To The Uncle Who Became My Daddy

Dear Daddy,

This year marks 30 years without you on this earth. It's hard to believe because, in many ways, I still feel your presence as vividly as if you were sitting here beside me. I smell whiffs of Brut 33 and know you're still watching over me.

I never got the chance to tell you how much you meant to me, how much your sacrifices meant to me. Sure, I told you I loved you. But I never told you how much I appreciate your role in my life. I didn't tell you because I didn't quite understand its enormity when you were alive.

I was 23 when you gave up your fight against end-stage kidney and heart disease. Over a decade of dialysis, a qaudruple bypass and a kidney transplant were more than enough for you, so when your new kidney failed, you opted out.

I only got 23 years with you. But they were an amazing 23 years!

Who else would do what you did? What other man would answer the phone and run to his brother's aid the way you did?

"Sharon's dead," that's what the voice on the line said, "They're talking about putting the baby out for adoption."

Sharon was my birth mother, your brother's girlfriend. The baby was me. I was 3 weeks old. it was 1971.

You had a pretty good life. You were 43, had a good career in the military and had a 15-year-old son. You sure didn't need a baby.

Yet you jumped in your car without hesitation and drove the 90 minutes to the hospital to lend whatever hand you could.

The way you tell the story, amid the confusion and tears, a nurse placed me in your arms when you asked to see me.

You said I grabbed your nose and you fell in love.

"I'll take the baby." Those were your words, followed by, "I'll take the other 2 as well."

A deal was worked out, allowing my birth father, your brother, to regain custody of my older siblings in a year. All he had to do was get a job and a stable place. But you were keeping me.

Suddenly, your family of 3 became a family of 6. You added a 6-year-old boy, an 18-month-old wilful girl and me, the infant.

I can't even imagine doing that. How it must have complicated your life which was just starting to become easier. And let's not even discuss the added expense!

Honestly, I don't think I could have done it. I don't think I would have done it.

True to your word, you brought us home. And true to your word, with a heavy heart and tears in your eyes, you handed my brother and sister back to your brother almost exactly a year later.

And you adopted me. I quickly became your mini-me. Where you went, I went. What you did, I did.

You gave me opportunities my siblings never had; opportunities to explore and expand on my natural abilities. You pushed me to always be my best, whether it was in school, on the track or in gymnastics. You were my first and best coach. I remember you wanted me to be the first woman to run a 4-minute mile. You didn't know someone had done that many, many years before.

You taught me the value of education and how a good mind could help lift me up and set me up for a life beyond your wildest dreams. As a Black man who grew up during the Great Depression and with only a 4th-grade education yourself, you were ready and willing to move heaven and earth to make sure I had access to the best opportunities you could provide.

You taught me how to defend myself, how to change a tire, and how to cook.

You taught me to stand up for myself. "Don't go starting anything," you'd say, "But if someone starts with you, feel free to finish it." I live by those words to this day.

You taught me how to greet people without judgment. When everyone in town made fun of the man in the dress, you dined with him in the cafe and proudly proclaimed him your friend. In 1985, that was a pretty big deal.

You taught me the value of giving. A Corporal's salary wasn't exactly huge, yet you gave often and cheerfully. Every single Christmas, you'd load up the car and drive out to Elm Hill and provide an entire holiday, food, toys, the whole thing for at least 2 or 3 families.

You couldn't pass by one of those Salvation Army buckets without sticking a $5 bill inside.

And most of all, you taught me about unconditional love. You were the first and until I met my husband, the only person to love me without reservation or condition.

You loved me at my best, when I was little and cute and obedient. You loved me when I won all the trophies and medals.

But even more important, you loved me at my worst. You loved me when I was a haughty little teenager. You loved me as I stood in your face and argued. You loved me when I defied you and chose to do things my way. You even loved me when I denied my heritage and tried to be white.

And I always came around. Eventually. And you were always there to receive me.

And you loved me when at 18, I got pregnant. It wasn't your plan for me. You were devastated. All the sacrifice, all the plans! Gone.

But you sure did love that grandson of yours!

And as you know, it sure wasn't the end.

To the uncle you were and the daddy you became, thank you. Thank you for your strenght, your sacrifice and your love. I wouldn't be the person I am today without you.

Your little stinker

(I don't exactly thank you for that nickname though)