Healing in Action: Father-Sized L’s, Part 2

Last year, my pastor asked a question I still contemplate to this day: “Does your relationship with your earthly father affect your concept of God as a heavenly father?” That week, I journaled the following:

Monday, October 25, 2020

…When he said that we may be approaching our relationship with God much like the one we have with our own father, it pierced me a bit…I think about how little reliance and dependency I have on my father, or the fact that my dad and I lack so much intimacy. When I start to think on how can I build that intimacy – at this age, it seems hopeless.

Hopeless is right.

In my attempts to build a relationship with my father, I would accept my brother’s offers (or mostly volunteered), to go to his house for impromptu family gatherings. At times, my father was no where around. Sometimes, he’d be there, and offer nothing to the conversation. Other times, I got to see my father’s genius – he’s a talented musician that’s able to play music by ear. I would play a song for him – he’d only need to listen to the song a couple of times in order to pick up the chords, and I got to sing along while he strummed the guitar. Sometimes, he would share a story about our family. But most times, he was absent. He’d disappear from the house for hours, unable to be found, and I must admit, after taking a two-hour journey from the Bronx, to Brooklyn, and then to Long Island, I was disappointed that he wasn’t present. Here I am, making a frequent effort to travel for a man that has only come to my house three times in the past seven years.

Despite his lack of presence in his own home, I did take advantage of the space to learn more about the nuclear unit on my father’s side. I relished in the mini-getaways and constant celebrations, but those same stirrings in my heart came back. “Where’s Daddy, and why isn’t he here, in his own home, with his family?” What I thought was personal, I now understood to be a character flaw. If I questioned his whereabouts, he would tell me a vague story (I was at the store…I just ran to get some gas), and follow it up with, “Why didn’t you call me to let me know you were coming over?”

Call me crazy, but somehow, in the middle of a pandemic, I might have unfairly expected my father to be right at home, enjoying the presence of his family, joining us in the festivities.

My stepmother’s birthday weekend was special for me. For the second time in my life, I got to have a sleepover with my family. The lack of time that we’ve spent being in each other’s presence created a disconnect for me, and I was happy to be able to travel with them – to spend time just being.

I’ll tell you one thing I do know: my father can surely sour a good moment.

I’ll tell you another thing: I fed right into his foolishness.

I began to see my father’s ways in little vignettes – the squabbles he picked with my siblings and stepmom, his lack of consideration for others even after being called out – it’s as if it was in his nature to get under people’s skin. Maybe I hadn’t really considered how much it hurt watching those moments, and watching my family take it in stride. It would be an argument we had in Dunkin Donuts that I would learn my father’s selfishness knows no boundaries. “How do you put up with this man? How have you not left him yet?” Is a question I posed to my stepmother. Her advice: “I know he gets under your skin. He gets under mine. Ignore him.”

My father asked me to take my “offensive blog” down, and I told him no. Here are some of the things he said to that:

  • I’m writing the host to get your blog taken down. It’s offensive slander. (Write them…Did I lie?)
  • This is personal family business. (It’s my business)
  • You wouldn’t want me to write about what really happened Thanksgiving with Bradley…you were the only one with him all day, and then he just dropped dead like that? What if I told them what happened? (Wow)
  • No one even reads or likes your blog. (Makes no difference to me)
  • You’re only doing this for attention. (I need no such clout)
  • You’re ranting like a young child. (Trauma will do that to you)
  • You make it sound like I was never around. (You barely were)
  • You have psychological issues/you’re crazy. (I very well may be)
  • Does your mother read this filth? (She’s an email subscriber)
  • What if I wrote about how you’re a shitty daughter? (I would repost it with pride)
  • You work with kids at the department of education. Don’t you care about your employer seeing you as crazy? (That’s not where I work)
  • Are you ready to throw away 32 years? (I’m not willing to repeat 32 years of this)
  • If you don’t take this blog down, you’re going to lose your whole family. (That’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make – family, see letter below)

I’m grateful that I responded and didn’t react. That’s growth. For the first time in my life, I didn’t respond in anger. I listened. I listened to my father say these things about me, and I was able to come to peace with the fact that I am finally choosing myself. If my father wishes to be stuck in his ways, so be it. I don’t need to be present in his life to continue witnessing his self-destruction and willingness to make everyone else miserable. There’s no peace in that relationship.

I refuse to allow my father to continue bullying me. I refuse to keep suppressing my pain and destroying myself in the process. In order to grow, you’ve got to let go.

I thought I could continue for the month with a series of stories about my father, but to continue feeding this man with the energy he gives is hopeless. I want nothing more to do with the situation but to allow my Heavenly Father to handle it.

It is in God’s hands now.

Dear Family,

These words may be difficult and challenging for some of you to read. According to my father, speaking my truth about my experiences will cause you all to abandon me. I pray this is not the case, however, I understand the choices you have to make.

