Not sure how to start this one. It’s been a while and it’s gonna get emotional, so I’m just gonna wing it and write from the heart…No edits, no rewrites, no going back.

So today I finally confronted my father. It’s been something I’ve talked about doing for years. Anyone that’s had a real life conversation with me knows I carry a lot of hurt in my heart because of the lacking realtionship with my father: A man I’ve never felt comfortable calling Dad or any affectionate term of that nature. I’ve instead relogated him to the distinction of Sam, which isn’t even his name since we both share the same name. Well, the last time I saw Sam was over eight years ago when I traveled to California where he resides for the past several years for a business trip. Needless to say, the reunion—after a 10 year gap—was not the best and I decided to mentally cut him off after I traveled across country and when I revealed my desire to have a meal I was instructed to go off on my own in this unfamiliar city while my father stayed and hung out with his friends. I WAS CRUSHED. After 10 fuckin’ years, and thousands of miles, I was forced to eat a Subways sandwich by myself. When I called my then girlfriend to tell her the news, my only words were, “This dude is wack. Fuck him!”

Despite my declaration, I failed to tell my father face-to-face to just fuck off. I just bottled it up and carried on. But that shit ain’t healthy. It made my heart heavy and is probably a major part of why I’ve avoided a serious relationship with a woman for so long. There have been some great ones and some fake ones over the years, but I believe my heart was too filled with pain and dissapointment from my father to allow anyone else in there to do more damage or actual healing. The healing could never truly happen until I unloaded the baggage, and that’s what today was about. But the truth is I WAS FUCKIN’ SCARED. Facing my biggest let down in life over the phone was something I’ve swept under the rug for years. I’ll forget what to say/ask, I’ll buckle under the pressure, I’d get toungue tied and stumble over my words, I’d cry and sound weak, or I’d just never have the balls.

Over the past few years I’ve seen a lot of changes in my life. When I traveled abroad for the first time in 2003, I came back invigorated and made a list with the word “FOCUS” written on top in red ink. It was a compilation of things that I wanted to do, buy or accomplish. As time went on the list got covered by other paper work on my bulletin board, but I’d occassionally see the list and think I have to do that. Well, last year I saw a big chunk of that list tackled and accomplished. At the start of 2007, I had to draft up a new list of FOCUS although a few unfinished things carried over from the previous list—namely talking to my father and also getting contact info on my older half sister and her kids. While trivial things like buying a decent rain jacket or new stero system remain, bigger things like learning how to swim and skydiving were finally tackled head on. But still the most important and difficult one remained. I HAD TO CONFRONT MY FATHER.

I decided that this holiday season would be the time that was finally tackled. Maybe Christmas Eve or Day would be good, I’m off work and he should be home, but that day came and went. Perhaps my birthday would be a good day: Turning 31 I’m officially in my 30s and leaving this fear in my 20s would be a great way to start my second childhood. But alas, I spent the day with my brother and the evening with my friends instead. Okay, maybe New Year’s day would be a great way to start my year off, but instead I opted for today, a quiet Sunday evening.

As I mustered up the courage, I treated the impending call like an interview. I drafted up a list of questions and points that I needed to have answered. I stared at the time on my computer when I felt the list was complete and took a deep breath and dialed the number—partly hoping he wouldn’t answer so I could say that I at least tried and failed and could stuff this chore back on my Focus list for another year, but instead he answered.

“Sam, it’s Anslem,” I began. Last time we communicated a few weeks earlier, I told him we had nothing to talk about and the call abruptly ended. How dare he actually sound chipper to hear from me. I was focused, stern and to the point. No distractions and small talk, this has been 31 years in the making so I dug right into my list.

1) What’s my sister’s number? Thanx
2) How old is she? Wow, 36-37
3) How many kids does she have? Five?!?!
4) How many boys, how many girls? Two boys, three girls
5) How old are they? 19, 16, 14, 11, 3?
6) 19? One of them is that old? Yes
7) What’s my grandmother’s name? Daphne

Ok, this convo is going to smooth, it’s time to get to the meat and potatoes; WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE?!?! These BS calls don’t cut it. The divorce is not an excuse. I DON’T KNOW YOU AND YOU DON”T KNOW ME.

