Father's Day

With Father's Day coming up, it got me to thinking about my relationship with my dad. Sorry, there's not really any comedy in this post. It might be a downer, but its been on my mind so I'm gonna talk about it. First let me say, I loved my father with all of my heart. I'm old enough to understand him now, even if I disagree with his choices. This isn't a pity party post, just an expression of how it made it me feel. I have never used the "I didn't have a father" excuse because my mother and grandmother did a great job providing for me and my siblings. We were not hood casualties, in fact I never really understood how tough things were until I got older. So, shout out to the strong women in my life who held me down and taught me the core values that I needed to become a man.

My father was around for the first 8 years of life. When we lived in New York, he was my number one role model. I wanted to emulate the coolness that he exuded. He was the one who passed down his love of music to me. My love of sports and writing I also attribute to him. When he and my mother separated, I was just a kid, I had no idea what the issues were. I just knew that he was gone. He went back to his hometown of Columbus, Georgia and I didn't really see him anymore.

A few years later, New York cost of living became too much for us, so we moved to Savannah, Georgia with my mother's mother. Since we were closer, we occasionally visit my father or he would take the Greyhound to visit us. Our relationship was mostly sending letters and school pictures and a week visit in the summer. I was okay with that. We were cool with each other, but nowhere as close as my sister was with him. The relationship grew more and more strained as time went on; visits became more and more infrequent. Child support was virtually non existent.

Around age 15, I got deep into the pro Black spirit that swept through rap music. You know reading Malcolm X, Africa medallions and the like. Part of what I learned during that period was about Black men taking care of their responsibilities. My father wasn't doing that, so I lost a ton of respect for him. Eventually, that turned into anger. I was angry that this man that claimed to love his children wasn't handling his business. I didn't want to be around him, even the during the sporadic summer visits to Columbus. This anger consumed me for the better part of high school. I vowed to myself that no matter what happened in my life, I would not end up like him.

What I didn't know at the time was that my father had a drug problem. I know that's not an excuse for his bad parenting, but its an explanation. Looking back as a seasoned adult, the signs were all there. When I was a kid, I used to see him sniffing powder and rolling his own cigarettes. I just didn't know that it was weed. As a somewhat sheltered teenager, I didn't recognize the residual odor in my father's house as marijuana. I didn't know back then that burnt spoons in his bedroom were for cooking heroin. I didn't know that his frequent stays in the Muscogee County jail were for drug possession. I simply saw him as a trifling negro and left it at that.

As I went to college and began to experience more of life, I had a strange (at least to me) desire to reconnect with my father. It all started with a letter I wrote him while he was in jail for the umpteenth time. I poured out my heart and emotions to him displaying a vulnerability that I seldom reveal. I told him how his behavior affected me yet still let him know that the door was open to a relationship if he wanted. I explained that I would not judge him for his faults, and even if we couldn't have a typical father - son relationship, we could still forge some type of communication. He responded with an equally eloquent letter, which revealed his thoughts and regrets. I saw glimpses in his writing of the genius that had been stifled for so long. He sent me some of his writing, poetry and prose, and believe me when I tell you this man was fucking brilliant. The correspondence culminated with a visit to the jail. He was scheduled to get out in a couple of months and we vowed that we would start fresh upon his release.

In January 1995, my father was released from his incarceration. I remember it like it was yesterday. He called on a Monday to tell me he was a free man once more. We made vague plans for a meeting, but I was wrapped up in my college life and my girlfriend at the time. I was living my life, ya know. That Wednesday when I was in class, I got a beep from my grandmother. I didn't immediately return her call, I had to play some spades in the student center before going to work. When I finally called her back, she asked me to come home. I told her I was on the way. I arrived not thinking anything of the request, but then she told me that my father had died. At first, the details weren't clear. Something about heart failure. I didn't cry, I was sad, but the tears didn't come. Later, I found out the real deal. My father died as a result of cocaine induced heart arrythmia. Apparently, first thing he did after getting out of jail was to go on a drug binge. I thought his time in lock up had straightened him out, but I was wrong. Even knowing his flaws, I still have love for my father. He was a brilliant man, that got caught up in an unhealthy lifestyle. When I tell this story, I offer no excuses for the man, just acceptance. Instead of being consumed with hate, like I used to be, I use his life as motivation to be a better man. I know that when I have children, I will do everything in my power not to waste any precious moments with them. Sorry for the depressing post, but Father's Day brought up these old feelings and I just had to express them.

It was written...