Someone with my neuroses should not be allowed to raise kids. Fortunately, we live in a negligent society where there are really only two rules to parenting:
- Keep the kid alive.
- If harm befalls the kid, make sure it can’t be traced back to you.
Simple enough. So when my long-lost runaway teen daughter showed up on my doorstep, I said, “Sure, Kid, come on in.” I see morons raising kids every day. How hard can it be? Plus I’m a sucker for a damsel in distress and I figured I was overdue on doing the right thing–both as a man and a father…and, kinda in general. Besides, I’m a smart guy. I semi-successfully navigated the systemic racism of Missouri for years without getting murdered, martyred or otherwise mutilated. Sure, I was humiliated lots of times but humiliation is a full-time feeling for a parent so call it preparation.
I’m a professional. Fatherhood is just another job. I can analyze all the variables. My instincts can sense when I’m not seeing all the angles. Set the goal: raise an intelligent, independent, proud black woman. Plan: good grades, scholarships, college, career. Execute: immediately. I think I’m ready.
I’m a parent. This is my life and it makes no sense. This kid can shit on me and I’ll wipe her ass afterwards. I don’t even know who I am without her shame. My job is the only thing that I really understand anymore, and my job sucks. The goal: survive. Plan: don’t kill her, don’t run away, self-medicate, find a way to be at peace with poverty. Execute: tomorrow.