The Iniquity of the Father
Pulling into the driveway my Dad shot me a quick glance, one he allowed to linger until my eyes met his own. The vehicle was creeping along now its pace matched by the cadence in his voice. “What we do in the street, all you see and hear stays between us you understand?” I understood by his tone that this was not a question but matter-of-factly tenets to live by. Admittedly, I am overly literal in my interpretation of most things. Still, I think it fair to say for young boys all their father’s utter is gospel. Nodding my understanding I exited the vehicle into the waiting arms of my mother who in the most nonchalant voice said “you’ve kept this boy out all night, I’ve got breakfast ready, yal’ must be hungry”. Sunday morning breakfast was an occasion in our home. Unforgettable sounds of Mahalia Jackson, Andrae’ Crouch, and “Jesus Is Love” mingling with the smell of fried potatoes, cooked bacon, and hints of sweet maple syrup; well… let the congregation say Amen! “Where have you been”? My sister’s exaggerated accusatory tone greeted me coming through the door. Our usual pleasantries exchanged, I bee-lined for the table. Not long after everyone was seated I began to pray. “God is good, God is great, ’what we do’… let me thank you for this food…” That was more than forty years ago and rarely a day passes when it or one of the many abnormalities involving my father and my childhood don’t come to mind. There are many. Time passes, paradigms shift, the barbaric disciplinary practices of old have evolved and get laughed about during family gatherings. These well documented stories have become folk tales, oral traditions their scars worn like badges of courage by we Gen Xers. Discipline should be about guidance and correction never punishment and abuse but often the oppressed inherit the traits of the oppressor. Oppression rebelled against by my forefathers, embraced by my grandfathers, and to no surprise implemented by my father. I was 12 when it came to a head. It was a chilly Saturday morning the kind you get during an Indian Summer but one you knew would gradually warm. Dre’ and I were in the yard sorting out fishing gear, stringing poles, and joking about digging up worms when my dad’s car came a speeding up the drive. Clearly high, his eyes were kind of wild looking, he was agitated. He did not acknowledge us so we kept at it until he yelled my name telling me to “get inside.” My little brother in tow, I obeyed. Melvin began to lay into me immediately. Don’t recall much of what he was saying but make no mistake I instinctively knew something was different. He was turned up, and I do mean all the way. Every man has met this moment. When introduced you can either choose fight or flight. My choice had been made for me, it was on! Sitting here now rubbing the scar where the metal bunk bed pierced my right hand the recollection is as vivid as the day it occurred. We tussled to what I consider to be a draw ending with he leaving and me perplexed as to what the hell just happened. Back outside I did not have long to ponder. His departure short lived, my dad exited his car this time headed right towards me. A man child by all accounts I was already six feet tall and well over a buck eighty. Quickly gaining the advantage I made short work of my diminutive father fully mounting him in no time I had my fist cocked. The look of helplessness within his eyes emboldened me, what I saw in my brother’s gave me pause. I loss a lot of respect for my father that day, perhaps there would still be an opportunity for Dre’. I left for basic training in July of 1990. Though we resided in the same dwelling the entire time my father uttered less than 100 words to me during this seven year span. I want you to stop reading and think about what I just said because this elevates the silent treatment to another level. I resigned myself to the fact that he'd simply abandoned me. He chose this course of action because I spent the duration of that time exposing him as a fraud. I had no idea that relationship, rather the lack there of would still be in tact today. Imagine living your entire life within your father’s presence only to be treated like the invisible man, Ellison not Wells. No fatherly pearls of wisdom, no happy birthdays – I’ve never had a birthday party. No Merry Christmas’, no birds and the bees, no pointers on shaving, no games of catch or advice on anything. Though he himself did not and I was the 1st on either side, Melvin did not attend my High School graduation, nor my Army. Despite being a multi-sport star, never attended an event. Clearly fancying himself a Casanova, I don’t recollect an iota of affection and I love you are words he never expressed. It takes effort to hate like this, the sort of willful resolution that would be admirable but for it being present in this arena. Why? The emotional unavailability, the indifference, the silence, what human being treats another sentient creature this way? What father a son? The curiosity and the desire to understand this is as fundamental to me as breathing and equally vital. I seek answers because I know they exist not because I want to become the next Ken Jennings. I’m just wired that way. The connection between what we do at a micro-level, its generational ripple effect, and how that snow balls into cyclically acceptable societal norms offers but one conclusion. Family matters! How