Old Man Part 1

Dear Lover,

Growing up, witnessing individuals grappling with drug addiction stirred a deep sense of empathy within me, as if I shared an unspoken connection with them. Despite my young age, I felt compelled to offer them financial assistance, fully aware that the funds might be directed towards sustaining their drug dependency. However, my intention went beyond providing material support. I longed to convey to them that they were not alone, that there was someone, even a child, who truly cared about their well-being. Little did I comprehend at such a tender age that the relentless clutches of drug addiction had infiltrated not just my community, but also my own family.

When I first set foot in New York, a deep desire for a romantic partner took hold of me. I longed for a relationship that mirrored the captivating synergy between Beyoncé and Jay Z—a harmonious blend of a Southern girl's essence with the vibrant energy of a Brooklyn-born man. One unforgettable night, I had a very vivid dream that left a lasting mark on my memory. In the dream, a tall and dark-skinned man approached me, capturing my attention. Despite my usual preferences, which didn't incline towards bald-headed individuals, I couldn't ignore the profound sense that this encounter carried a divine message from God. It felt like an unmistakable sign that my destined boyfriend would soon enter my life.

One day in 2011, I received an unexpected message in my inbox on Facebook. A woman reached out to me, seeking to confirm the accuracy of my mother's name and the name she provided for my father. Not having any prior acquaintance with this woman, I was naturally skeptical and assumed it to be a potential scam. However, she reassured me that she was an ex-girlfriend of my father, and astonishingly, she revealed that he had been tirelessly searching for me throughout the years. Intrigued, I inquired why she chose to find me on Facebook, to which she explained that my father had always spoken fondly of me, igniting her determination to assist him in this pursuit. The lengths to which a woman will go for the sake of love should never be underestimated. It may sound unusual, but the idea of having a father was something I had never truly considered. Like the saying goes, you can’t miss something you never had. While growing up, I noticed many of my friends had their fathers in their lives, but it never struck me that I didn't have one. Furthermore, my mother never spoke about him, not even once. And to be honest, I never felt compelled to ask her about him either. The subject just never crossed my mind.

I shared my phone number with my father's ex-girlfriend, unsure of what to expect next. I can hardly recall how I found myself on the phone for the first time with my aunt, my father's sister, but our conversation stretched on for hours, and the tea was running over chile. It suddenly dawned on me that an entire family on my father's side had been searching for me all along. The sheer intrigue of discovering this unknown family consumed me, as if I were unraveling the missing parts of my own identity—elements I knew didn't come from my mother, but couldn't pinpoint their origin. My aunt shared with me how I came into existence out of pure love, with my parents desiring me deeply. It seemed like the perfect love story, until it wasn't. I won't lie, my aunt divulged all the revelations, not to expose her brother's secrets, but to ensure I knew the truth about my roots, even if it brought pain. She explained that she understood her brother well enough to believe he might be too ashamed to reveal his entire truth, opting instead to present himself as the better parent. And then, right at that moment, she delivered the shocking revelation: my father had been struggling with drug addiction for almost thirty years.

During my initial conversation with my father, I found myself unusually quiet. Perhaps it was nerves or simply not knowing what to say. I listened intently to his voice, desperately searching my memory for any trace of familiarity. It irritated him when I addressed him by his first name, but calling him "dad" or "pops" seemed like a far stretch, if you asked me. He took pride in sharing that he had been quite the ladies' man, yet assured me that I was his only child. Lucky me lol. He couldn't fathom the idea of having more children and not having a relationship with his firstborn. In an odd gesture of love, he asked if I had any tattoos, as if it were a measure of his devotion, mentioning that he had my name inked with hearts across his chest. As we exchanged pictures through our phones, I couldn't help but notice that, despite his past struggles with drug addiction, my father was undeniably a handsome older man. He stood tall, had a dark complexion, and a bald head. Reflecting on the coincidence that his appearance matched the exact description from my dream, I couldn't help but contemplate the irony. I always believed that God had a great sense of humor, but this time, He gwan too far!

 We talked for hours, delving into uncomfortable topics such as potential sexual abuse, my aspirations, and the nature of my relationship with my mother. While I reassured him that I had not experienced any sexual abuse, a wave of silence fell over him when I disclosed the physical abuse I had endured for many years from my mother. Having seen images of my father, unfortunately, I can now understand why my mother harbored so much resentment towards me—I looked just like this nigga. It's amusing how parents often attempt to present themselves as superior to the other. He went in on her. Despite my challenging childhood, I made it a point to remind him that he was in no position to pass judgment on my mother.

