I was not there in 1991 when my daughter Crystal was born. I was 17 and had been living on my own after getting kicked out of the house by my step-father when I was 15. I was ejected from my home for many reasons, some of them my fault, some of them not. But the numero uno reason I was told to leave was for my refusal to move to a tiny town in North Carolina during my sophomore year in school. But this story is not about that, though an important aspect of why I am writing this. I had been living on my own for two years and had no one else to rely on but myself to provide sustenance and shelter. I was living in my own apartment with very unreliable room-mates. I was working six nights a week from right after school until 3o'clock in the morning just to make the minimum wage I was being paid. My only day off was Wednesday and as soon as I got home from school, I slept. It was hard. I would go weeks at a time eating nothing but rice with mustard or ketchup, you know, just to mix it up a little. Ramen noodles were also in the mix. Cheap as I could live.
I believe it was a Sunday night when I got the call. Crystal was on her way into the world. I was scared. I was unsure. I wanted to be there when she was born. So I called my manager and told her what was about to happen. I asked her to try and find someone to take my place so I could make it to the hospital. The heartless bitch told me, "The only person to fill in for you would be me, and I am not about to drive into work right now." I pleaded with her and even threatened to just leave because the other guy I was working with said he would be more than happy to handle the store so I could be a part of the birth of my daughter. She explained to me that if I did that, I would be unemployed. Being without a job at that point in my life was not an option. I was already barely making it week to week and if I had to find another job, it was pretty much a guarantee I would find myself hungry and homeless. So, much to my disappointment, I was not there for the birth of my daughter, who will be turning 22 this April.
Crystal's mother got married when my daughter was very young. She grew up thinking her step dad was her real dad, and for a while, I was alright with that. I had no instinct for being a father, being so young, and the only examples I had of being a father were not ideal. My real father was an alcoholic and my step dad hated me. I know that I should have "manned up" but as I said, her step dad was more than willing to be that positive role model in her life. But Crystal has always been very bright and she knew something was, well, different. When I did have opportunities to see her, I was always Uncle Mike, but I believe she knew there was a different connection between us. When her mother felt she was old enough to handle the truth, Crystal and I had a long talk on my grand mother's front porch. We talked for a long time and though she never said it, I felt as though she already knew. We cried as we talked and vowed to get to know each other better, though we didn't spend the time that, looking back, I would have liked to have. Now that I am older, there are so many regrets I have. Decisions I made I wish I could change. I know that I should have and could have been a much better father to her, but fear is a very powerful thing. Now, fast forward 21 years...
February, 2012 brought the birth of my son, Tucker. Twenty one years after Crystal was born. Being a part of every step of his life has been such a joy. I mean, the kid was laughing in his sleep less than 6 hours after he was born. He is just a happy baby. Right now, he is sick going through his first bought with being ill and though he has been pretty sick, the kid still smiles and laughs between coughs. But, during this past year, I have realized just how much I missed with Crystal. I know I cannot turn back the hands of time and change things, but in a way, I feel like I can do things right by her by being an involved father with Tucker. I love them both so very much and in a way, I feel like I can redeem myself by being there every step of the way as he grows up. Being a dad is the greatest gift I have ever been given, and unlike the first gift I was blessed with, I will spend every waking moment working at being the best dad I can be. I spent my twenties being very selfish, but now, I have no other desire than to provide the best life I can provide my little man, to be selfless and humble. To be a dad and loving husband, not just a father, and a positive role model is the goal I now strive for. To teach by example and show Tucker how to be a good man, that is what I live for.
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Friday, January 11, 2013
Stranger, welcoming...
My father left when I was three years old. At a very young age, I was informed I was the man of the house and I actually took the new responsibility very serious. We didn't hear to much from my father after the divorce was final. As a matter of fact, we heard nothing at all. After asking my mother so many questions as to where he was, we all just assumed he was dead. His lifestyle warranted the assumption. His alcoholism and drug use could have very easily done him in and so, that was our belief. I spent my younger years wishing I had my dad to look up to, to learn from, to love and admire. My mother was so focused on rearing us that she neglected her own needs and desires for companionship. She didn't even buy new clothes for herself because she wanted to make sure my brother and I had everything we needed. She saw not a dime in child support and her job as an LPN didn't provide the greatest pay but somehow, she made it work.
