My dad was a construction worker. He laid concrete foundations. This was always fascinating to me. Seeing him come home dusty and dirty. Hands so rough. Up and out of the door at what seemed like the middle of the night. I got to go to work with him one time. That was a long day!!! They were working on a new home development. It was cold outside and I was going through the 5-year old blues. Cold, hungry, had to use the bathroom... Ready to go home! He must've developed some type of relationship with a lady living in a home that was already completed, because he took me there to use the bathroom and I stayed there for the remainder of the day. It was nice being able to see what I had imagined day after day.
My dad was such a sweet man. He taught me to ride my bike without training wheels, collect cans for recycling to make money, all of the things we take for granted. I didn't see him much for the first 8 years of my life. So that my mother could stay home, he worked long hours. On the weekends, we'd ride bikes, take walks to family members houses, play Crazy 8's, go fishing. My dad was a silly man that did anything to make anyone smile. You couldn't help but let go around him.
My dad loved my mom more than life itself. There were so many times I remember being put to bed and sneak downstairs to find them dancing in the living room. I'd crawl between them until they picked me up and I'd dance with them. I remember one anniversary, they were really low on money. My mom said she didn't want him to get her anything. Well, he must've heard her say she wanted everything. Throughout that day, he came home with gift after gift and it was my job to hide it. I think he bought one of everything they sold in the "Chinese Store" around the corner from our house. There was a music cube that had flowers and sprays inside that lit up different colors as the cube turned, glass figurines, a scarf/hat/gloves set... So many gifts. I think we all enjoyed that anniversary the most. I saw a lot of struggles between my parents, but the love shared between them made the struggles seem like a blur. Now that I'm an adult, I realize that even more.
Life with my dad wasn't always flowers and chocolates. The older I got, the worse my relationship with my dad became. I hurt my dad a lot. And I live with that regret everyday. One night, we were having a family meeting. I remember my mom begging me to talk to them and I was very hesitant to say what was on my mind. I asked them if it was wrong to love one parent more than another. She replied to me, "It may not be a matter of loving us any more or any less, but loving us differently." That answer sufficed. But, I knew my dad was hurt. Even at that young age, it was evident in his eyes.
My dad's life took a downward spiral, as did my respect for him. I remember being waken up in the middle of the night because he'd been arrested for drunk driving and I had to be taken to my aunt's house until she picked him up. This happened quite a few times. There was so much arguining and fighting. At the age of 6, my mom moved her and I into a small apartment. We lived there for a few months until my dad convinced her that he'd get better. And he did for a while. Until his accident at work. It was then he fell into a bottle and would take years to get back out.
When we moved to Maine Ave. I was 10 years old. I had a new brother, was getting ready to go into middle school and was lonely. I fell into a love a poetry and art. My mom was consumed by trying to keep food on the table, my brother was enjoying being a boy and my dad was dealing with not being able to provide. He went from job to job. Pizza Hut, Denny's, Black & Decker... all were short-lived either due to not showing up or showing up drunk. At the time, my mom was working as a temporary office worker. So, work in our home was pretty inconsistent. But, I never knew it. My brother and I didn't want for much at all. We always had food to eat and my parents always made sure we had fun. During the summer, they would turn the lights off to save money to pay down the bill from the previous winter. Talk about interesting. Early nights, outside play and cold showers. I appreciate it all though.
After a while, my dad got comfortable with the arrangement of him taking care of home. My mom would leave us all a list of chores we needed to do and they had better been done before she got there. I always knew it was 3:30pm because he would be scurrying to get his share of the work done and yelling at us to hurry up! There was one day my mom forgot to do my hair the morning she left for work, and it was up to him to do it. Oh my goodness! I went to school looking crazy. He tried though. E for effort for sure.
We encouraged my dad to stop drinking many times. A few times, we'd come home from being away at our Jehovah's Witnesses District Convention for a weekend and he'd announce his success at not drinking. This lasted sometimes a few weeks and other times a few days. The one time his drinking hurt my brother and I the most was in 1991. It was a Thursday night. We'd been at the Kingdom Hall for a Service Meeting and we came home to find him in the kitchen having a seizure on the floor. Needless to say, we were hysterical. My mom called 911 and upon checking him out, the EMT announced to us that he was ok, he'd just had too much to drink. Care and concern turned to dissapointment and frustration. I went in my room and had nothing to say to him. He later apologized, but I'd heard it all too often from him at that point. It fell on deaf ears.
From then on, I felt like I had no reason to respect him as a father or even a man. This created serious tension in our house, with my mother stuck in the middle. I defied most things he told me to do. I lashed out. Fought back. I dared him to try to be a father to me. I rejected him on so many levels. In hindsight, I realized I was doing things to hurt him in response to what he was doing that hurt us. He would tell me to clean and I'd have something smart to say. He became argumentive because I challenged him. I would dare him to touch me and we'd start fighting. I am so embarrassed and ashamed to even type these words right now.
The one day that still taunts me was Fall, 1993. I remember it so vividly. My best friend Z and I were on the phone one night and I was punished and wasn't even supposed to be on the phone. He yanked the cord out of the wall and scolded me. Since I could not talk to her, I wrote her a letter. In the middle of writing the letter, I stopped and went outside and sat on the porch with the rest of my family (grandmother, aunts and cousins living in the other apartments). My mom walked toward me with my spiral notebook in her hand and right then, I knew I was dead. She repeated what I had wrote in front of everyone: I'm sorry for hanging up on you. My father unplugged the phone. He is such a fuck up. Always fucking something up! The next thing I knew, I was laid back on my bed in my room, being wailed on by my mother. I was kicking, screaming and fighting back. I had lost my mind. In comes my father. He tried talking to me, but he began to hit me too. And what did I do? Swing back. I remember seeing his face as he pinned me down on the bed. He asked me, "Why do you hate me so much? Why do you hate me as much as I love you?" All I could do was lay there and cry. And he cried with me. I was so hurt and I hated him so much, yet I couldn't put it into any words that made any sense because I KNEW how much he loved me. My father adored me. And knowing that made me hurt even more.