He began to open up and share the story of how he and my mother had met as teenagers in New York, embarking on a journey of young love. To my surprise, I discovered that they are still legally married, which had always puzzled me as to why my mother never officially tied the knot with the man she had been in a long-term relationship with. He also delved into his past relationships, proudly stating how women couldn't resist his charm. While I appreciated his honesty, I wasn't particularly keen on hearing about his romantic encounters. It was quite intriguing, though, how he had a preference for either white or insecure women, and he went on to explain his reasons behind it. I suppose he was trying to impart some wisdom to me, but at the same time, I couldn't help but think that his choices in women might have contributed to the current situation he found himself in. I always say a man who can’t control his meat will always be stagnant in his feet. 

One thing that became clear about him was his brilliance. Perhaps one day, I will have the opportunity to share his story about almost beating a case that significantly impacted the course of post offices. If my memory serves me right, he went straight to college after completing 9th grade. Later on, he was drafted into the army and held a significant position, which led him to relocate my mother and me with him. Driven by curiosity, I couldn't resist and inquired why I had never been aware of his existence despite everything seemingly going smoothly. Part of me wanted him to acknowledge his struggle with drug addiction, to admit that it had kept us apart. However, he never confessed to such use. Instead, he shared a different story—he recounted a particularly intense fight he had with my mother, one that likely turned physical. He claimed that the following day, upon returning home from work, he discovered that we were gone. I was two years old. I must admit that I wasn't entirely surprised to hear this, as I know my mother can be vindictive at times. Nonetheless, I remain mindful that this story has three perspectives: my father's side, my mother's side, and the crucial truth that lies somewhere in between. But to deprive a child of her father's love after all these years was truly fucked up. Even if there was doubt about whether he had been actively searching for me, I wanted to believe it so desperately because it was the first time I felt a sense of belonging to someone.

We had several conversations and discovered how remarkably similar we were. From enjoying eating cereal straight out of the box to sharing nicknames that incorporated the word "pretty," it became evident that we shared many quirks and traits. At times, he would affectionately refer to me by my middle name, Tiara, the name he had always imagined for me. He would also comment on my looks, suggesting that I was TV pretty, attractive enough to be on television. Now I understand how this nigga had so many women lol. I won't deny that a part of me felt a flicker of excitement at the prospect of establishing a relationship with at least one of my parents, and if given the choice, it would undoubtedly be him. As our conversations progressed, I gradually let my guard down and even entertained the thought of meeting him, as it would technically be our first-ever encounter. But as always, just as I opened myself up to embrace the potential and endless possibilities, the familiar specter of disappointment swooped in, shattering my hopes.

Over time, our phone calls became increasingly infrequent until they eventually came to a complete halt. I reached out to my aunt and his ex-girlfriend, but no one had heard from him. I came to a bitter realization that I had been naive to expect a different outcome, understanding that I could only truly rely on myself in this world. However, several months later, I received a letter that took me by surprise. It was from an inmate in jail, leaving me bewildered as to who the hell would be reaching out to me from behind bars. To my disbelief, it turned out to be my father.

He genuinely expressed remorse for any missteps in our emerging relationship and acknowledged that, despite my disapproval of his lifestyle, it was the only life he knew. While I couldn't pinpoint the exact reasons that led him back to jail, I understood that drugs played a significant role. It took me some time to grasp that addiction is a disease that can profoundly impact a person's life, even to the extent of choosing it over their own child. Growing up in the hood taught me a harsh reality: trying to get that monkey off one’s back is a difficult feat. Unable to handle the overwhelming emotions, I chose not to write back. Eventually, he was released from jail, but I made the decision not to raise my hopes again, knowing all too well that they could be shattered once more. I did what I knew best—I kept it moving. 

In my mid-twenties, I lacked a deep understanding of the concept of grace and how it manifests when extending it to others. It wasn't until several years later, following the loss of my Na-Na and engaging in therapy, that I began to recognize both of my parents as individuals who existed before becoming parents themselves. Although it remains a difficult truth to accept, I have come to a point where I can offer them grace for doing the best they could with what they had. As I reflected upon the letters my Old Man wrote, it became increasingly apparent that he, much like me, harbored a genuine desire for the father-daughter relationship he had yearned for thirty six years of his life, despite acknowledging the slim to non-existent chances of its realization. It struck me deeply that this shared trait of persistently striving to prove ourselves wrong, only to ultimately confirm our innermost truths, was yet another powerful bond we shared.

Years passed, and our interactions remained sporadic, without delving into anything particularly substantial. Then, amidst the ongoing pandemic, I was overwhelmed by an intense masculine energy that unsettled me to my core. It made me so uncomfortable that I felt compelled to reach out to all the men in my life, ensuring their well-being. After ending a phone call with a friend, I implored God to reveal what exactly He wanted me to see, as the discomfort persisted and scared me. Within minutes, I discovered a message request on Facebook from a woman (I swear if it’s one thing he got, it’s a woman chile) who claimed to have knowledge about my father and wished to share something important with me. My mind raced, contemplating the worst imaginable scenarios until she provided a link to a viral YouTube video featuring him. While watching the video, a recurring thought echoed in my mind: You can't make this shit up. 

TO BE CONTINUED

Love,

Eboné