I saw my friends at soccer practice with their dads teaching them fundamentals of the game. I saw my friends after a day of fishing with their dads and the excitement in their eyes with the bounty of fish they brought home. I saw my friends preparing for camping trips, loading up tents and strapping canoes to the top of the car for a weekend in the woods. All of these things I longed to do with my dad, any dad. But I really wanted my dad. And I really thought he was dead, because how could your dad just walk away, never to think of your children again? I began to hope he was really no longer alive. If we was still around, and I found him, I was going to let him know how much I hated him for walking away and never picking up the phone to say hello or wish us a happy birthday. But that is not what happened.
It was early on Saturday morning, Paul and I were munching some Cap'n Crunch and watching cartoons. I was about 9 or 10 years old. This was our normal Saturday morning routine before tearing up the neighborhood with our shenanigans. Mom was in another room doing what ever. We didn't care, we had cartoons! There came a knock at the door and i figured it was the usual "Would you like a copy of Watch Tower and talk about God" knock. We didn't usually answer the door when the church-y looking people were outside, but this time, I didn't look before opening the door. As I opened the door, there stood a very scruffy, long haired man in an old army jacket and huge army duffel bag, back turned facing the road. I began to ask, "Can I help you?" and as I did, the disheveled looking man turned and without saying a word, just stood there and stared. I remember getting scared and became more frightened the longer the stare was focused in my direction. I didn't know what else to say and as I was getting ready to shut the door the man opened his mouth. "Michael?" How did this creepy looking guy know my name. As he uttered the next sentence, I felt the blood drain from my extremities and face. "I, I am... your father."
This could not be. How could this ghost of a man stand there and claim to be my father. As far as I knew, my father was and should be dead. How did he know my name? I closed the door and began crying as I flew into my mother's room. "Mom, there is a man at the door. He says he is our dad." And I witnessed the blood drain from my mother as well as her eyes grow large with panic. She collected herself and walked to the front door, asking Paul and I to go back to our routine. She opened the door and as her gaze confirmed what the man said, she turned to Paul and I as sadness fell over her face and stepped outside. We could hear the heated conversation that ensued. I could hear my mother crying, asking the man at the door how he could leave his two children without saying a word. Eventually, they both returned inside. They sat on opposite ends of the couch, looking down at my brother and I sitting on the floor. "Boys, this man is your father." I began to cry again. I clenched my fists and got up swinging at my dad. He didn't defend himself as if he knew this was justified. I hugged him. And in that instant, and only for a moment, I forgave him. The forgiveness I felt was short lived as I began to ask why. That was one of the weirdest Saturday mornings ever.
After some lengthy discussion between my mom and dad, it was decided that my father would be staying with us for a while so he could get back on his feet. This made me happy. And sad. And determined to get the answers to all of my questions. He was not going to get off so easy. It turns out that my pops was released from prison for drugs, and the only place he could think of to go was with us. I don't even think he knew if we still lived in the same place. When I got a little older, I heard all of the tales from the life he lived after the divorce, but those stories are for, perhaps, another day. I was glad that I finally had the father I had dreamed of having, though not ideal, it made me happy nonetheless. My resentment and anger waned over the years as I learned to love him again. And though I loved him very much, my anger and disappointment eventually grew into pity and understanding. I began to realize and know why he did the things that he did. He didn't mean to hurt us, and it was probably best I spent my early years not knowing the man that was my father.
I saw my friends at soccer practice with their dads teaching them fundamentals of the game. I saw my friends after a day of fishing with their dads and the excitement in their eyes with the bounty of fish they brought home. I saw my friends preparing for camping trips, loading up tents and strapping canoes to the top of the car for a weekend in the woods. All of these things I longed to do with my dad, any dad. But I really wanted my dad. And I really thought he was dead, because how could your dad just walk away, never to think of your children again? I began to hope he was really no longer alive. If we was still around, and I found him, I was going to let him know how much I hated him for walking away and never picking up the phone to say hello or wish us a happy birthday. But that is not what happened.
It was early on Saturday morning, Paul and I were munching some Cap'n Crunch and watching cartoons. I was about 9 or 10 years old. This was our normal Saturday morning routine before tearing up the neighborhood with our shenanigans. Mom was in another room doing what ever. We didn't care, we had cartoons! There came a knock at the door and i figured it was the usual "Would you like a copy of Watch Tower and talk about God" knock. We didn't usually answer the door when the church-y looking people were outside, but this time, I didn't look before opening the door. As I opened the door, there stood a very scruffy, long haired man in an old army jacket and huge army duffel bag, back turned facing the road. I began to ask, "Can I help you?" and as I did, the disheveled looking man turned and without saying a word, just stood there and stared. I remember getting scared and became more frightened the longer the stare was focused in my direction. I didn't know what else to say and as I was getting ready to shut the door the man opened his mouth. "Michael?" How did this creepy looking guy know my name. As he uttered the next sentence, I felt the blood drain from my extremities and face. "I, I am... your father."