we raise our children matters. Who and what we allow them exposure to matters. Our definition of “nuclear family” has evolved but at the core of this argument is the foundational belief that it is the how that matters as much as the who. That nurture can overcome nature if the cornerstones of love, kindness, and respect exist and this is not predicated on how one identifies themselves sexually. My idealistic concept of a father is an amalgamation of Ward Clever, James Evans, and George Joseph Jetson. What I’m saying is if you aren’t talking to your kids then someone else is. There were male figures around but none played the role of model. Retrospectively, that there was no filter between some of these individuals and us children is it-self disturbing. Individuals known to have questionable character, people you yourselves despise till this day. If the boogeyman lives next door don’t I have a responsibility as a parent to inform, an obligation to protect? What if he resides in the home with you? Our father would take my sister and I with him to act as what we call today a shield. Having his children with him created the illusion my mother needed to deny her culpability. He would leave us alone in his work van or in the car for hours, I’m talking all day! Cell phones did not exist, no hand held distractions either, just vulnerable children left to their own devices. Such was the case that Saturday night leading into the afore mentioned Sunday only my sister was not along for this ride. The night began quiet enough: pool hall, men shucking and jiving, one trying to out hustle and talk more shit than the other. Then there was the argument; brandishing of knives, and a hasty retreat. Funny, the night was still young. We hit up another spot and met a woman - a red head; soon after we left. Happy to not be in the middle, she rode next to my Dad while he navigated that three speed on the column. Soon we found ourselves sitting awaiting him to reappear from the darkness. While we did she taught me how to whistle both inhaling and ex. She was funny too. These fatherly outings were a mainstay of my childhood. Excursions that took me to back road juke joints, smoke filled homes, and more seedy motel rooms than I care to remember. I have observed my father engage in everything from high speed chases to drug induced orgies. I have seen men stabbed, females beaten, and others robbed and shot at dice games. The passing years have allowed me to glean details providing me some clarity about who the man masquerading as my father is. A duplicitous master of disguise, a Chameleon, akin to Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde with abilities rivaled only by those of the order of Octopi. Sometimes you don’t know how fucked up things are until you live long enough to have something relevant to compare them to. In the absence of explanation a child left to his own interpretation I lacked the sophistication the passing years of education now provide. Consider this; my parents were married for over twenty-five years. Besides the three siblings I share the same mother with my dad fathered eight other children I know about. This includes a now deceased younger brother I never met, an older one who was born just 5 months after my eldest sister, and my youngest sister who recently graduated high school. Dad, how many all-nighters did you pull gambling away the rent money? How many highs came at the expense of missed holidays and quality time? Convince me the mental and physical abuse I endured is not the result of your own failure, resentment, and dissatisfaction? The level of selfishness it takes to live your life is beyond my comprehension. If your significant other lies, cheats, womanizes, stays out all night, does not come home for days, and shows up broke when they do you may want to ask some questions Mom. “Until death do us part” comes with fine print. All bets should have been off after you contracted the first STD. “Normal parents” make it a priority to improve the lives of our children. This is not a conditional responsibility it is implicitly understood like saying Bruce Lee is the GOAT, forget about it! Evaluating how I was raised and understanding its impact on my life enables me to contribute positively to the lives of my own children. This is not about excuses, making my parents feel badly, or in any way intended to be malicious. This is about accountability , the end game is the same. How to clothe my children in the armament they need to journey through this thing we call life. I’m talking about progress. I refuse to continue to facilitate a cycle of idiocy; one enabled by the women but disproportionately impacting the men in my family. For generations blind eyes have been turned while nefarious behavior is swept under the rug. This approach passes the buck fanning the flames of our own ruination without insight or explanation. Instead of generational wealth our progeny inherit PTSD. By sharing my story I seek to break this cycle. When your doctor asks if there is a history of diabetes in the family it’s called preventive maintenance, when a family member is a psychopath “we goin’ pray for ‘em baby.” What? Like Moses I may only get to glimpse the promise but I will rest comfortably knowing I have sown the seeds to the harvest my great grandchildren will reap. Progress…
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Hi Vocal Community!