It’s Father’s Day. I just finished watching Fatherhood and contemplating if a post like this is appropriate for the holiday. I told myself to save it for my memoir, but let’s face it, when I’m prompted to write, I go for it. Plus, it’ll sit on my spirit forever and quite frankly, I don’t have that kind of time. Not anymore at least.
I was in therapy last summer. Ten sessions. And each time, I was advised to address the relationship or lack thereof with my father. The grouch that I was replied that I did not care to nor did I feel it was important. I mean, what’s more important than my sleepless nights and crippling anxiety? But, for some reason, she pressed and pressed and told me that I was making excuses. Probably was. I realized, however, that it was not excuses. It was me genuinely not knowing how to address that man. How I felt. What I thought. At the mention of the other half of my DNA, my body filled with rage and a sadness that I did not want to feel. The heaviness of the void inside me. It’s a deep, deep hole that I do not want to explore. What I also learned from that experience is that not everyone is going to take your “I don’t know” for what it is. In some cases, people feel you’re just blowing off whatever it is you’re discussing. Maybe. But, asking me questions that I do not have the answers to won’t help the situation either.
Anyway,
In lieu of Father’s Day and the epiphany I had in the shower a while ago, I’m going to write that letter the therapist suggested I write. Addressed to you know who.
I remember the first time I met you. We could have possibly met before that but who knows. I was twelve years old. It was January; carnival time in St. Croix. I want to say the Children’s Parade. It was you, me, my mother, and your daughter Leah. She was sweet. Smiled and didn’t speak. You looked from me to my mother then back to me. You two spoke with your eyes. I wish I knew what the conversation was about. Deep down, I already knew. I knew you were my father then. Hell, I knew since I was nine. I remember the brown envelope that stopped my mother in her tracks on the steps in our building on Creston. The way she held her mouth and shook her head in disbelief. Asked her what happened and she pretended not to hear me. I knew before that too. Let’s say around four or five. When Dean used to pick me and my brother up for the weekend and instead drop ME off to his sister’s. Or, every cringeworthy moment of “say hi to your father” when he was on the phone or coming to bring money or something. Wait! And, let’s not forget the multiple times it’s been stated that he wasn’t my father. Watch what you say in front of kids, eh.
Fast forward, I’m sixteen. You’re visiting St. Croix again. My mother tells me we’re taking a drive to go see someone. Someone was you. I had on a T-shirt, head tie, and some jeans, not interested in or up for the formalities. It was a few times these drives. Then, she suggested we take a picture together. For what? Now, I’m suspicious but again, I already knew. We’re back in the car and she decides to talk to me about her young lady escapades and her involvement with Dean and you. Emotional intelligence on zero. At the end of the conversation, you’re supposedly my father. We take the test. Days… weeks… whatever later, it’s confirmed. 99.99999998. I want to say that I felt relieved, but it was more of a false happiness. I was supposed to bond with you now? Pretend like sixteen years didn’t already pass? Act like life was all good now because I had a dad? Right…
The only thing that I am grateful for in meeting you was meeting my grandmother. Merle. She was a beautiful woman. I visited her, called her and she called me. She showed me pictures, told me about everyone, came to my high school graduation, bought me cards for almost everything. She built a connection with me right away. That’s the last time I seen her because a year and some change later, she was gone. What was left? You and this false happiness. What did you have to offer? Demands that I change my name. Opinions about my life that were unwarranted. Favors that you expected that I fulfill. It was nothing genuine. If I didn’t know any better, I would think that you valued finding out I was your daughter as a lifeline here in America so you could find your way back. Let’s get everyone up to speed. You’re in Ghana. One minute you love it, the next, you’re regretting it. Some Rastafarian… Anyway, once I was back in New York, I made it my business to get to know everyone in your family. Added everyone on Facebook. Called everyone to introduce myself. I put myself out there because I did not want to be the deadbeat daughter. The daughter who had appeared all of a sudden. The daughter that may have arisen because she wanted something. The daughter that was too good for everyone. Hell, the daughter that no one knew about but she’s looks like us, so… I began to bond with people until I didn’t. Until you decided it was cool to tell everyone my business. Until slowly but surely I wasn’t invited or involved in anything. Where’d the momentum go? With Merle, in her grave.
