I was 29 years old when I had my first one-on-one conversation with my father. It was actually this past summer. After series upon series of contentious texts and strained phone conversations, my dad finally agreed to "face me." I wanted answers for his shadowy existence in the background of my life.
I have somewhat of a confusing upbringing. My parents met on a blind date when my father, an active-duty airman, was stationed in London, UK. Six months later they were married, and in two years, they had two children; my older sister and I. Soon after, they divorced and thus began a bitter custody battle between my paternal grandparents and my mother who was not a U.S. citizen. The final verdict landed my sister and me in the care of my grandparents with visitation with my parents on weekends and holidays. This arrangement was really between my grandparents and mother. Dad received his new assignment and moved around.
In the years since, I knew my father through a series of phone calls, pictures and gifts on the appropriate dates. But I rarely saw him. As a child, I was easily distracted by myths and stories. I imagined myself "The Little Princess" waiting for my father to return from battle, or that I was lost (thought I lived in the same house he grew up in) and that he was searching the world to find me. It wasn't until his third marriage and he began having more children that my feelings changed. I became jealous of my half-sisters and skeptical of his love for me. After all, how can you love a person through the phone? I became cold when he visited on holidays. Once I even said "good riddance" after he said his goodbyes. As I grew older, I became angrier at what felt like his rejection. I did not understand why I saw so little of him, and all the mailed gifts in the world didn't make up for his absence at my flute recitals, show choir performances and countless academic award ceremonies. Remember this was before smart phones. There were no Snaps to save or Twitter moments to review events that were missed. I became painfully aware of how you cannot regain time once it has passed.
It wasn't until my Grandmother died in 2014 that I realized the full force of my anger. From the memorial services to the repast, you could cut the tension between us with a knife. I wanted to scream at him, tell him how his absence hurt his mother and his children. I seethed as he shook hands with her closest friends and colleagues, another reminder of his absences as he had to be reintroduced to a few. It all came pouring out in an email two years later, and that was when my father decided to come visit me in California, alone.
One of the first things my dad did when we went to lunch together was apologize. I spent so much time being angry that I didn't know what to do when I actually got what I demanded. But the relief I felt was palpable. A simple "I'm sorry" unlocked years of frustration and allowed me to put those feelings into perspective. For the first time ever, I felt heard and I felt respected. Although everything isn't mended, we took the first step toward understanding. There's a sense of peace I get from knowing I was finally listened to.
Are things peachy keen now? Not at all. I still find myself hurting at times. But the difference is I know now that I have an open line toward understanding. And although I know we can never go back in time, we decided to make the best of the time we have now.
Brought to you by Fences, in theaters nationwide Dec. 25.
For more personal essays like this, sign up for Blavity's daily newsletter.
