Forgetting Father’s Day

Between fighting a global pandemic, navigating newly remote work, and supporting my two black teenage sons during this time of racial trauma—Father’s Day had sort-of fallen off my radar. And perhaps it’s just as well.  You see, my father died in December, and this year, I just don’t feel like celebrating.

            My relationship with my father was not ideal in any sense. My parents divorced when I was seven years old and my interaction with my dad was initially limited to alternating weekends, then as time passed and I fully grew into my adolescent entitlement and anger, our time together became more and more infrequent, until I barely saw my father at all—by my own choosing. It wasn’t anything he affirmatively did, I just felt disconnected and disappointed by all that he did not do. 

            When my older brother and I visited my dad, my brother drove the interactions, so we went fishing(my brother loved to fish), and took pottery class (my brother was very artistic), and ate seafood (my brother’s favorite), and I generally felt left out. Our interactions were awkward at best and the visits became a burden, so once I got old enough to decide for myself, I guess I was around 12, I stopped going altogether. It was just easier.

            I went through most of high school without seeing my father much. I attended boarding school, so when I was home on school breaks, I wanted to spend all my time at home. My father was not present at my high school graduation (I didn’t invite him). I was hoping to avoid the stress I witnessed my brother experience at his high school graduation two years earlier. You see—co-parenting was not a “thing” back then and my mother and father did not share space. When my dad would pick us up, we would have to go to the driveway--he did not come to the door nor cross the threshold of my mother’s house. The idea of the two of them sitting on the lawn of the campus of my bucolic, very small, mostly white prep school while I marched down the long walkway to the red brick chapel accompanied by the sound of bagpipes provoked great anxiety. I had worked too hard for this important day to be ruined. So, I had to choose which parent would attend the ceremony. 

I was early in my college career before I started to understand the complexity around the relationship dynamics between me and my father. I supposed it required a level of maturity and life experience before I could appreciate the fullness of the various forces and circumstances that shaped the man my father was. Over time, and by doing my own inner work with the help of therapy, I accepted that my father did the absolute best he could at the time. Eventually, I came to the realization that my withdrawal, avoidance, and anger were not serving me. Forgiveness, empathy, and communication were healthier responses.

 I sent him a letter (this was way before email was widely used) and we had a pow-wow at one of the dive soul food restaurants that my father loved and talked things over. He explained that he didn’t have the best modeling of fatherhood because as a Negro League Baseball player, his father travelled all the time and was rarely home. He admitted that he really didn’t know what to do with me during our visits when I was younger, so it was easier to default to my brother’s activities and interests. Most importantly, he apologized for not knowing more, being there and doing better. 

It was the fresh start we needed.  We developed our own relationship, rapport, and rhythm. He came to California for my graduation from Stanford (I invited him this time). And our relationship continued to grow. He walked me down the aisle at my wedding and came to court to sit with me in smooth silent support when I got divorced. My boys spent time with him in the summers and developed the kind of memories I never had with my father’s father. He took them to play put-put golf and made them thick bacon for breakfast and let them stay up late watching cartoons. He came to watch them play football and treated them to their first fancy white tablecloth dinner.  We went from barely speaking to talking on the phone nearly every day. I grew to value his silver-tongued advice, laid-back approach to life and unique perspective on issues.

Ours was not a perfect relationship, but it was ours. I often reflect on how improved my life would have been had if we were closer when I was younger. His positivity and affirmation undoubtedly would have built up the self-esteem that sagged beneath the weight of so much misunderstanding and mishandling for so much of my younger life. There have been many days since he has gone that I have wished I could hear his perspective on a current event or have him weigh in on a decision I was struggling with. More than anything, especially during these days, I miss his unwavering encouragement and support. No matter what calamity I was facing or what obstacle that was before me—he would always tell me that everything would be alright. 

I can’t bring myself to remove his contact number from my phone just yet. I guess I am leaving it there just in case I forget.