Let’s talk about that, shall we? Why weren’t you at the funeral? Oh. I know. Because your green card was revoked. And when did I learn of that? Six years later. How? You sending me a long drawn out message that you “needed my help”. That you had your brother *cough* the one that told my mother in her house I don’t look like ya’ll *cough* talking to lawyers and telling them that “we have a good relationship”. It was all of six o’clock in the g*ddamn morning and I couldn’t help but to laugh. Not only does our relationship consist of your favors, long-drawn messages of loving a complete stranger, reminders of you being the big honcho aka my “father”, and unwelcomed sermons about the bible, but it consisted of lies and omissions too? Let’s unpack this. I was supposed to be like, “sure, I’ll petition for you Dad because I love you and I want to spend more time with you. F*ck your other kids. Come back over here and forget your responsibilities. Oh yeah. And because I give a f*ck that your green card got revoked because you stayed out of the country too long, living your best life in Africa with your wife and multiple mistresses. Right? That’s interesting. First off, I couldn’t care less who you were. I was not doing that for you and to be quite honest, you sized me up with that sh*t. You used my vulnerability in wanting a father in my life. Question: what would you have done if you didn’t know me? If there was no reconnecting with my mother? First off, you still there, so I guess your siblings were a no-go or, you were just selling me, scratch that, yourself a dream.
I remember the day I had enough. I told you to leave me alone and to not speak to me. You called and texted my mother like she was suppose to do something about it. Calling me disrespectful and saying that I must do it. At my grown age, do you really believe she would have say in what I do or don’t do? She reminded you of that and that I did not know you. Let’s be real, it’s her fault too, but you had some audacity blowing up my phone about what my obligations were to you. Who are you again? The man that my mother slept with sum odd years ago? I ignored and still ignore you from time to time because you just don’t know how to quit. Your attitude should be with yourself. That begging for forgiveness should be of yourself. Form a relationship with and reevaluate yourself.
People are too quick to say, “At least you have him now” or “You only have one father” or “There’s people without a father”. Why is the responsibility placed on me? Why am I obligated to maintain the relationship? Why is my trauma being ignored? Why should I be satisfied with a subpar father whose only purpose is to remind me that I am his daughter and that I need to communicate with him and in the meantime help him get to the US or feel guilty that he’s old and could die or invest in the three guest houses he wants to build on his property because Africa is the future? Didn’t you say you don’t want to be there? How about how it seems like I want you to stay there and suffer and not be able to take care of your other children? Remember that? I must forgive and forget, huh? Because it’ll make my life easier, huh? How about respect my boundaries? How about knowing YOUR place? Not once have you took genuine interest in being in my life. You cannot father me. I am passed the point of needing that male figure, but this explains it all. Why I seek out a father figure in all the men who have entered my life. Uncles. Older cousins. Family friends. Work mentors. *cough* Boyfriends.
Oh. And quit making assumptions that I’m well off and can provide for you. News flash. I can’t. I do have multiple college degrees, a full-time job that’s hardly livable, and an apartment that only I pay bills for, but I am struggling like everyone else. Even with that, it’s “you’re smart, you should get a PhD as well. How about what I have accomplished being enough? How about ME BEING ENOUGH? No. I don’t want to reconnect. I don’t want to visit. I don’t want to speak to your children. I don’t want to hear about your girlfriend… wife… whatever she is. I don’t need your half-dead apologies and bouts with guilt or regret. I don’t need them. It does not fix anything. I am certain that you are wasting your time. I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt. I even apologized at one point for being so rash and I slowly regretted it because you fell right back into not respecting my boundaries. You’re a narcissist. You know that? It’s all about you and your life falling apart, but what about me? What about the fact that I grew up trying to find you in other people? You had ample opportunity to turn things around and instead, you focused on what you could get out of it even if that meant losing me completely. I am not responsible for your life’s mistakes and the fact that you can’t get it together. Your biggest regret is NOT me.
At this point, I wish I never met you. I think I was good with not having a father. Whatever good is. I’ve been saying it since the fourth grade.
You don’t owe me anything nor do I to you.
Now you want to be a father to somebody. You have seven other children. This ship has sailed. Make up for it with them. Leah, Elon, Esther, Mary, Levi, Jamilah, and recently, Heru, are the ones who need you. Make it worthwhile. We don’t need any more kids in the world without their father.
Be blessed. G*d got you.
Til the button up, tie, and father’s day card flies,
Ella.
The Daily Ella 