My father...a personal examination
by MoMo Willy on Monday, January 12, 2009 at 9:41am
I met my father when I was 17. He had been locked up most of my life. I had heard murmurs from my aunt, but that was the first confirmation. I didn't know how to react. He had hands small like mine and my brother. He was brown and had a very dry sense of humor. He was cool. The epitome of cool. I stayed with him the Summer of 2006 when I went up top for Harlem Book Fair. He told me stories about my mother as a kid (they were childhood sweethearts) that made me understand her much better, and stories about him that made me understand myself. He was the first person who told me I needed to stop burning...and it had made sense. Took it a few years to sink in though (Smile) Even though he had missed my entire childhood, the way he spoke was like he knew everything I had endured, everything that shaped me, and everything that could make me a better me. He was proud of my accomplishments and encouraging of my dreams.
Me, mom, Pops, and Kareem (shouts out to Jamaal, M.I.A.)
Since Pops wasn't around, my mom had remarried and gave us a new father figure. I had a step-dad who beat me every morning for not eating breakfast and every night at dinner. I got beaten for forging my mom's signature on my report card and failing my multiplication tables tests. I got beaten for not turning off the kettle fast enough when it whistled. I got beaten for throwing away a "Number 1 Dad" mug I bought for him for Xmas because I had just got a beaten. The rattle of a drawer still sends shivers up my spine as I brace for the beatings I used to receive as a child. But...My step-father combed my hair everyday, washed my clothes, taught me how to iron, had food prepared (even if I hid it in napkins) and curbed my television watching so that I could become an adult who reads, writes, and creates. He was consistent with his discipline, I never got a beaten for "no reason." And he was home every night. Let's celebrate the good fathers, the OK dads, and the ones who were at least there for us. No parent is perfect, but by constantly condemning them, we will never appreciate the good they did provide.
Seems we all know mothers, but how many fathers do we know? We can instill pride in our men by encouraging them to BE good fathers, showing them there ARE good fathers. It's up to us to be the change we want to see in the world. The revolution starts in the home.
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Part II
UPDATE: My fathers
by MoMo Willy on Monday, March 23, 2009 at 11:26am
My step-father died this past week. A mutual friend called my mother and told her. She wasn't mad nor sad. He'd embezzled $36,000 from her in the early 90s. They'd divorced in 1992. He left that October, and I never saw him again. Never again. No phone call, nor visit. My mom didn't sell that house until 2006.
I never thought I would want a conversation with him until the opportunity was permanently stripped from me. I never got a chance to ask him about the way he was brought up and how that affected my upbringing. I never got to thank him for being a consistent disciplinarian, making sure that I knew the rules were not meant to be broken, that choices have consequences. I never got a chance to show him that I grew up to be a pretty cool adult, a lady someone could be proud of. That the token black is striving to become a warrior. That all the writing I did in my room was beneficial. That I have a little girl who's even awesomer than I am. I never got the chance, and I never will. He was cremated. My mother said they burned his body so that he could just blow like dust in the wind, like he never existed, his corpse not rotting in the ground because he wasn't good enough for the worms to nyaam (eat) out.
Today's my "real" father's birthday. I haven't seen him since I stayed with him summer of 2006 for Harlem Book Fair. We talked a few times after that, but then he stopped answering and returning my calls. He was going thru his own thing and didn't want to talk to anyone. As a compassionate, understanding soul, I can appreciate that. As a daughter without a father, my heart hurt.
I spoke with him this past winter when I was staying by my brother up top. He's down for the week and he wants to go visit Pops today. My mom said she'll come too. I'm apprehensive. I might have pics to post later (you know I love a photo op) but I'm not sure how I feel about the situation. Honestly. I wish I could say more on that. I really can't because I haven't processed it. I know ya'll are used to me having lots to say on everything, but ideas and philosophies, concepts and social issues I handle with ease and delight. Matters of the heart, hmm, not so much.
Let's hope for a beautiful day, full of love.
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Part III
Today (June 19, 2011)
I don't call my Father often. I always think on Sundays, I gotta go visit Daddy. And I don't. Because rejection is painful. It's better to think I'm rejecting him than to offer him an opportunity to reject me. So I keep moving. I think, maybe, I will call today. But I think a lot. The 1 minute phone call to the number that may or may not be working takes more energy than working out for 2 hours. Speaking of which, I need to add that to my routine. Workout, I mean. I think about it every morning and every night. But it seems like I'm closer to that physical pain more than this emotional one. Hmmm.
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