I don’t know the rule behind Father’s Day. I remember it as some Sunday around my sister’s birthday. It held some significance for me while my Old Man was alive, but for the past 17 years, it’s mostly been a day of shame and frustration that I hope to survive unnoticed. Ashamed, because of how I became a father. Frustrated that makes me an unqualified dad. Ashamed, because for years I allowed someone else to dictate the terms of my love and relationship with my daughter because it was easier than doing it myself. Frustrated that I may be emotionally inept. Ashamed, because I chose to be willfully ignorant rather than actively involved in my Kid’s fist decade. Frustrated that history has built a wall around my daughter’s heart and life. Ashamed, because I feel like I am never doing enough to make it right. Frustrated that I can’t find the words or a way to communicate with my Kid. The shame continues to compound on itself, making it nearly inescapable. I must journey to the depths of humility–damn close to insecurity–just to escape it. So if you ever want to talk to Q in his most humble form, just hit me up mid-June. #realtalk
It’s difficult to hide from common courtesy, however, so inevitably someone(s) will wish me a “Happy Father’s Day” on that Sunday around my sister’s birthday. I accept, but each one is like a knife in the heart that’s custom engraved in calligraphic text with the question that haunts my existence: “How can you call yourself a father, Q?”. I honestly don’t know the answer to that question, nor to my follow-up rhetorical of “What is a father?”. And 364 days out of the year, I can whinge over my crisis in relative solitude because, well, quite frankly, no one thinks about men as “fathers first”–and maybe that’s part of the problem–except on that one Sunday around my sister’s birthday…
Fortunately, as many of my friends and loved ones have become parents themselves, the courtesies extended my way have declined over the years. In fact, this year, I only received seven knives which was down significantly compared to the past two years when my Kid lived with me, and the four prior since I moved to Houston. I am thankful for that, preferring to avoid death by a thousand existential cuts; however, the silence reminds me that said day of celebration is also an intimate, immediate-family-affair, and in that, I am both lacking and lonely. On the bright side, although a couple hurt like Tessaiga knives, most of the courtesies were Tenseiga blades offering healing cuts to life. [That’s an Inuyasha reference for any light anime nerds like myself.] So this year my penance was paid in Seven Cuts, and as the Bowery King once said, “Well, sometimes you gotta cut a motherfucker.”
- from my best friend-cousin with whom I share all dad woes
- from my boss right before he asked me to work a double-shift of 17 long hours, which I happily obliged because it saved me from going home to be alone with my thoughts
- from my sister
- from the Chief–an old hometown friend who’s also the sweetest, most thoughtful person in the world that literally texts me on EVERY major holiday
- from Mama Berr–one of my adopted moms who just loves the shit out of me for no good reason
- from the Kid
- from the Kid’s mom
Now, the last two are perhaps the only two that are to be expected; however, they are also the only two that I was both surprised and dreading to receive. They felt more like swords than knives, custom engraved in wingding font with ever-changing, unfathomable, unanswerable questions. I don’t understand the courtesy in this act of delivering these three simple words on this arbitrary Sunday; especially considering that discourtesy and avoidance is the norm practically every other day of the year. For all intents and purposes, I am (or I feel) actively rejected as/from the role of father by both parties. Therefore, I don’t understand the point or purpose in acknowledging me simply because of some commercial holiday. Is it out of respect? Is that what I am supposed to feel–respected? Because I don’t. I feel ashamed and deeply hurt that a “happy father’s day” text–ostensibly the bare minimum–is all that I’m worth. Is it out of obligation? That seems absurd. What obliges you to me? Certainly not DNA nor any obvious affection. There are no monies or favors beings exchanged. Our lives are wholly separate and unentwined, by their own design. So why the charade? Questions without answers. But before I spiral into madness, I have to ask myself, how would I feel if I received no text at all? And that question, I can actually answer.
I would feel relieved of hope. If you or a loved one has ever received a terminal diagnosis, then perhaps you can understand what that feeling is like. Hope is powerful. Hope is uplifting. Hope is fragile. Hope is dangerous. It raises a veil between expectations and reality, preventing true acceptance of a circumstance or situation. Acceptance is only obtainable after being relieved of hope. I cannot accept this distance, strain and separation between my daughter and me because I still have hope that she loves me. To lose that hope would be an irreparable heartbreak, but it would also open the path to closure–a path that I do not have the strength to trek. So every year I hide my shame, wallow in worry and hold onto the hope that I am still–ostensibly–worth the bare minimum.
My next Father’s Day is on some random Sunday in mid-September. I hope to feel the Winds of Change by then instead of a Windscar, but if it’s gonna be the latter, I hope she slays the thousand demons I carry with me like Naraku… That’s another Inuyasha reference. #sitboy