I have two fathers. One whose DNA I share, one who I followed through 9 years of my life. I wouldn’t wish either of them a happy father’s day.
I had visions of my biological father for the longest time. Visions of how he tried his best to be a father to this unexpected child, how he fought against his own immaturity & irresponsibility to become a man who could face a change in his life. I found out much, much later that he never really tried, because he was too busy running into other women’s arms, away from the woman he said he loved and the child he helped create.
I had hopes of something from my biological father for the longest time. Hopes that he would somehow acknowledge me, recognize me, his eldest child, his first baby. Hopes that one day he would BE there, trying to make up for all of the days he wasn’t there, trying to catch up to all of the pieces of magic that a child growing up is. I still hope, but I don’t know why.
My other father? I loved him for years, ignored his frailties, and disregarded his lies. It’s so easy for a child to be forgiving, to be blinded by the exuberant childishness of someone so much older. Children tend not to ask for much, just that you make them laugh, and you make them feel safe. So I loved him. Then I grew up. The years that he was gone, those hardest ones, the ones when I realized how much of a dynamic powerful person my mother was, those were the years that I grew up. I will never forget how we went from sleeping in car, to sleeping in a homeless shelter, to working for a rich Arab woman, to almost owning a home of our own. I grew up in those 3 years, and I learned what it really means to be a parent, to be responsible not just for yourself, but for someone else.
I learned that welfare is there to help those who need it, and that with enough belief in yourself, most people don’t need it for long. I learned about trust, and keeping your word, and standing on your own two feet, and facing what scares you the most, and sweeping it out the backdoor. And then he came back, and suddenly, I saw him for who he was. A man who couldn’t keep his word to his family, but prided himself on being a man of his word. A man who wouldn’t keep a job, yet prided himself on being a role model to the younger boys. A man who had no shame in being on welfare, but was ashamed that his wife graduated from college and he did not. A man who twisted a religion to fit his own ideals, and who made all the rules, and broke them just as easily. I saw him as the person who managed to break my mother down, the person who managed to change a dynamically powerful woman into someone who had no power at all.
What was the most important thing I learned from my father(s)? I learned that I have to be ready & able & willing to stand on my own two feet at all times, because trusting someone else to be able to stand on theirs can be a losing proposition. I learned that actions speak so much louder than words, and that words don’t mean shit. I learned that if I want to be somebody, and do something, I have to do it on my own, and be ready to pull others along. I learned that promises & disappointments go together, and that one lie found out my mean five more still in hiding. I learned a lot from my father(s).
Most of it I wished I hadn’t learned. I wished I had learned how to be a daddy’s girl, how to know that there was always a man in my life who was strong & stable as a rock. I wished that I had learned what a daddy is, rather than what a father is.
Happy Father’s Day…Mommy.
Stay Jazzed.
