Defining Fatherhood: A Tribute

I didn't meet my father until I was 17. Sure I heard about a man with similar coloring, the same prominent nose and identical sense of humor, but I didn't know him. I remember being at a local shopping center with my aunt. I was about 9 years old and quite impressionable. We had gone into a shoe store and upon our exit, a slim, handsome man stopped my aunt and they chatted. She tried to encourage me to speak to him, but an unfamiliar shyness took over me and I hid (inexplicably) behind her. I would later find out that that man was my father. Even though I saw him, I never considered that "meeting" him until we were formally introduced almost nine years later. Can you imagine? Being formally introduced to your father? It defies all logic.

Despite my father's absence, I grew up with a loving father figure in my house--Frank Mitchell, my grandfather. He was an old, old man from the South. He had limited education, but what he lacked in traditional schooling, he made up for with his mastery of carpentry. He also had a sharp fashion sense. Monday through Friday, he wore his uniform of tattered dungarees with a variety of holes and stains. He would have an old cap on his head, weathered boots and a red and black square carpenter's pencil tucked behind one ear. But on the weekends? He was sharp as a tack, clean as a whistle. He would get out his old fashioned shaving kit (with the soap brush and straight razor) and proceed to groom his thin mustache to perfection. He always smelled so good and his suits? They fit him to a tee. He would put on the socks that had to be held up with sock garters; his pants even had suspenders!! Well dressed, indeed. He would put on a jaunty hat and some well polished shoes and he would look more elegant than gentlemen half his age. In fact, he taught me how to tie a tie when it was in fashion for women to wear them. He scoffed when I said that I could just buy a clip on. I'm smiling now thinking of the memory.

He had one brown eye and one blue one...how that happened I never knew. He did odd jobs and carpentry work for many people in our neighborhood and beyond. I loved those odd jobs because he would always bring me little treasures: a doll, some books, etc. These weren't old things; they were new things that someone had given to him. They knew he had a granddaughter and so they gave him things for me. Another thing I remember about him is that he LOVED baseball. I mean, loved it!! He would take his old black and white portable television and sit in our enclosed side patio watching hours of games at a time. He loved to laugh and would throw his head back to reveal some empty spaces where teeth used to be. He also loved the blues. In fact, I was the only child I knew who sang blues songs like nursery rhymes. He was a flawed man (who isn't), but he never wavered in his love for me. Never. And he was a constant figure in my life. I could always count on him up until his death when I was 18. I even eulogized him at his funeral. My family still laughs about that funeral. It was wild and crazy, just like him. Just like his life.

I don't have any memories of my father. He never came to see about me or to check on me. He didn't know if I was being treated well or if I was being misused. He never came to any of my activities and never influenced me in any way. We've tried to build a relationship over the years, but we can't seem to connect in the ways that matter. I must say that he's a phenomenal father to his other children. But with me? We are like familiar strangers who struggle to find the words to say at the right times. I know it's because I hold his feet to the fire and make him accountable for his words. He resents that, but I'm grown now. I don't need him like I used to and I won't allow him to lie to me like I don't know any better. We've talked; he's promised and sadly, he's fallen short. So this year I decided to cut him out of my life for good. It's a self-preservation tactic that is my last resort to save my heart from further damage. Sad, but necessary. I don't wish him any ill and I don't harbor too much anger about his lack of presence in my life. It took me awhile to come to this decision and I really don't regret it. You know why? Because the truth is, my real father died when I was 18.

But this isn't a sad testament to Father's Day. Because of my vastly different experiences with "fathers", I want to acknowledge the father of my children, my husband. So here is an open letter to him on the day that we celebrate the fathers in our lives:

Happy Father's Day. I want to thank you for all that you have poured into our children. I love that you push them beyond the boundaries of the expectations they have for themselves. I love that you encourage artistic expressions and intellectual pursuits with equal fervor. Thank you for showing them that being there isn't enough--sharing yourself with them fully is the only way that you parent. I appreciate that you have taken my nephew into our fold and that you treat him like one of your own. And no one can tell the difference. I thank you for showing your true self (flaws and all) to our sons so they can have a model for manhood. I appreciate that you talk with our daughter about what she should expect from future suitors. I love that you enjoy these kids with everything you have, calling them "your crew" as you run rampant around the city with them in tow. I laugh just thinking about the numbers of people who say they've seen you at (insert event or location) with the kids and that you looked like you were having fun. Overall, I want to thank you for not allowing your own absentee father to turn you into a bitter, distant man who abandoned his own children. You are a man beyond measure, a father extraordinaire. Thank you for blessing our family with your love.

I want to wish a Happy Father's Day to all of the men who are fathers to their children or someone else's. May you enjoy all of the best that the universe has to offer. Your love and guidance will impact your children in ways that cannot be defined. Peace.

"Be a Father to Your Child" by Ed O.G. and the Bulldogs