She was six months’ shy of 17. Hair curly, face scattered with freckles, and her eyes were filled with fear. She’d never been in a hospital before, let alone to given birth to a child. Her first child. Her son. Accompanied by her best friend, she realized she had no one else. No signs of the child’s father. No brothers, no sisters, not even her mother or father were present. Coming from Brooklyn, she grew used to being alone, fending for herself. She shrugged her loneliness off and ~~prayed~~ hoped someone would show up.

Her mother left her when she was just 12. Her father owned the bodega and building on Star & Central. Everyone knew her because of her dad. Her dad, born and raised in Puerto Rico, migrated to Brooklyn to build his business and start a family. He was a hardworking man whose work ethic kept him away from home, though not too far because his bodega was only downstairs from their apartment. With the absence of a mother and the presence of a father who could only view his daughter as innocent, she was able to get away with everything. That’s how she met the father of her first born.

Hustler, gangster, businessman. The love of her life would soon drift away as the streets called. When you’re in the game, demand and supply are more important than love. At such an early age, you’d have a hard time understanding it unless you, too, were in the streets. After telling him of her pregnancy, he supported her but had doubts and thoughts of infidelity. By surprise, he showed up to the hospital as the mother of his first born was laying in the bed, groaning from pregnancy pains. He bent down, brandishing a pistol, and whispered in her ear “this baby better look like me.”

My mother and I grew up together.

Because of her age, there were so many things she couldn’t teach me. Either they were never taught to her or she had yet to experience certain things to warn me about its effects. I’ve never seen a picture with her and I. In fact, I believe I have a total of about five pictures of myself as a child. I don’t know if it’s because she’s picture shy or if me being a spitting image of my father upsets her. This explains my obsession with my daughters: Cali and Kennedy. My iPhone has more than 2,000 pictures of the both of them, individually and as a group.

I didn’t realize how many lessons I wasn’t taught until I became a father. I started to realize how much I’ve learned from mistakes, from the old heads, and from the streets. Everything that I do know, I have to make sure to utilize in different aspects to teach my daughters. I have to speak to them with a softer tone than how I’ve been spoken to. I have to teach them using my experiences versus allowing them to make all of the same mistakes. Most importantly, as a father, I am required to raise them in a home where they feel safe, where they are comfortable enough to be themselves, and are confident enough to walk out of our home with their head high, proud of themselves, and full of prayer.

Prayer

Tonight’s been rough. Cali is crying because her tablet isn’t working. Every time I checked it, she had mistakenly disconnected from Wi-Fi, stopping her from watching Little Einstein’s on Netflix. Kennedy keeps saying “SH*T!” and I’m too scared to pop her in the mouth. The last thing I want is for my precious little daughters to be scared of their father, the man they’re supposed to admire. I end up screaming at her, demanding she goes to her room and get into bed. She does. I opened my sticker-covered MacBook and begin to write when Cali tells me “But she loves you, daddy!” I can’t help but to put my heart in the hands of these little girls.

I decided to go upstairs where I kneeled next to Kennedy’s purple, tufted bed and she grabs me, hugging me, and holding on to me tightly. She’s only one and some change, but she’s so mature. I laid her down and grabbed her hands, my forehead against hers, and for the first time ever, we prayed. She repeated every word I mumbled to the best of her ability, both of us crying, and we thanked Him. We asked Him to grant me with patience and understanding and to help mold me into a better father and listener. We said amen and kissed each other good night.

My mind was going crazy, thinking of how I’ve never been taught to pray. I was the same age as my mother when she gave birth to me when I first spoke with God. I was two months’ shy of sixteen, laying in a hospital bed, with more than 120 staples in my body and no feeling in my right arm. At that very moment, I closed my eyes and I prayed. I asked for forgiveness for never building a relationship with him. I knew I was destined for something great, so I begged that he spare my life.

He did.

I can’t use the excuse of not being taught something anymore. I now have the knowledge and experience to learn on my own. I now have two little children who look to me for guidance, protection and security. I now know, as an adult that my mother was simply a child raising children. She did her best and allowing me to make mistakes was her way of letting me learn about life and its ills.

My mother might have never taught me how to pray, but unknowingly, she taught me that as a father, it’s my responsibility to pass my faith in God on to my daughters.

My mother and I grew up together.

Prayer

He did.

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Carmelo Marcus

Writing since August 2016 · 1 story contributed