After that day, things between us would never be the same. We barely spoke for a long time. I crawled into a shell that I wouldn't emerge from for years. He focused more on my brother and mom, who was diagnosed with Scleroderma 2 years prior. He found a way to deliver telephone directories to make money. This consumed a lot of his time and gave him something to look forward to. This became a family event real quick. He and my Aunt Rachel would load up on pallets of phone books and deliver them until it was too dark to see house numbers. Of course, after school, we all had to pitch in. We had to do this twice a year. This kept the bills paid.
In 1995, my parents found a house to purchase. It was a handy man special so it was perfect for my dad. They bought it in March 1995 and had completed all of the work by April 1996. March 1995, I turned 16. That meant I was old enough to get a job and that is exactly what I did. Between school and my new job, I was rarely home. I got pregnant in May 1995 and it was my father that realized it and brought it to MY attention. My mother was furious and until I was honest with her about how it happened, she wanted me out of her house. The day we came back from the doctor's office with the positive result, I walked outside hurt and sat on the step and cried. My dad sat down beside me and said, "baby girl, all things happen for a reason and at this moment, we have no idea why this happened. But, you are my firstborn and I love you. And I promise you will not have to go through this alone." My life felt like it was in ruins, but he made me feel like it didn't have to be.
Two weeks before I was due to have my baby, I had a doctor's appointment. During an ultrasound, doctors discovered my amniotic fluid level was low and the baby's heart rate was not increasing with activity. I was told I would be admitted. But, I was at the hospital alone. My mom had to go back to her crossing guard post for the afternoon run and my dad was at home. I called him and in a panic, he told me, "I'll be there. I have no money, but I'll find some. If I gotta walk, I'll be there". And that's just what he did. He got there around 6pm. My daddy had walked from West Baltimore City to Downtown Baltimore. My face lit up when I saw him come in. He missed the birth of my son because he had gone outside to smoke and sat in the car and fell asleep. I was so hurt. He came back with balloons and apologized.
My dad took care of Deonte while I went to school and work. He did everything he could to make sure nothing hindered me from finishing school. And I love him dearly for his dedication to me. In April 1997, my father was arrested for drunk driving again. But this time, he received a sentence of 6 months in jail. He missed my graduation. Those six months were hard. My mom's health was failing more and more and it was during phonebook season. I went to school, worked at McDonald's and delivered phone books with a toddler and young brother. My dad came home in October and I was so glad to see him! Between spending time in jail and his doctor telling him he had to quit drinking or he'd die, he then he decided enough was enough.
In March 1998, I moved out of my parent's home and got my first apartment. Only then, did my relationship with my father change. I began to miss him. His phone calls didn't annoy me anymore. His rambling didn't matter. His hugs weren't smelly. His kisses felt like Daddy's Kisses again. But, little did I know him not drinking would lead to his health failing. My dad began to suffer gastrointestinal issues. He slipped into two comas, one he would not recover from.
He began to study the bible and became such a nicer person. When he would try to quit drinking before, he became irritated. I think this time, he knew in his heart he was done. He was in and out of the hospital a lot for the last two years of his life. So much so, I began to take his being discharged for granted. The last time he was in the hospital was no different. I remember one week, he'd been in the hospital for two days and Monday he was back at home. But, by Thursday he had to go back. I never even knew he was in the hospital the first time. My mom told me about his fear of dying and again, never gave it a second thought. Just my dad being melodramatic (because he was alot! LOL). But, I remember leaving them at Sinai hospital, him in a coma on Friday night. My mom stayed with him and I told her I'd be back the next day. In the meantime, I was making plans to go out with my best friend. I was flying round the beltway to get home and get dressed when my mom called and told me to turn around and come back because "things had taken a turn for the worse". I remember thinking "how can I be so selfish to be thinking about going out to some club when my dad is in the hospital?" I flew back and when I was able to see him, because we weren't allowed to before, I was traumatized. My dad's face looked like someone had blown it up to about twice its normal size. I couldn't believe what I was seeing, but I just knew he would be okay.
In the middle of the night, he required a blood transfusion and his kidneys had failed completely. He was then placed on life support. When I saw him again, he was bleeding from his nose. I spoke my last words to him because it was then I knew he was gone from us. As I spoke, I saw blood-tinted tears run down my dad's cheek as I said goodbye. At 10am, the doctors asked my mom if she wanted to keep him on life support and when she asked me, I could only break down in tears. I was angry at her for asking me to if I wanted to decide whether or not to let him go. I told her, "that is God's decision, not ours." But, she decided enough was enough. My father passed away in 35 minutes.
I have lived with the hurt and guilt of not thinking my father's illness was real. I just knew he'd always be around. Alcoholism wasn't an "illness"... Scleroderma was an "illness"! I was too foolish to realize that slowly he was slipping way from me. And before I could take off my dancing shoes, he was gone. And I didn't even get a chance to say I'm sorry.
Ugh so much I remember....its been 14yrs since I last sat and talked to you!! I remember me and mommy came to see you after you had your son...and then we fell out of touch...
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