Why I’ve Hated My Father (Six Moments With Sam)
In honor of Father’s Day, the folks over at Essence.com asked me to write a piece on my rocky relationship with my father and how we’re finally working to slowly make amends. I put a lot of effort into the article and would love to hear your feedback, so be sure to CLICK HERE to read the story and comment.
Being limited by a word count, though, I really couldn’t get into every single nuance of my love-hate relationship with my father, who I affectionately refer to as Sammy because I never felt he deserved to be called “dad.” If you’ve been following for a bit you already know I confronted him HERE, but it took a lot to get to that point. Sadly, in my 32 years on this planet I can only recall six memories of my father. That’s not counting any of the numerous one-sided phone conversations where I hardly listen.
Growing up my male figure/role model was my grandfather. Despite his death when I was just 10, I have dozens of memories of him. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same about my father. Writing that piece for Essence.com unearthed a lot of emotions that I want to get off my chest. So here are the six moments I recall with the man I borrowed my name from. Let me know if you can relate.
1) Early childhood, pre-divorce
My first memory of Sammy is a non-descript day from my subconscious. I have no idea how old I was, but I distinctly remember being on my grandfather’s stoop as my father stood outside. He had just pulled up to the house in some red sports car. I remember the color being very vibrant. I can’t recall if he had vanity plates, but I do know the front license was framed in Rastafarian/Jamaican colors. I remember because my mother made a comment about people thinking he was Jamaican because of that detail. For the record, Sam isn’t Jamaican, he’s Grenadian. Funny thing about this memory is it seems like I was more impressed with the car than the return of my father from base camp. Go figure.
2) Early childhood, post-divorce
I can’t recall what year it was but my mother sent me to go visit my father for the summer. I believe he was stationed in Georgia (I just know it was the South) and lived in this huge building complex. This was during my chubby stage so Sam made me take daily laps around the complex to work off the extra pounds.
One day in particular stands out to me because it was when I saw my first porn. I had just finished doing my laps and crawled back into the apartment, panting exaggeratedly. I stepped into the living room to find my father and his drinking buddy passed out, while a weird movie played on the TV. The “plot” revolved around a pizza parlor that had a female delivery girl with roller skates. It seemed normal enough when the woman rolled down the block in boy shorts with a pizza box, but things got “interesting” as soon as the male patron answered the door. It wasn't long before the music changed bong-chicki-wah-wah and they were getting it on.
I had no idea what was going on, but I crawled closer to the screen to get a better view of whatever it was these two people were doing with their clothes off. In case my father woke up, I pretended I was asleep and watched with one eye open. Eventually, I did conk out from exhaustion. When my father awoke he asked if I had seen anything, which I responded with a quick, “No.” Case closed.
The only other thing I recall from this summer trip are a few photos I took. One was of me in front of his turntable set, and the other was me holding an unloaded M16 rifle. I'm still looking for that second picture, it was gangsta.
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