This could not be. How could this ghost of a man stand there and claim to be my father. As far as I knew, my father was and should be dead. How did he know my name? I closed the door and began crying as I flew into my mother's room. "Mom, there is a man at the door. He says he is our dad." And I witnessed the blood drain from my mother as well as her eyes grow large with panic. She collected herself and walked to the front door, asking Paul and I to go back to our routine. She opened the door and as her gaze confirmed what the man said, she turned to Paul and I as sadness fell over her face and stepped outside. We could hear the heated conversation that ensued. I could hear my mother crying, asking the man at the door how he could leave his two children without saying a word. Eventually, they both returned inside. They sat on opposite ends of the couch, looking down at my brother and I sitting on the floor. "Boys, this man is your father." I began to cry again. I clenched my fists and got up swinging at my dad. He didn't defend himself as if he knew this was justified. I hugged him. And in that instant, and only for a moment, I forgave him. The forgiveness I felt was short lived as I began to ask why. That was one of the weirdest Saturday mornings ever.
After some lengthy discussion between my mom and dad, it was decided that my father would be staying with us for a while so he could get back on his feet. This made me happy. And sad. And determined to get the answers to all of my questions. He was not going to get off so easy. It turns out that my pops was released from prison for drugs, and the only place he could think of to go was with us. I don't even think he knew if we still lived in the same place. When I got a little older, I heard all of the tales from the life he lived after the divorce, but those stories are for, perhaps, another day. I was glad that I finally had the father I had dreamed of having, though not ideal, it made me happy nonetheless. My resentment and anger waned over the years as I learned to love him again. And though I loved him very much, my anger and disappointment eventually grew into pity and understanding. I began to realize and know why he did the things that he did. He didn't mean to hurt us, and it was probably best I spent my early years not knowing the man that was my father.
Monday, January 7, 2013
Early on...
Some of my most difficult memories to recall are some of my earliest. I think that most people have a hard time remembering much from their early childhood, but there are a few memories for me that play in my head as if they were yesterday. They are not pleasant. They are not kind. They are the ones that most people would care not to mention or relive again. But these difficult times are what helped shape me and who I am today and worth mentioning and revisiting. I believe everything happens the way it is supposed to, although we may not always understand why until much later in life.
My mother and father divorced when I was three years old. It was probably one of the best things to happen for us but one of the worst things to happen to me as a child. At the time it was unfolding, it was full of anger and resentment, tears and anxiety. My father, rest his soul, was an alcoholic. And it is because of this that the marriage to my mother failed. I remember him telling me that it was my mother's fault; that if she had a pitcher of iced tea ready for him when he got home from work, instead of hanging out at my grandmother's house (which was only three houses away), that he would not have had to drink the suit case of beer he bought to relax after work. I would humor his suggestion and just say, "yeah dad" but I knew where the fault lied. And maybe, it wasn't even my father's fault for drinking like he did; it was in his genes and reinforced during his childhood. There really isn't too much I remember from this tumultuous time, but the one thing that stands out is an argument between my mother and father. My dad was drunk and he and my mother were yelling back and forth at one another. My father approached my mother and began yelling even louder and I was so scared he was going to get physical with her. I got between the two of them and began to wilding swing my fists to defend my mom. I do not really recall if he did attempt to strike her, but I don't believe he had it in him. I just remember crying and swinging, just trying to get them both to stop. He left. I don't really remember what happened after that, but I remember feeling such a wave of pride and relief, giving way to sadness. I felt proud that I defended my mother. I was relieved that he was gone. And then, I was sad he was not there. I knew deep down inside my very young soul that life in that moment had changed for us. Forever.
This blog is young and growing. Not all of the things I write about will be negative or sad. But I do want to give it a linear feel to it, so I began with this early memory of my father. As I think about the stories to come, the emotional tides are refreshing, revealing and giving me a sense that where I am now, the road and memories gathered have really shaped me into the father I was scared I would never be.
