It Happened To Me | Healing From Hurt | Black Families | Reframing | Black Women | Fatherhood
My memories of my father are like dusty stars — fleeting points of light in a vast, endless night.
I’ve told myself, “Scarlet, your Daddy was a ghost, really, a missing piece in the puzzle of your childhood.”
I was born when my father was 21.
When I arrived, blinking and brand new, he was just a boy himself.
“Her eyes are so chinky,” he’d said, according to my grandmother.
His voice was filled with wonder, accompanied by the recognition of our shared heritage. At least, that’s how the story went.
“You have his eyes,” Granny would say.
That was the extent of his involvement. I do not recall ever having a conversation with him — not one.
As a kid, I used to pray with childish fervor that he wasn’t my real father.
In my fantasies, a dashing Black man (think James Amos from Good Times, full of booming laughter and fierce love or James Earl Jones from Claudine, a joy-filled father who cared for all his children) would appear, sweeping me away to a family that…wanted me.
Oh, for a family that wanted me.
But reality, as always, was a harsher psalm.
I felt abandoned. I supposed I hated him.
And then, my father died when I was 21.
I discovered his secret while sorting through his dusty apartment with my sister.
My father, the man who seemed so uninterested, kept meticulous files. And nestled amongst bills and receipts was a file labeled with my name.
Inside, a treasure trove of my childhood: angry letters I’d written, overflowing with venom (letters I’d completely forgotten about), report cards, drawings, clippings and pictures — everything my grandmother had unfailingly sent him about me.
And, there was a letter that broke my heart.
It was from a nun. The envelope was crisp and official-looking. It detailed a weekend retreat for teenagers and requested a letter from my father — a love letter.
The memory flooded back then — the transformative retreat I’d been dragged to as a rebellious teenager.
The parish community came together to create a sense of belonging for the church's young people.
One night, they’d handed out letters. Mine were filled with love — from my grandmother, from my aunt.
They’d said the words I craved, and in that shared vulnerability, I’d felt a connection, a part of something bigger.
Then, years later, holding the nun's note, I discovered I had not received a letter from my father during the retreat.
The weight of feeling another abandonment fell hard on me.
He did not love me.
The realization hit me like a physical blow. I crumpled to the floor, a guttural cry escaping my lips, a primal wail of grief and unanswered longing.
I cried a most ugly cry.
Today, it’s been 21 years since my father died.
I’m thinking of him.
Oh, the stories I’ve told myself about him and about him and me.
The time I spent with my father, physically present, could probably be measured in weeks, maybe even less. Yet, wrapped up in that space is a lifetime’s worth of hurt and silence. I still feel forsaken; I probably always will.
But this morning, a new question blooms within me.
“What should I take forward?”
What lessons can I glean from this complicated, fractured relationship?
I know the answer won’t be easy. But within the hurt, perhaps there are shards of understanding, fragments of a love I did not pay attention to, waiting to be pieced together.
I acknowledge the anger and hurt. It’s valid. But I choose to rewrite the narrative.
Maybe my father wasn’t the hero I craved, but perhaps he was a flawed individual who, in his way, tried to hold onto some connection through the records he kept about me. This doesn’t erase my pain, but it can offer some understanding and, perhaps, a sliver of compassion.
When he received the request to write me, maybe he was emotionally unavailable, unable to express his feelings, or struggling with his demons. Maybe he kept the request and hoped to send the letter later. I’m like that now, tabling intentions, waiting for a perfect time to say — I love you.
I forgive him.
I have decided to embrace forgiveness in the future. Forgiveness does not imply that I condone everything he did not do; it is instead an act of releasing the burden of resentment and anger that I have been carrying.
This also does not mean that I forget or diminish the pain that I have experienced.
Instead, prioritizing my emotional well-being and refocusing on compassion will be my conscious choice.
Though memories of my father are like fleeting glimpses, my grandmother and aunt were the unwavering constellations that illuminated my childhood, their love a constant presence in the vast expanse of this time — my time.
They loved me. I feel love.
Today, I tell myself, “ Scarlet, the puzzle of your childhood was a complete picture. It was filled with joy and attention.”
© Scarlet Ibis James, 2024: All Rights Reserved.
This story was first published on Medium.com.