Untouchable Dad.

My father died last week. Or the week before. Maybe he died awhile ago, I suppose I'm not sure. August 4th was the date, but the feeling has been alive in me for an endless and unknown amount of time.

I sit in the wake of my father's death, the most unsettled feeling cascading over me, with an inability to move. My father passed that on to me-the inability to move. My father's inability to move was strong enough to shift tectonic plates, to force oceanic surges. He moved so little that even when he moved he was unseen. Allow me to explain...

when i see a black man

i see my father. tall. big belly. bald head. 

i smell whiskey and disgust. 

anger clenches my jaw tight

i feel my breath catch in a decade of elapsed time. 

unseen. and all around me. 

in every drink. in every moment of fury.

when i see a black man

i feel the worsts in me shadow out the sun.

regret yields to anger, opens to pain

Back in college, when the surges really began to rise, my father suddenly halted communication with me. We far from had a regular communication schedule, but I would most often hear from him once every few months-sometimes even nabbing an in-person visit as he passed through after work. And then it all stopped. I didn't hear from my dad for 6 months. The first few months of silence weren't noticeable, a usual trend, but six..six felt different. After confirming that my mother and brother also had not heard from him (unfortunately commonplace), I called my dad's cell phone to find out that it was no longer in service. I can no longer recall how we found out my father's whereabouts, but he had quite abruptly moved to Florida. My father moved to another state, over two thousand miles away, without so much as a phone call, text or note left behind. Two children abandoned in two states that had become foreign. I will not speak for my brother, but to say dad's vanishing act was hard to swallow is an oceanic understatement.

Somewhere back in college marked the last time I shared in-person words with my father. Somewhere back in 2004 I spoke to my father face to face for the very last time. I almost wish I could remember the details-what we said, if our conversation felt important, whether the air gave away his shift in momentum. Thirteen years later, looking back on this slanted--twisty--porous relationship, memories seep into my psyche like honey in a comb. Here is my story.with my dad.in my words.

Naturally, this story begins long before my own birth. No true memories there, only stories heard and very few of them remembered. Something about picking my mom up outside of a bar, courting, marriage, a pregnancy.

i was born in the sun. warm july rays, open windows, hours of hard breathing.

heavy doses of medicine, my mother was relieved-her baby was here.

my grandmother, elated. i saw it. with my own eyes. 

in photos she beamed, lit with the glow of summer baby. 

my father-well, i'm sure he was there too.  

My father passed on his inability to move into the frame of photos. I have little visual evidence of his presence in my early life. A few photographs stand out-a hazy memory of seeing myself on his hip or his shoulders or in his arms, one of his belly at a birthday party. As my  memories grow stronger I am much older, maybe I'm eight, maybe I don't know. I lay on my father's army cot-he's not actually in the picture, but of course he must be there..somewhere. A photo of him standing on my childhood street, alone. I've never much loved having my picture taken and in my recent reflections maybe I now understand why..where it came from. 

of youth i remember little. of birthdays. of celebrations.

i know he was there. i have the photo to prove it. 

one photo shows my dad.

no face, no legs -- just his stomach, a birthday party in the background.

In middle school, my brother and I would visit dad at his girlfriend's house. This was most often quite a treacherous event. More often than not my father was drunk. Even more often than he, his girlfriend was too. A story of memory and of fright..

We are driving in a large camper van-me, brother, dad, girlfriend. The van swerves from side to side on the road. We hit a garbage can. I squeeze my brother's arm and look out the window, seeing the plastic bin splatter against the van door. We hit a mailbox. I don't look out this time. We squeeze each other, my brother and I, and say nothing. At home, the girlfriend's home-maybe my father's too, more memories flood. A fight ensues, girlfriend cries herself out of the bedroom towards the couch that holds me and my brother afloat. She hits the floor, more aptly-he hits her to the floor. Somewhere in a mess of screaming and crying are glasses breaking. I remember nothing else of this story. I am grateful. My brother and I are suddenly transported outside, a different apartment complex, a new set of stomach-churning memories. I call mom, crying, frightened, in desperate need of an immediate removal from this place. Memories tend to bleed into each other, the start of one begets the end of another. A topsy-turvy sequence begins. The physical memory of fear, anger, anxiety, desperation breathes a steady form of clarity deep inside my bones, inside of my human nature. I wish I had visceral memory of positivity to overlay this story. I ache. I want not to think, to remember. My limbs won't let me forget.

girlfriends. lovers. abuse. 

witnessed. i heard. 

get knocked down-stay knocked down. 

pick up the bottle. drain it. toss it. repeat.

destruction doesn't seem like destruction when your father is your teacher.

