is a part of me; they’re all ingredients to my personality as a father. So it was one of the easier roles that I’ve had to portray. Also, it’s kind of beautiful that people receive it so positively because they’re actually receiving me as well.”
What I received while watching Forever was both healing and heartbreaking. It brought to the surface every lesson I wished I’d learned directly from my dad, but at the same time, it gave me something to hold on to. In a world where Black fatherhood is often shaped by stereotypes or completely erased, Akil’s decision to center a functional, affluent Black family, and emotionally engaged father, was nothing short of beautiful. For decades, mainstream television and film have often depicted Black families as fractured, usually due to incarceration, abandonment, or tragedy. But Eric challenged that narrative. He wasn’t a background figure. He was assertive, compassionate, and deeply involved as both a parent and a husband. He was real.
“I think in hindsight I could see the importance of Eric Edwards,” Harris explains. “There’s a void for men in this country; particularly for Black men. A void of seeing us being portrayed, whether it’s in a movie, television, or even social media; you just don’t see the Black male being a caring person or being a loving person. It’s different with Forever.”
When my father passed, I was nearing adolescence, and dealing with things like puberty, social challenges, learning how to speak to girls, how to be vulnerable, how to deal with rejection. It was a time in my life where guidance was needed, and my compass was gone. That’s why the relationship between Justin, the Edwards’ eldest son, and his father Eric hit me the hardest. In watching the show, one moment in particular lives in my mind. There was a scene where Justin wanted to be there for Keisha (Lovie Simone), his first love, during a rough time. Dawn—his mother—fears the distraction and disapproves. Eric steps in, calmly yet firmly, and says, “You said you want him to be on some man s**t, right? See, we have to teach him to do like a man.”
In that moment, I saw the essence of fatherhood: preparing your son to move through the world with integrity. It’s about stepping in when the lesson is uniquely yours to teach.
Although the show revolves around Justin and Keisha’s romance, Forever also paints a rich portrait of Eric and Dawn’s marriage. Dawn (played by Karen Pittman) is an executive who balances her demanding career with her devotion to family. She’s stern, no-nonsense, and often overprotective—especially with her sons. Eric, in contrast, is the laid-back restaurateur of Los Angeles’ Linden, with only a high school diploma but a whole lot of life experience. Together, they represent a healthy, balanced depiction of Black partnership; where disagreements are met with communication, and love is shown through support. Their dynamic reminded me of the bond I saw between my parents as a child.
I think it’s important that parents lead not just through discipline or advice, but by modeling love. As children, we often pick up more by what we see than what we’re told. Forever showed that. It gave us the handbook for Black love—not solely romantic love, but parental love, and self-love.
“This story is nostalgic, magical, and necessary,” Harris says. “We need Forever. And when I say that, I’m not just talking about the wonderful culture that you and I belong to, this is necessary in general because it’s love. When you watch that, it’s like you don’t necessarily feel like you’re just watching a Black story, even though it is. It’s about Black people, but love is universal.”
While love is universal, representation is powerful. Whether you’re a son missing his father or a man still trying to become one—a story like Forever is really validating. For me, at least.
Before we ended our conversation, I asked Harris what he thought made someone a good father. Not because I didn’t have an idea, but in this instance I wanted to hear it from someone who had embodied one so effectively onscreen. He uses words like “thoughtful,” “compassion,” and most of all, “action.” “Love is a verb which requires an action,” he notes. “So it’s not just ‘I love you’—those are words you say. What you’re seeing is the activity on Forever. You’re seeing the activity of love from a young person’s perspective and from the parents we love.”
The word “action” landed differently when I heard it. It reminded me of my father’s legacy. Even in his absence, his work remains: how he served his city, how he held our family together, how he parented with purpose. Those memories, those teachings, are still active in me. So, yes—my father is gone. But I carry him every day. Watching Forever didn’t only remind me of what I lost; it reminded me of what I had. And for that, I’m grateful.
Today, I celebrate the memory of Okla Jones II—but also the power of storytelling, and what it can do when it honors the full humanity of Black fatherhood.
Happy Father’s Day.