the nuanced subject of fathers

First version posted on June 18, 2017, here

4.9.25

I think as I reach 30, I’ve gone through so many iterations of what a father is. What their job should be, what is the role they are meant to have in the lives of their children? If I were to have children, what behavior would I accept of their father? After cutting off relationships because a partner or friend turned out to be a bad parent, I think I have less grace. The more I understand about “life” and “adult” choices, the less grace I have for the fathers I have experienced. 

My birth father took almost 30 years to tell me that he didn’t want me or my sibling. I truly believe that I only need to be told things one time. When my adopted father told me, at 6 years old, that I would be the catalyst to his divorce with his wife, I believed him and knew he absolutely meant that to his core. When the divorce finally occurred in my 20s, he looked at me and told me I was part of the reason. I knew. I was told several times in my life but I remember the first time the most vividly. Because I only need to be told once. 

My birth father is a weak man. I can see that without the rose-colored glasses of childhood grace. I know, now, that having children is a choice. Signing a birth certificate, twice, was a choice he made. He decided to make that choice, and then abandon those tied to the birth certificates. He is no longer a mystery I am interested in solving. His justifications will warm his bed, or they won’t. I only wish there was more social pressure on him, and all absentee fathers, to sign their rights away. To show up or shut up. To be barred from any sort of societal reward until they tend to their responsibilities. I still wholeheartedly believe that we cannot move forward without addressing the past truthfully. He is incapable of this, so it is better for everyone for him to be released to his demons. It has been enough time, and enough pain. I realized that I need to be the one to make the adult decisions, even though I have been an adult for a significantly smaller amount of time. I will remain a stranger to him, and that’s what he wants. I no longer bend backwards to let him know that I am open to hearing him. He’s made his choice, and spent almost 30 years building up the courage to speak it- even though he tried to take it back as soon as he realized that I could take what he said for what it was. These exact words: “I never said I wanted you guys.” That’s enough for me. 

My adopted father broke my nose. He shoved down my elderly great-grandmother so he could continue to beat my face in. I was 20 years old at the time. I spent my childhood with him being emotionally and verbally abused; being called racial and homophobic slurs, being hyper-monitored and financially abused, and neglected in a completely different way. It was easy for him to convince a pre-abused child to rely on, and worship him. I believe that is why we had so many “good times”. When everyone in the house was compliant, both in mood and action, he allowed us to be happy. This was not the happy home that was displayed to the outside world. It was the shadow behind the reference photo that was tossed in my face as evidence against the abuse I experienced as a child. I allowed myself to be adopted at 19 because I had no other emotional choice. I wanted the same last name of my only sibling, and theirs was already changed. There’s little other choice for me at that age, looking back now. I know now that every “good” choice he made, or opportunity he offered me was only to boost his ego and his status as the person who “saved” us.

My adopted father frequented white supremacist rhetoric. He fetishized the black women that lived in his home, myself included. Making comments about our bodies, our hair, under the guise of compliments. He often spoke derogatorily about my parents (unjustified to speak about with the children), and lamented over the “ghetto” he “saved” us from. He often would tell me that I would've been a “Teen Mom on Welfare” if he specifically hadn’t stepped in. Stereotypes and factually untrue. He was not the reason we ended up in his wife’s care. It was a choice she made, and gave him an out for. He wanted to be a white savior, and found the perfect opportunity. When he finally left my life, in my 20s, all I felt was immense relief. It didn’t matter to me that his entire family was calling me a liar, telling me that I couldn’t have possibly been abused when they spent my childhood watching me be berated. It was over. The truth was out and those who believed me, did so. 

Now, my first “truth-telling” was years ago. Parts of his family have come around when they experienced his abusive behavior, but mostly they are still rallying around him. Typical of whiteness and patriarchy, to protect the man instead of the black women he almost killed. 

I’m grateful and I’m not. I appreciate the rooms and spaces I was allowed to be in with my proximity to whiteness. I’m appreciative of what those spaces taught me. I’m appreciative and grateful that I am well versed on the typical signs of narcissism and abuse so it is maybe 40% harder for me to believe someone’s love bombing and subsequent abuse.

 It’s possible that I could never feel truly “healed”. But I know that I’m much better. I have no father, and that’s okay. I don’t know if I’ll have children, or even marry. But I know what I cannot experience. I saw the type of husband and father that both of my fathers were; it’s something my self esteem could never be low enough to sustain. I know that I deserve better than the fatherhood I’ve been shown, and if it couldn’t be offered to me- I will do everything in my power to offer that to any children I would bring into the world. Father’s day is dedicated to my grandfathers, two men that did their best with what they had. And tried to do right by their children and learn from their mistakes.