High school came with a new twist, a new challenge to step into. A brand new house was purchased, with my very own room-and one for my brother too. I said yes-amped on the idea that with newness, with moving came a truly fresh start. We moved in..he moved out, my brother, in less than a year. Turns out not only does misery love company, it loves repetition too. By the end of my freshman year, it was clear to me that my father was an alcoholic. Whiskey in morning coffee, whiskey and coke throughout the day, more whiskey with dinner..dessert..for tv time. His breath did not smell like breath. His actions did not feel like actions. More like memories grabbing through the past for something that seems real, whole. My father's behaviors included: leering at the bodies of my high school classmates and friends, driving drunk, forgetting every manner of interaction or promise or conversation. I left that house at the close of sophomore year. I left and looked back. I always looked back. 

he remarried. we moved in.

i ran towards a new home, a new life, a new bedroom. 

turns out abuse doesn't flee as easily as the teenage mind hopes to forget.

my young mind stained with his alcoholic ink. 

I remember two fond memories of my father during this time, one of which being rather questionably fond. Dad took me to a local golf course one day. Dad loved golf-watching, playing, speaking of, so it was cool that he opened this space up to me that day. We went to the driving range, we putted on the small green. He told me I should learn to play golf, something he repeated a few more times later in life. I didn't like golf back then, still don't today, but I loved golf on that day. I loved that I was in, I was connected. 

The second, more questionably fond memory, involves a great deal of marijuana. I stole a package from my dad's dresser drawer filled with weed. He (and his wife) always locked their bedroom door, I always checked-as teenagers do. That day, the door was left open. I perused the space, not find much of interest until I opened the top dresser draw and breathed in. I smoked large amounts of weed my second year of high school and thus was ecstatic over my find. I quickly dashed out the room, prize in hand, and locked the door behind me. I knew I could never truly be blamed-the door was locked, was always locked, of course. I suppose I hold this memory fondly, even though it possibly highlights more dysfunction than naught, because I was happy. Happy memories in that house were few and far between and this one is high on the list. 

After high school comes college, a forever tryst to Florida, and a lifetime of children forgotten. Between 2004 and 2014, my father engaged me in -what can only be described as- a ridiculous pattern of faulty communications. He would call once a year..once. We would 'catch up' about things like the weather, my schooling, and likely more things that were never meant to be treasured or remembered. He would say he loved me. I would say it back. Shortly after this round of chatter I would eagerly await the next call, in vain. After more silly texts about uninteresting and unimportant topics, I would tell my dad I wanted more. More. More depth, more connection, more interest from him about my life and who I am. At this point I all communications would cease...until next year. This pattern continued for nearly a decade. Twice within this time period I wrote lengthy emails about my truth. I shared my desire for a more consistent relationship, my need for our relationship to make steps towards healing. I explained that I did not want to rehash past grievances. I did want him to acknowledge that his actions had an impact on me, a negative impact on his daughter. He refused. There would be no acknowledgement, no step towards reconciliation on his part. Back to devastation for me. I continued to try, to open up my space to my father in all of his flaws. I was wounded, punctured, broken, and desperately open to his grace and desire to keep me present in his world. 

Then came two mortal blows. 

2014: I lived in Denver. My father lived in Florida. Our paths were not destined to unintentionally cross. So when he was assigned a truck stop in Denver, I was eager (albeit hesitant) to reconnect in person. I shared my work address and hours, my home address, and possible meeting points anywhere throughout the day-including stepping into my classroom during teaching time. My father came to Denver. My father stayed in Denver. After sharing his travel plans with me, building the hope of a reconnection, my father did not come to see me. He left having only sent one message about not being able to make it to me. Distraught. Devastation. Both my legs cut off as I stood in wait.

2015: An unexpected passing of my uncle brought us again to the same town. I had not spoken to my father since I lost my limbs the year before. I knew his presence would likely cross paths with my own. I put a tremendous amount of thought into what I might say, how I might respond to his words, how I might feel sharing air with this man I had not laid eyes on in over 10 years. I made a decision that as I entered the funeral's viewing room, I would allow myself the presence of mind to be connected to my uncle and work through anything else (including my father's presence) after the service. For no more than ten seconds as I walked into the room, I saw my father standing near the door. He wore a suit, I think, and was much larger than I could recall ever seeing him as. I burst into tears as I stepped in the room, mourning the death of my uncle, subconsciously holding space for the man by the door. I stayed in town for another day and night wondering when my father would show up-to see his newly widowed sister, his mother...his children. I wondered in vain. I departed the rest of my family knowing that my relationship with my father was at its darkest point. I could push no more. It became clear to me. We were separate entities, forever pooled by blood.

As I take time to reflect on the passing of my father, I struggle to conceptualize a world in which we could have made amends. Maybe it was my fault for not trying harder..and harder.and harder. Maybe it doesn't matter. What I do know is that my father gave me life. He told people he loved me, even when he stopped voicing it to me. He followed my moves in the world via web postings and family briefings. He had friends. He left me behind. In death, my father holds more emotional space than ever before. He was absent. He is present. Life is complex and I need not understand every path to live my own. 

when i see a black man

i am reminded of my depth. my story. my passion.

my heart. my prisons of fear. 

when i see a black man

i seek safety within reach.

a bubble to close around him. 

a way the world, the fear, cannot touch him

or add to my pain. and to his. and to ours. 

an untouchable black man. that is who i want to see.

You are now untouchable, dad. May you forever rest in peace. I will reach for the same in life.