I Am Not My Father’s Child

From the moment I learned how to speak, I’ve always challenged my father.

My mom likes to recall a charming story of one of the first times my personality peaked through my three-year-old vessel. My father used to be notorious for having small cuts on his arms and one day I asked him why he was bleeding. He launches into this exhaustive account of a lion that jumped out at him from the bushes as he was coming home from work that day. This entire time I was watching him unimpressed while sucking on my pacifier. I looked at him for a long time. The judgment seeping from my eyes would have intimidated anyone (had I not been three). After a long pause, I took my pacifier out of my mouth and said: “You’re full of crap.” His jaw dropped to the ground. He yelled for my mother to come to get her child, to which she responded, “That right there is YOUR child.”

The relations between us never really changed after that, however, they did evolve. What was once me questioning his tall tales, turned into me questioning his authority on matters of the household, and eventually challenging his views on matters much bigger than either of us.

Around the time a repeal of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell was up for debate, my father took it upon himself to share his views on gay marriage. “Marriage was intended to be a union between man and wife. It’s written right there in the bible! If we’re going to let two men get married, what’s to stop people from marrying their pets.” Without fully understanding the meaning of the word, I responded, “You’re very ignorant.” (Now knowing the definition, I stand by this statement.) We had been driving at the time. He slammed his foot on the break and the car came to a screeching halt in the middle of the road. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re saying! Get out of the car!” I got out and he drove off. We were only a few blocks from the house, and I knew that no matter how fast or slow I returned, he’d have the belt out waiting for me.

My father was born in 1944 in Texas. Or at least this is what I used to tell myself when he’d take his belt out and beat my sister and I. If my sister and I fought (which was often) we could count on a beating. If I mouthed off (which was often) I could count on a beating. It was frequent enough that just the sound of him coming home would instill fear in us. He always had the habit of beating us than feeling immediately guilty and coming back within the hour to apologize and offer us recompense of some kind.

My older sister has an intellectual disability and she’s not exactly the easiest person to deal with. Nevertheless, her behavior (though volatile and exhaustive) was out of her control. During one of her worse-than-usual tantrums, my father hit the limit of his patience. He took his belt out and beat her until her skin was raw. I called my mom in a panic and told her she needed to come home immediately. When he was done with her, he turned and began to inflict the same harm on me. My mom came home and was able to call him off. He went down to the basement and didn’t come back up for the rest of the night.

The next day my sister went to school covered in bruises and welts. Her teacher immediately called a social worker and that day my dad went to jail. He came home the next day and expected my sister and I to be there waiting for him. I walked into the living room and saw him and my mom sitting on the couch. “Bailey come see your father, he’s had a hard day,” my mom told me. After a long, shameful silence, I responded with, “Good,” and walked back to my room.

One of the most recent moments that led to the demise of our relationship was during my last trip back to Texas. While we were in the car driving the thirty miles back from town to his house, he used a comment that went along the lines of “I was worked like a slave,” referring to his time in corporate America. I explained to him all of the reasons why he was in fact not worked as a slave. This led him to go on a tangent on a topic he knows very little about; black people.

“Dad, how many black people do you currently know?”

“Well, none.”

“At any point in your life have you ever had a friend who was black?”

“I had a buddy of mine that I used to work with back in ’78 who was black.”

“Considering what was happening at that time in black communities, did he ever talk about that?”

“Not that I can recall..”

“Did he ever talk about the racism he undoubtedly faced daily while working in a corporate setting?”

“No.”

“Then you were not his friend.”

At that point, he promptly slammed on his foot on the break in the middle of the highway (oddly reminiscent, isn’t it?).

“Shut the fuck up! You’re making me feel stupid and bad.”

This was the final crack in our relationship.

There’s a notion that we internalize that we must love our family unconditionally no matter how much abuse (physical, emotional, or mental) they’ve committed against us. Because of this notion, when we try to remove the abusive familial relationships from our lives, we are met with guilt. This is one of the most harmful things our society inflicts onto one another.

Our last exchange, ironically held on the eve of Father’s Day this year, ended with him saying to me “your contempt for me is disgusting and disrespectful.” And with that, it is unlikely that my father and I will ever speak again. This is a fact that I will be reckoning with for years to come as I try to wrestle away the guilt that is unwarranted given the constant turbulence and abuse in our relationship.

I am not my father’s child and one day I will know that’s okay.