My mother and father divorced when I was three years old. It was probably one of the best things to happen for us but one of the worst things to happen to me as a child. At the time it was unfolding, it was full of anger and resentment, tears and anxiety. My father, rest his soul, was an alcoholic. And it is because of this that the marriage to my mother failed. I remember him telling me that it was my mother's fault; that if she had a pitcher of iced tea ready for him when he got home from work, instead of hanging out at my grandmother's house (which was only three houses away), that he would not have had to drink the suit case of beer he bought to relax after work. I would humor his suggestion and just say, "yeah dad" but I knew where the fault lied. And maybe, it wasn't even my father's fault for drinking like he did; it was in his genes and reinforced during his childhood. There really isn't too much I remember from this tumultuous time, but the one thing that stands out is an argument between my mother and father. My dad was drunk and he and my mother were yelling back and forth at one another. My father approached my mother and began yelling even louder and I was so scared he was going to get physical with her. I got between the two of them and began to wilding swing my fists to defend my mom. I do not really recall if he did attempt to strike her, but I don't believe he had it in him. I just remember crying and swinging, just trying to get them both to stop. He left. I don't really remember what happened after that, but I remember feeling such a wave of pride and relief, giving way to sadness. I felt proud that I defended my mother. I was relieved that he was gone. And then, I was sad he was not there. I knew deep down inside my very young soul that life in that moment had changed for us. Forever.
This blog is young and growing. Not all of the things I write about will be negative or sad. But I do want to give it a linear feel to it, so I began with this early memory of my father. As I think about the stories to come, the emotional tides are refreshing, revealing and giving me a sense that where I am now, the road and memories gathered have really shaped me into the father I was scared I would never be.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
So much to say...
There are a lot of ups and downs in every one's life. All of our collective stories are so different and yet, so very similar. There is not one person on Earth who has gone without feeling total elation or, on the opposite side of the emotional spectrum, utter defeat and anguish. It is these moments that make us who we are and shapes how we see the world. I have enjoyed a lot of great times over the years. And I have come to enjoy the times when, in that very moment, I have felt my heart sink and shrivel from grief and pain. I do not enjoy these moments when they occur, but it is the reflection I have come to enjoy and prosper from.
I have no organized religion in my life. I have studied and researched various religions over the years and for the most part, they all utter a similar goal and story: Live your life well, be good and honest to yourself and others, do not do intentional harm to another and simply love one another. I live my life as if the world is my church and try to do good in every waking moment. I fall short at times, but my intentions are good. I know not what the other side brings, but whatever it is, be it judgment or transition, I know that I am at peace.
I have no idea what direction this blog will take me. I'm sure I will see a million different angles and go down a million different roads. But I think at first I will tell some of the story of Me. Now, this may not facinate in any way, shape or form but it is a story filled with a million different emotions encountered on a million different paths. Paths that are steady and unbroken, where the scenery and light is warm and inviting. And there are quite a few paths I have traveled that are covered with pitfalls and destructive devices of my own making. All of the roads and trips and journeys I have endured and survived paint the story of my life. A story I will tell and remember. A gift from myself, to myself and a gift to my beautiful children.
I have no organized religion in my life. I have studied and researched various religions over the years and for the most part, they all utter a similar goal and story: Live your life well, be good and honest to yourself and others, do not do intentional harm to another and simply love one another. I live my life as if the world is my church and try to do good in every waking moment. I fall short at times, but my intentions are good. I know not what the other side brings, but whatever it is, be it judgment or transition, I know that I am at peace.
I have no idea what direction this blog will take me. I'm sure I will see a million different angles and go down a million different roads. But I think at first I will tell some of the story of Me. Now, this may not facinate in any way, shape or form but it is a story filled with a million different emotions encountered on a million different paths. Paths that are steady and unbroken, where the scenery and light is warm and inviting. And there are quite a few paths I have traveled that are covered with pitfalls and destructive devices of my own making. All of the roads and trips and journeys I have endured and survived paint the story of my life. A story I will tell and remember. A gift from myself, to myself and a gift to my beautiful children.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
A first...
This being my first blog, I must say that writing one has been a long time coming. I have dabbled in writing off and on for most of my life. The passion I once had for writing simply left, and until recently, I had no desire to find it. On February 2nd, 2012 my son, Tucker Lee was born. I would like for him to see and read the thoughts and ideas that flow through my mind when he is old enough to appreciate them. There have been a lot of experiences I have enjoyed in my 39 years and I had every intention of writing them down as they happened. When and if I did journal, they were written on paper and have been lost in the passing of time. So now, I will attempt to record and remember both my past, present and future travels on this road of life. My family is now my passion and I wish to pass onto them the stories of my life. I hope that someday when my wife and I are long gone, that my daughter and son can enjoy some of the experiences I have had, learn from them and record memories of their own.
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