Why I’ve Hated My Father (Six Moments With Sam)
In honor of Father’s Day, the folks over at Essence.com asked me to write a piece on my rocky relationship with my father and how we’re finally working to slowly make amends. I put a lot of effort into the article and would love to hear your feedback, so be sure to CLICK HERE to read the story and comment.
Being limited by a word count, though, I really couldn’t get into every single nuance of my love-hate relationship with my father, who I affectionately refer to as Sammy because I never felt he deserved to be called “dad.” If you’ve been following for a bit you already know I confronted him HERE, but it took a lot to get to that point. Sadly, in my 32 years on this planet I can only recall six memories of my father. That’s not counting any of the numerous one-sided phone conversations where I hardly listen.
Growing up my male figure/role model was my grandfather. Despite his death when I was just 10, I have dozens of memories of him. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same about my father. Writing that piece for Essence.com unearthed a lot of emotions that I want to get off my chest. So here are the six moments I recall with the man I borrowed my name from. Let me know if you can relate.
1) Early childhood, pre-divorce
My first memory of Sammy is a non-descript day from my subconscious. I have no idea how old I was, but I distinctly remember being on my grandfather’s stoop as my father stood outside. He had just pulled up to the house in some red sports car. I remember the color being very vibrant. I can’t recall if he had vanity plates, but I do know the front license was framed in Rastafarian/Jamaican colors. I remember because my mother made a comment about people thinking he was Jamaican because of that detail. For the record, Sam isn’t Jamaican, he’s Grenadian. Funny thing about this memory is it seems like I was more impressed with the car than the return of my father from base camp. Go figure.
2) Early childhood, post-divorce
I can’t recall what year it was but my mother sent me to go visit my father for the summer. I believe he was stationed in Georgia (I just know it was the South) and lived in this huge building complex. This was during my chubby stage so Sam made me take daily laps around the complex to work off the extra pounds.
One day in particular stands out to me because it was when I saw my first porn. I had just finished doing my laps and crawled back into the apartment, panting exaggeratedly. I stepped into the living room to find my father and his drinking buddy passed out, while a weird movie played on the TV. The “plot” revolved around a pizza parlor that had a female delivery girl with roller skates. It seemed normal enough when the woman rolled down the block in boy shorts with a pizza box, but things got “interesting” as soon as the male patron answered the door. It wasn’t long before the music changed bong-chicki-wah-wah and they were getting it on.
I had no idea what was going on, but I crawled closer to the screen to get a better view of whatever it was these two people were doing with their clothes off. In case my father woke up, I pretended I was asleep and watched with one eye open. Eventually, I did conk out from exhaustion. When my father awoke he asked if I had seen anything, which I responded with a quick, “No.” Case closed.
The only other thing I recall from this summer trip are a few photos I took. One was of me in front of his turntable set, and the other was me holding an unloaded M16 rifle. I’m still looking for that second picture, it was gangsta.
3) Spring 1986
This must have happened during spring break in elementary school. My mother took my cousin Ian and I down South to meet up with father so we could all go to Disneyland. After a few days at his Georgia home (this was an actual house and not the apartment complex from before), we hopped in my father’s car and drove down to Kissimmee, FL. I remember the name, because Ian and I kept pretending girls were kissing us as we drove through Kissimmee (get it?). Anyway, I actually don’t remember much of Disneyland. Just the imaginary girls kissing me, and getting word from my mother a few months later that she was pregnant with my brother Rob and Sammy was the father. How’s that for a Magic Kingdom.
4) January 1987
This is one memory I’ll always remember vividly. Less than a week earlier, my grandfather had passed and I had to attend his funeral. I think it was a Wednesday. I remember going to school that Monday and proudly handing my teacher a note explaining I’d be missing school to attend my grandfather’s funeral. Not sure if she sent her condolences or asked if I’d be out the entire week, but I was only out for the day. Education was important to grandpa and I knew he would want me back in school. But I digress… Back to my father.
I spent most of the funeral holding my grandmother’s hand. As the priest was delivering his monologue, I looked around at the various people dressed in black. I saw my father and thought, “What is he doing here? I didn’t even know he knew my grandpa.”
I know that thought is contradictory to memory No. 1, where I clearly envisioned my father and grandfather conversing, but for some reason, that was the thought that ran through my mind but it would be short-lived. The sight of seeing my mother balling uncontrollably and nearly collapsing as the casket was lowered into the ground quickly replaced that thought. My father may have made an attempt to console her. If so, he probably got shooed away. Really can’t recall, but seeing your rock, your foundation, your mother in such a weakened condition is something you never forget.
5) May 1998
Sadly, the next memory of my father didn’t come until 10 years later at my college graduation. Truthfully, though, most of the events that transpired are all hearsay. I of course, was on stage during the ceremony waiting to get my paper degree.
According to my mother and girlfriend at the time, they had waited for my father, who was flying in from California, to give him his ticket to the ceremony but never saw him. My mother didn’t want to miss her first-born walk down the aisle in his cap and gown, so she and my girl proceeded to their seats. At some point before the ceremony started, my mother noticed a skinny man on stage that looked familiar. Turns out it was my father. Apparently, he was helping the steel pan band that was going to play during the graduation set up their equipment.
