The Omission: “You know he’s not your father, right?” For as long as I could remember, this man was my father for several reasons, one being he’s the only man I’ve ever known and two my mom and him demanding that I call him daddy. I was also told and instructed to call his four sons my brothers. In my younger years, I adored my “brothers”. I yearned to have any form of communication and contact with anyone under the age of what I perceived to be an adult. As I grew older, between my tween and adolescent years, I didn’t adore them nor their dad as much and certainly didn’t appreciate their inappropriate ways.
The Discussion: “Mom, they said that Pa is not my father” I would always whine in my younger years. Always in a manner that would downplay their accusations, my mother would blame jealousy as the culprit. She would go on to convince me that I was luckier than they because I had my dad under my roof whereas they did not. Somewhere around fourth grade, I was told, instead of asked or discussed, that I would have the same name as my dad and brothers. This would complete my mother’s engagement.
The Roundabout: Growing up, I did everything with my dad. Through coercion and my mother’s preoccupation, I didn’t have much of a choice. Pa was responsible for my cleaning, cooking, and educational work ethic. He would always pump through my eardrums into my veins that education is the only way. He expected total compliance in every facet of my life. I always obliged from a mixture of fear and approval until the day of the dream.........
The Dream: “Stink, I want to tell you about my dream but you can’t tell anyone,” said Pa. Being in the fourth grade, I shared secrets with my friends all the time. They were totally aware of my innocent crushes. “Sure, daddy, I won’t tell anyone,” I said. The word girlfriend and sex resonated through my head. Those were the only words that poked out from behind the black screen of that dream.
The Railroad: On Saturday mornings, my mom slept in. It was not unusual for my mom, pa, and I (but mainly my father and I) to frequent Valley Fair, a huge department store, which would be equivalent to our modern day Walmart or Target. The two departments we frequented most were the music and liquor section with most of our time being spent in the latter. Our traditional route was out the back door of our apartment, over the bridge, down the railroad, and to the back of Valley Fair. One day in elementary school, NJ Transit visited our school. After watching a gruesome movie that comprised of a teenage boy’s body being snapped into two, I was an advocate for not walking on railways. However, I did it with my parents, mainly dad, so I presumed it was okay. Not breaking the norm, dad would take a swig, is what he called it, of his liquor. On this day, in a very nonchalant manner, he offered me some. I didn’t say no, but my face answered for me. “Go ahead. Take some. You have my permission,” dad egged on. It was Brass Monkey....ironically sweet with a gripping bite. We proceeded to back track over the bridge and through the back door.
The Accident: “What are you crying for?” came right before the backhand slap to my face. Living in a high crime neighborhood, my dad and I would meet my mother at the bus stop after work. “What happened to her face?” my mother quizzed. The explanation presented did not please my mother but more important matters were now at hand.....gathering a story that we could all remember. It was expected that I would miss a week of school, so for the school, I was playing outside with my friends and was accidentally hit in the eye with a baseball. Having visitors from my mother’s side of the family at my house was a rare occasion, but just in case, I was accidentally hit in the eye with a baseball at school during gym. Now that the crisis of gathering a story was resolved, everything resumed to normal.....
The Great Escape: After several attempts, this time I had to follow through. As a fifteen year old, a week from school for me wasn’t a vacation. Education had literally become the only way. In a slight moment of privacy, I managed to gather a bag of clothes consisting of one outfit. I tossed the bag out of my parents’ window. Now, I was forced to follow through with my plans. I would retrieve the bag the next day on my way to school and never look back. As I hurriedly closed the window, I was hit with the realization of what I’d just done. That night, sleep was not my friend. I tossed and turned all night long. Filled with anxiety and a semblance of courage, I welcomed the morning light. With my dad leaving for work, my plan was set in motion. I carried out my daily routine of breakfast, showering, and walking to school. Telling my mom bye wasn’t difficult because according to her, I would return after school. It was when I reached for the bag outside my parents’ window that everything became difficult. The questions flooded and overwhelmed me. I was only fifteen without a job, yet. I didn’t have a diploma or any experience. I didn’t have money to call my grandmother, nana, or aunt. What would I eat? Where would I sleep? What clothes will I wear? What should I do? As I proceeded to grab the bag of clothes with knots of anxiety and uncertainty, I walked in the direction of school but never went to school that day.
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