Our Father

September 17, 2006

I recently had a Myspace conversation with my friend Hope about absentee fathers. She was telling me about a man she knows who has several different children by several different women. She also told me that some of these children have never met, or are not even aware of the existence of, their half-siblings. I related to this all too well.

I have absolutely no memories of my father before the age of seven. I'm not suffering from some rare form of amnesia. I have no memories because there were no memories to remember. The only things I remember about my father from this time are two occurrences. The first is one was when my father was supposed to pick my sister and I up and take us out to dinner and never showed. The second memory was of my mother on the phone with him asking him why he didn't want to see his children. She was crying. I'm sure she wasn't asking for money, as my mother has never been one to ask for anything from anybody. She just wanted to know why he didn't want to see his children.

This, of course, is an excellent question. Why would a person (woman or man) not want to be present in the lives of their offspring? What could possibly be more important than seeing your children grow up? I'm not one of those people who believe that a person's life should stop once they've had children, but I do believe that children should be a major priority in your life. What makes a man not want to see his children?

I don't know. I've never asked my father that question. All I know is that when I was seven, he was magically there. Like an answer to prayer. A miracle. After years of praying that I had a father, all of a sudden, he was there. I was ecstatic.

The excitement didn't last for long. Not long after my parents magically remarried, my father began to withdraw. He wasn't an active participant in our lives. In fact, he wreaked havoc in our lives and we used to wait with anticipation for the one week out of the year when he went on vacation to his hometown in Mississippi. It became so uncomfortable to live with him that when my parents announced that they were getting divorced again, my sister and I were ecstatic. Just as happy to see him go as we had been to see him come. Sure, now that we're both adults, he's trying a lot harder. Unfortunately, he only shows up when one of us accomplishes something. And on Father's Day this year, he stood us up again. July 30th? My birthday? He says he thought it was the 31st. That's really a shame seeing as his birthday is on June 30; exactly a month before mine and it ain't like it's my first birthday.

Unfortunately, my sister and I aren't the only victims of my father's selfishness. I have a half-brother who was born and raised in my father's hometown in Mississippi. He was the only positive aspect about my parents remarrying, because if they hadn't, I met have never met him. I met him for the first time when I was eight, and saw him for the last time when I was eleven. I spoke to him briefly on the phone about three years ago to congratulate him on the birth of his son, my nephew. A nephew that I've only viewed in pictures.

I have a half-sister that I've never met. I only remember her name from time to time because it's so close to my father's name. The only thing I know about her is that she's quite older than I am and has several children. I don't know where she lives or what she looks like. If I saw her on the street, I'd pass her by without a thought as to her identity. I have another sister who I've never met or seen who lives in Mississippi. I only found out about when my mother filed joint taxes with my father one year. She was expecting a refund that year but instead received a letter from the IRS stating that her refund money was going to go towards the back child support that my father owed to a woman in his hometown. This was the first that we'd ever heard of my sister whom my father denies is his. (Which is not surprising seeing as he once tried to deny me by cunningly claiming that I looked nothing like my sister. He said this when I was two days old.) From what I know, this "sister" is only a couple of months younger than I.

What happens to the children of a father who doesn't care? Does it affect them at all? Do we truly need these people? For what, I'm not sure. Because I didn't have one who really tried to be one, I'm not sure of the purpose that they serve in children's lives. But I did have uncles and a grandfather who loved me very much. They gave me love, hugs, gifts, and accolades. But they weren't "daddy." Or, at least, they weren't my real "daddy." I had several men who I referred to as "daddy" and one whom I referred to as "papa." They all did their best, but at the end of the day, they went home to their children, and I didn't go home to my daddy.

Perhaps it's better if your absent parent is of the opposite gender, but perhaps it's worse. My mother went above and far beyond what she was called to do as a mother. Private school, music, dance and etiquette lessons, vacations, and all those other things that parent's don't have to do. All this while providing us with food, clothing, and shelter, and most of all, lots and lots and lots and lots of love. Mommy was mommy. Mommy was fun. Mommy was strict. Mommy was loving. Mommy was hilarious. Mommy did the absolute best that she could and tried to outdo herself daily. Mommy was mommy and more. Mommy wasn't daddy.

Even as I type this, I feel a knot clogging up my throat. I pause to get the hell over it. I'm 22, for God's sake! So what? F*ck him. His loss, not mine. I'm soooooo over it. But I know that this is just what I tell myself to loosen up the knot. I know, deep inside, that it still does hurt, and unfortunately, I believe that it still affects me.

Very recently I have been deeply analyzing who I am and what I do, and the reasons for both of these things. Alarmingly, I have found that much of the things I say, the things I do (or don't do), and the emotions that I feel, have to do with how I either positively or negatively view myself. More of the latter than the former. As I sat for hours staring at a wall and really delving into why I hold certain opinions of myself, I tried to trace back the origins of these beliefs. I believe that it has something to do with my father's actions.

Now, I'm not a blamer. Past a certain age, you're responsible for yourself. Period. However, nothing that happens in the present is devoid of the influence of the past. Many times when my father chose to go to the bar and drink instead of come to a band concert, I asked myself what they possessed that I obviously didn't. I asked myself why he would rather spend time with them than with me. Honestly, instead of coming to the conclusion that I would come to now (he was a fool), I came to believe it was because I was inadequate. I was missing something. What it was, I didn't know. I convinced myself that it was beauty. Perhaps it's because I thought that this would be the easiest flaw to mend. Since then, my physical appearance has become my Achilles Heel. I have allowed it to dictate a disturbing amount of my life. A disgusting amount. And the angrier I become at this truth, the truer this truth becomes. Then I realized that even if I looked the way I think I should look, this will not be enough to make my content.

If my father had been the father that I wanted him to be, would I be writing this blog right now? Who knows? It's quite possible that I could. Maybe I'm just grasping for a reason to a reasonless situation. There are lots of people who are raised in two-parent homes with two active parents who end up being psychopaths, or at the very least, unhappy. And what about those who barely have one parent, but triumph beautifully over life's trials with grace? Again, I ask, who knows?

What I do know is that my father could've done better. He really could've. He, like many other people, has made some bad choices in his life that he alone is responsible for. Right? But then again, my father didn't have a father either. And my mother, who married this man who couldn't fully love his children was devoid of a father also. Perhaps this is a cautionary tale for all people. If you have children, love them. No matter how you may feel about the person you've had them with, they are blameless and they need you. You may never feel as if you've reaped the benefits of parenthood or that your presence has made a difference, but it has. It has either helped or hindered them. So be careful and be responsible.

But through it all, I am still here. And if that isn't enough for the people in my life, then that is their problem. I have enough problems to worry about on my own. So, to all of my little girls and women who are out there without a father, I'm glad that you're still here. Which, of course, is more than we can say about them.

I just have to add this: I wanna thank my sister (who'll probably never see this) for comforting me yesterday when I was crying. Waiting for me to stop crying, asking me to fess up to what was the matter, waiting for me to stop crying so more, telling me that all things are working for me, and then staying on the phone with me for an hour even though she had tons of homework and studying to do. For NEVER judging me no matter how stupid my comments or concerns can be. Yeah, no daddy but a fantastic sister! Love you Courtney!