I will not take it personally; I have too much respect for all of you, and I thank you all for the love you’ve shown to me. I can’t tell you what to do, but if you were to ask me, “Why did you do this?” Here’s what I would say:

               Transparency and vulnerability are my strengths. I am using my creative outlet to be transparent and vulnerable about the harm my father caused me. It’s not for clout. It’s to inspire others to begin to heal from the things they can’t reveal because of our society’s toxic message that these issues are private family matters that should stay private. I choose to release and pray that there’s a reader who can find the strength through my words to surrender their burdens and cast their cares upon the Lord. My path was directed to write this blog.

               I pray that people are inspired to confront their own alive, but absent parents, or to make peace with their toxic parents no longer on this side of the Earth. Most importantly, I pray that in my journey to find healing, I am strengthening my resolve so that when I am ready to create my family, we are whole and healed using God as our GPS and make choices that do not mirror the harm experienced from previous generations.

               This is why I write.

               If my father’s words are accurate, and this is your only interaction with me, then I thank you for all the love you gave and showed in the times my dad could not. I thank you for the great memories; you were a blessing. I pray for your peace. He may be our connector, but I value you all individually, and will continue praying for your happiness and strength.

               Maybe I am growing, because that’s what I wish for my earthly father as well. I wish him peace. I wish for him to turn from his evil ways and be convicted to acknowledge his past so that he can be healed in this lifetime. That takes courage and a strength unparalleled. It takes stepping outside of himself to see how his actions impact others. It takes some character building that I pray he can apply, however, I am not interested in waiting another 32 years, or even one more day to see this come to fruition.

               I am moving on. I am learning to choose myself over making others happy, and I love that in my life. I love the woman I am becoming.

Family, if my father’s words are right, I wish you peace and love. Thank you for your presence. You all helped me understand that even if he couldn’t show his love past an expression, you all just loved me in a way I never had to question. I am sorry this is where we depart from one another. May we all be blessed enough to feel God’s love – may we all be grateful that He’s not my earthly father.

               Until we meet again.

Love Always,

Jamila

Let’s Dig – Uncovering Father-Sized L’s, part 1.

“A girl abandoned by the first man in her life forever entertains powerful feelings of being unworthy or incapable of receiving any man’s love.” Jonetta Rose Barras

I cannot recall my earliest memory with my father, but I do recall the earliest memory I formed of my father was regarding his absence.

It was around Christmas time, somewhere in the early 90’s. 

“Is Daddy going to be there too?” I asked my mother.  She wrapped her arms around me and held on to her elbows, anchoring me in place as we rode in the cab. I knew of my father because we’d spoken over the phone from time to time, but he was something like a mystery to me – like Yetti. I heard of him, but never experienced the magnitude of his formidable presence.

“I’m not sure,” my mother said. “Your grandmother didn’t say, but do you know who you will see? Your Uncle Ronnie!”

“I always see Uncle Ronnie! What about Daddy?” My mother must have been tired of my questions because she encouraged me to look out the window at the skyscrapers as we drove across the Brooklyn Bridge. I stared out the window and looked down at the East River instead.

I remember being over at my paternal grandmother’s house, sitting on the sofa with my uncle, waiting to open this big box. I’m certain my uncle reassured me that I was going to love the gift, but the only thing I could think about was, “Where’s Daddy?” The fact that my uncle was sitting next to me on the sofa was confirmation enough that he’d continue to stand in the places my father could not.

Once I got older and understood how sex and feelings worked, I informed my mother that she fucked the wrong brother. 

For so long, he was just absent. When he did come around, there were always arguments. From my younger years, I remember asking him when he’d come to take me out, and he’d say soon. Well, sometimes soon was at 10pm when everything fun for a child was closed, and there was nothing to do because it was my bedtime. I don’t think there was ever a time I can remember feeling genuinely excited about my father’s presence. It was always overshadowed by grief and anger.

Grief and anger and a whole lot of frustration pretty much defined my childhood. At too early an age I can no longer recall, my mother informed me that my father did not acknowledge me as his child. That he actually went to court to seek a paternity test and hired a lawyer to determine if I was his. If Maury was a thing back then, while I know it’s a show my mother would never be caught on, I could only imagine the drama with Maury hitting my father with, “In the case of 1-year old Jamila, Allen, you ARE the FATHER!” I imagine the audience going wild, and the sweet satisfaction of this victory would only show up in a smug look that my mother would offer the camera, as she sat back and collected the victory of knowing all along.

In later years, I would ask my father why he’d make such a choice. I grew up looking at photos in my grandmother’s house – our school photos sitting side by side and thinking, how could he ever deny me when I looked just like him? My father says this was never actually a thought of his – He says he made the decision because he was doing what I now know absent father men to do – continuing to deny his responsibility – now in the financial sense, and to make the woman out to be the offender. To assuage his guilt, he tried to appeal to my emotions and follow up with, “I could never deny you, Sweetie. You are my beautiful daughter, and I love you.”