My mother pointed him out to my girl and sent her to go fetch him. How did my father wind up doing manual labor at my graduation? According to his side of the story, he was waiting outside and saw the steel pan guys unloading their equipment. Being that he plays the steel pan on the docks in San Francisco, he struck up a convo with them and offered to help carry the equipment in. Random, yes, I know.
After graduation, my girl, my parents and I are all congregated outside trying to plan our next move. My mother wants to take me out to lunch; my father of course is not invited. He’s left (or banished, depending on how you look at it) to his own devices, while my mom, my girl and I travel to good ol’ Times Square for lunch at TGI Friday’s. This was the day I grew to despise this particular chain restaurant, but that’s a story for another blog.
6) September 1999
My final memory of my father came when Sega flew me out to San Francisco for the launch of their new Dreamcast system. Not counting my graduation the year prior, it had been over 10 years since I had seen my pops. Being that I was a man now I figured it was only right we meet up and get to know each other. Besides, after all the negative stories from my moms and his blatant absentee-ness, I figured this would be his final shot at redemption. I went into the experience open-minded and wide-eyed. Unfortunately, I was sadly disappointed.
My father picked me up from the airport looking a hot mess. He had on a burgundy Members Only jacket, his hair unkempt and had those distinctive glassy, bloodshot eyes from years of drinking. My first thought was, “Wow, this is him, huh?”
To my amazement, instead of driving he took a cab to pick me up. We wound up catching one of those Blue Van shuttles back to my hotel. I remember sitting in the last row and my father yelling out to the driver, “You see this big guy here? This is my son.”
The driver entertained my father’s conversation, but I really don’t think he cared at all. I know I wouldn’t.
We arrived at my hotel, I checked in and I laid my stuff down in the room. My father used the bathroom—farting in the process—and we broke out. I was extremely hungry after my 6-hour cross-country journey and my father suggested we hit the dock area where he sang and played the steel pan with his buddies.
During the cross-town bus ride, he played tour guide, pointing out various landmarks. When we reached the docks, he introduced me to his band mates. They all seemed like nice guys and said they had heard so much about me. There was also some White girl; Sam called “their groupie.” She was younger, probably closer to my age, and she helped sell their tapes while they played. My father mentioned something about her “liking to fuck.” Uh, thanx, Sam.
After that awkward comment I was bout ready to go. I was famished and asked Sam where could we grab something to eat. He looked at me and said, “There’s food places down that way (pointing to the left), and there’s food places down there (pointing to the right). I’ll be here playing with the band when you get back.”
Wow! A part of me died when he said that. After 10 years and a 6-hour flight, he wants me to eat by myself? In a strange city I’ve never been to before? He couldn’t squeeze in a few moments to sit and eat with his oldest son? The one who bares your first, middle and last name? I was heated. I decided then that I was done forever with this man. He was an asshole and I didn’t need him.
Angered, I asked “the White girl” if she wanted to go eat with me, but she couldn’t. She had to help the band sell CDs so I took off aimlessly to the right. I saw countless places that looked good, but I didn’t want to dine alone in some posh restaurant. I flew 2,500 miles to end up at Subways eating a 6-inch turkey and American sub.
When I was done, I walked back to where my father had broken my heart and saw he was still playing with the band, so I kept walking further down the docks and called my girl. “This dude is fuckin’ wack,” I cried. “It’s a wrap. I’m done with him.”
She expressed her disappointment and love until I eventually felt better and got off the phone. I sat by the docks for a moment looking out at Alcatraz and got lost in my own thoughts.
By time I returned my father was ready to leave and we got back on the bus. Somehow or other we wound up at a local supermarket, where my father introduced me to the security guard he knew. Later we bumped into a female friend of his outside. While we were talking my father collapsed and I just barely caught him in my arms. It was the scariest thing ever. This man who I had not seen in a decade was standing next me one second and in my arms the next. I had no idea what to do.
Luckily, he was alright and stood back up. I’m not sure what happened but he said his legs just gave out on him. He brushed himself off and we made our way over to Sam’s apartment. He went to the bathroom again and nonchalantly informed me that he had just spit up blood.
As mad as I was, I was still concerned. Sam’s weakened state scared me and I begged him to go to the doctor tomorrow. He shrugged me off kept saying he was alright. He then went into a draw and pulled out a copy of his will saying everything will go to me, my brother Rob and my older sister Pat, who I have never met. He said he was going to mail me a copy when I got back home (It took another 10 years before I ever got that copy).
After my father was settled in I made my way back to my hotel and called him when I got in, once again stressing him to go to the doctor. Although I was there for another day and a half, the press junket I was on had me tied up from sunrise to way past sunset and I didn’t get to see my father before I flew back to New York. It’s almost 10 years later and I still haven’t seen him.
. Glad you could get this all off your chest Ans….We are always here to listen!!
“Why I’ve Hated My Father (Six Moments With Sam)”