This is when the tears started. As men, we try to hold back tears as much a spossible. We’re not supposed to show signs of “weakness” but fuck it this has to come out.

This is when the voice cracks. It’s that point where you don’t wanna speak because you don’t sound yourself. You can barely get the words to spew through your teeth and over your lips. You’re crying but you have to push forward. This has to come out.

AGAIN, WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE?
Ok, the Army blah blah, you were stationed in Vietnam when I was born came back then did a tour in Panama and a shitload of other places. Yeah, I know that story: WHAT ABOUT AFTER THE WAR? AFTER THE DIVORCE?

The truth is there is no answer. That should hurt, but it doesn’t. He admits his fuck ups, his absenteeness (is that a word?), and that he was/is a lousy father. Shit, the motherfucker even accepts my tears and acknowledges my hurt. Sure my mother’s own hatred of him played a small role in our disconnect but he takes the weight of the blame.

HOLD UP, I AIN’T DONE….WHY DID YOU LET ME, YOUR SON, TRAVEL ACROSS COUNTRY AFTER 10 YEARS OF NOT SEEING ME, EAT ALONE IN A FUCKIN SUBWAYS. I ATE A FUCKIN TUNA SUB. A FUCKIN SUB.

There is no answer. Alcoholism plays a part. Shit, it’s probably the root of all this shit, but you know what Pop? This has to come out.

That shit hurt. Listen to my voice. Listen to my pain. I don’t have a father. You died in my eyes that day. You had an opportunity to know me and you squandered it. Your promises for the years that followed were all hollow. You’ve been sending me you will for 8 years before it actually came. OS your words mean nothing to me. Your word is not your bond. You don’t know me and I don’t know you. SO WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!?!? Cause I don’t want anything from you but answers.

DIALOGUE…..COMMUNICATION…. HONESTY…..

During the course of our hourlong conversation, we cover a lot of bases. I even get a 3-way call with my sister Patricia. That shit is weird. Not only are there cultural differences with her being raised an dliving in the Caribbean and me being raised States side, this is a person I have no physical connection to outside of geneology. She is a stranger to me and talking to strangers over the phone is hard/awkward and I’m a person who hates awkwardness and being uncomfortable. Still, DIALOGUE…..COMMUNICATION…. HONESTY…..

Birthdays, ages, names confirmed and numbers exchanged. Promises to continue speaking in the near future…. Now back to Sam.

WHO AM I? WHAT DOES OUR NAME MEAN? WHO ARE MY UNCLES/AUNTS? WHERE ARE THEY?

All in all, my family is bigger than I ever knew. 5 nieces and nephews, 4 Uncles and Aunts spread out throught the US (I never knew I had family in the South). Shit is all a mind fuck. A much needed mind fuck.

DIALOGUE…..COMMUNICATION…. HONESTY…..

This point would not have come (not now) if not for the various friends I’ve opened up to and spoken to. I THANK Y’ALL SOOOO MUCH for listening to my rants about him and giving me the strength and guidance. You are the ones that pushed me to do this, not just for me, but for my future children and my own sanity. I always feared my father would die before I got to confront him and he’d escape my wrath. I thought that all I wanted was to just curse him out and get it off my chest and continue to live my life without him. “I’m too old for a father,” I always said. part of me still feels that way. He and I probably never will be friends, but letting this out into the open makes him less of a nusiance to me. Someone I can actually dialogue with, communicate with and be honest with. At times I felt what I had bottled up would cut him deep if revealed, but he understands his faults and takes on the responsibility for his inaction.

I don’t know what’s next. There’s supposed to be a face to face dialogue in the near future. There’s supposed to me more communication. Healing takes a while. I’m still hurt, but now my heart has a little more space. I little more room. But beyond speaking with my father I understand/know that the next step is for me to take. I have to call my sister. I have to build a relationship and eventually travel down to Grenada to see her and the kids. SCARY SHIT. I have to forgive SOME of my father’s transgressions, but sure as hell NOT FORGET EM. I have to continue to DIALOGUE…..COMMUNICATE…. and most importantly be HONEST…..

My life…. A WORK STILL IN PROGRESS

PS
Pardon any typos or grammatical errors, I wrote this one direct from the heart, y’all…