Funny, I was never able to feel that love. I felt absence. I felt his lack of presence. Like there was something I missed out on by not growing up with my father’s presence. A void. Even though I felt the satisfaction of knowing who he was, I really did not. I couldn’t understand his motives, I couldn’t understand his choices. I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that he started a whole new family and stepped in to take care of two children that weren’t his biologically. Couldn’t wrap my head around having a brother that’s 14 months younger than me that I rarely saw. Didn’t understand the disjointed unit he had created, and that he left me and his older son out in the cold.

As a child, it made me wonder if I was good enough.

By 12, I knew I didn’t look the part. My step-mother (at least she should be known as that, but my father lacks the respect to make an honest woman out of a woman that bore three kids for him, cares for him, and takes all his shit – this should be a longer rant, but I do have a lot of respect for someone willing to do so much for someone that does so little), being the product of German and Cuban parents presents as white, and my siblings are biracial. It was during a family road trip through the amusement parks of the mid-Atlantic, and all the faces that stared back at us in the restaurant confirming what I felt in my heart: This girl is too dark to belong here. She clearly does not fit.

So when I thought back to my older brother (for I have a brother that bears his same name, and is my father’s child from his previous marriage) and I lacking a clear father figure in our lives, I settled into the thought that we simply weren’t white enough to be accepted by my father. If you’ve ever seen the scene from I’m Gonna Git You Sucka, I always compared my dad to this guy:

Maybe he was Black, but outside of what he preached, had no real respect for the culture, because he abandoned his responsibilities to his Black kids to be a full-time caregiver for his half-white ones. Sure, I knew my father’s family to preach nothing but the joys of being Black, but my father’s personal choices suggested a disconnect from his family’s beliefs early on.

This is a tough blog to write – there’s so much to grieve while living, it’s tough to imagine if there will be any more feeling left when it’s time for my father’s number to be called. If I’m being honest, prior to COVID, I might have excused many of my father’s behaviors. I would have called him absent-minded when he didn’t return my calls like he said he would. Called him forgetful when I’d ask for at least a week’s notice before an event, and he’d call me on the day. I would have even called him lonely, because despite the amount of time I spent with my nuclear unit on my father’s side, his presence was rarely felt – either he was absent from the event, or trying to plot an escape.

I didn’t have to confront the many ways I felt my father was shitty until my uncle’s unexpected death in April, 2020. Losing my uncle shook me pretty bad, and actually caused me to think on an even deeper level: in the absence of my uncle, what role does my father serve in my life?

I set out on a mission to figure it out.

And I came up empty-handed.

Dear Readers,

First and foremost, I would like to thank all of you for sticking with me during this three-month writing hiatus. I really needed the time to think about the stories I wanted to tell the most, but 50 pages of failed blogs later taught me that I wasn’t telling the most important story:

How did I even become this way?

I didn’t know how to approach the topic. Writing about the men who I’d been with began to trigger memories of my father in ways I couldn’t explain. I began to see my father in Osiris who can never have enough time because he’s created so many different families with different women. I saw my father in Harold who was smooth and evasive, and knew the right lies and had a cheat code to the heart by telling me everything I wanted to hear.

I saw my father in Francois – a father who willingly steps out and abandons the emotional responsibility of raising a child for temporary satisfaction. I saw my dad in Jay who was unwilling to acknowledge how his personal actions caused harm for others. I saw my father in men I haven’t written about yet, because I had to pause and acknowledge that I’m the only common factor between all these men, and I wanted an understanding of my patterning. Why was I drawn to these men? Why was it so easy to share myself with them – to even learn the things that caused them hurt?

Perhaps, it was so I could let the real healing begin and explore my relationship with my father. These stories about my father are incomplete – they’re complex, and the hurt runs deep.

I must keep digging to unearth this weed.

I may only be a windowsill gardener, but here’s what I do know: if you don’t pull the weeds, the whole garden will suffer. Sometimes, you need the strongest herbicide to get rid of it, and if you’re not careful enough, that herbicide will kill everything else positive growing in the garden.

I started this blog finally coming to an acknowledgement that I had a garden that needed some work. While tending to my emotionally fragile garden, I noticed a stubborn weed. It’s always been there – and I tried to kill it – I dumped herbicide on there and figured out nothing good could grow until I waited out the process.

Even with the best attempts at trying to remove this weed, it kept growing. Even sent its cousins as distractions.

I digress, but you get where I’m going.

It’s here that I need to spend some time being delicate. Until September, I’ll be tending to this garden with a few stories about my father. No longer will I allow that weed to continue destroying the good I’ve planted deep within. It’s time to get this weed the fuck up outta here.

I would like to thank my therapist who’s been journeying the void with me for today’s blog. It was her noticing that I’m slipping with the things I love that was all the reminder I needed to get right back here.

I love you all. Thank you for journeying through these L’s with me.

My Deepest Regards,

Jamila