Dear Y:
I know your name, but I will grant you anonymity and call you Y. Why?
Well, you have been a chromosome in my life. One that was extracted from a
batch of semen that flooded my mother’s womb on June Something, 1976.
Literally, it wasn’t until recently that I thought about the moment I was
conceived. Despite only having been in your presence about 10 times, I know you
and love you. Time and contemplation have guided me toward forgiveness. Still,
I must be honest and acknowledge your pattern of carelessness. No one could
sire and abandon children as you have without having been abandoned. I
understand.
Now, this is not going to be an Eminem-esque letter. I am not cleaning
out my closet and reading (i.e. verbally eviscerating) you for filth. I don’t
hate you. To hate you would be pathological. I look into the mirror and see
you. My mother has remarked on several occasions that we share similar
interests, such as listening to jazz music and running. Personally, I am a
distance man; I can’t sprint to save my life. I can be very cerebral and
introspective. I’m stubborn and impatient. The standards I set for myself are
nearly unattainable. I am a self-professed recovering perfectionist.
Have you been a better father to your younger children? My first
recollection of you is when we (my mother, sister, and myself) encountered you
at Winthrop Hospital in ’84. Without any coaching from my mother, I
INSTINCTIVELY knew you were my biological father. Years would pass before we would
meet again.
Do you remember when my neighbor coordinated our first
official…introduction? Out of the blue, Ms. So-and-So asked me if I wanted to
meet you. It’s funny that a stranger had easier access to you than I did. See,
y’all worked together at a nursing home. True to her word, she arranged (with
my mother’s consent) for you to pick me up from my grandmother’s house, where
we lived at the time. The only problem is that my aunt’s husband had never met
you and told you I didn’t live there when you arrived. A few minutes later, you
came back, briefly chatted with my mother (not my dad, for obvious reasons),
and took me to Carvel. The one of Jerusalem Avenue. As cold as it was, I got an
ice cream cone and you got a milkshake. What I remember most vividly is the
question you asked while we stood on my grandmother’s porch: “Do you know who I
am?” I did.
As the years progressed, we’d see each other infrequently. I did spend a
few Christmases with you (just for breakfast and gift exchanges). Hearing other
children affectionately call you “daddy” was strange. I’ve never called
you…anything. No “dad” or “pop.” Nothing. Our conversations were always goal
directed and short. Business-like. You never physically disciplined me. Do you
recollect chastising me when my mother – frustrated with my recalcitrant
behaviors – called you during my adolescent years? Pure comedy. Your query was
“So, you’re smellin’ your drawers?” No, I was not. I was, however, overwhelmed
by a myriad of circumstances over which I had no control. Soon, the mother-son
bond was restored and your intervention was never again needed.
One of the last times I saw you was in ’98 or ’99. See, you were
thoughtful and carried me on your insurance until I graduated from undergrad.
On that particular day, you needed my social security number and other
protected health information. As usual, you never entered the house; all
business was handled on the porch. Thereafter, you left, advising me to “keep
in touch.” Few people had cell phones back then, so keeping in touch meant
enduring the un-pleasantries of your then-wife. Suffice it to say, I rarely
called you.
I know you’re alive. Every now and then, someone from New York will tell
me they saw you. Remember when you ran into my sister at the Walmart in
Uniondale? She was a cashier at the time and immediately recognized you. When
she recited your government name, you fled. I guess you must’ve thought “Is she
my child, too?” No such a-thing. You returned, and she was able to properly
identify herself. You were completely unaware that my family had relocated to
Georgia. See, Y, if you maintained contact with your…never mind.
What do you need to know about me? I love music and writing. I’ve
written songs and will likely have at least one placement before the end of the
year. I’m a self-published author. I don’t have any children, but I’m an
amazing uncle. I have two degrees. I’m working on a few business ventures, but
I won’t tell you about ‘em…yet. See, I make ballerina moves: quiet and
graceful. I’ve learned to be reticent about my plans, since success speaks
volumes.
Y, despite my struggles, I am living a wonderful life. Most importantly,
I doubt anyone had a better childhood than I did. I was always surrounded by
aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings, grandparents, extended family, and my loving,
resilient, generous mother. There were family cookouts (planned and impromptu),
trips to the beach or park, and caravans to North Carolina. I was nurtured,
protected, mentored, whopped, and encouraged to thrive. I was going to be the
first doctor in the family. Thanks, MCAT!
I’ll never say you didn’t or don’t love me. You were, however,
deliberately absent from my life. The seed you planted bore fruit that was
harvested by a man who I’ve been rocking with for 37 years. Edward is so
special to me. Rarely does he call me John.
Instead, he calls me son. He’s always
claimed me and corrected anyone who tried to delegitimize our father-son relationship.
Imperfect as he is, he will always be my father.
Well, Y, I’ve written more than I intended to and less that I could
have. This definitely has been a cathartic process. I’ve never yearned or
longed for you. I’ve never felt incomplete or less-than as a result of your
purposeful invisibility. My life has been full of amazing experiences, and I have
yet to maximize my full potential. Maybe we’ll meet one day, man to man. We
could talk about your love of women and my love of men. Maybe you could share
your narrative with me. Did you have a pleasurable childhood? What were some of
your life goals? Can you cook? Yeah. We could talk about basic stuff. The thing
I’m most curious about is the identity of your role models. Who raised you and
– consciously or unconsciously – conditioned you to be apparently indifferent
to and unconcerned with the lives you helped create? Maybe you developed those
traits through hardships and difficult life circumstances. Who knows? My hope
is that you have the desire to figure it out, do your work (as Iyanla Vanzant
says), and make better decisions. For all I know, you may have already
metamorphosed in Father of the Year. Nah. See. News travels fast, and I likely
would have heard about your transformation. Anyway, I’ve got to cook dinner and
watch a little Netflix before I retire for the evening. Be well.
John
