I heard the horror stories and of the few joyous moments my mother and father shared. I have known about this man for 25 years. I am the only person in my family who shares his last name.
I wondered how my life would be different if he were still alive. My father had colon cancer and died in 2000. If he had lived, he would’ve been 88. I did not get to spend that much time with him. The earliest memories that I have are foggy at best.
I do not blame my mother for keeping my brother and me disconnected from my father’s side of the family. My father was violent and abusive. There are no pictures of him around the house; that was normal for me. I rarely ever speak of him because he didn’t play a big role in my life. At 25, I felt it necessary to fill in the gaps in my family tree from my apartment in Los Angeles. This is my coming of age story.
I am going to start with a recent conversation I had with my mother, asking her incessantly about my father. She, in turn, told my sister, Kiesha, who is still connected with people from the old neighborhood. Kiesha is 15 years older than I. She knew of my father and his other kids. In the next week, she sent many texts with numbers and information about how I could get in contact with my father’s side. I was baffled and astounded by the quickness of it all.
The very next day, I called my newfound paternal sister, Martha, who is 68. What ensued was a conversation full of questions and confirmation. She said that she had known about my brother and me for a while. She said that mail with my brother’s and my name had come to her mother’s address. Understandably, she was skeptical of our actual relation. I assured her that we were related and that I shared the same last name as our father. The conversation ended with the hopeful promise of a meeting in Chicago.
I was nervous to initiate this meeting. I would be opening a big chapter and expanding my already small family. But I knew that if I did not make the call, it would never happen.
The call went well, and Martha even said that she would try to bring our brother on my father’s side. It’s good to know that there are other siblings in the area. She was going to bring photo albums with pictures of my father and a pair of her shoes that don’t fit her that she would let me have. This meeting was set for 3 p.m. at a coffee shop. I made a reminder in my calendar and internally was excited. I did not know what she looked like or what to expect. I prepared for whatever was to happen.
On that day, I brought pictures of myself for her to have and even showed up 20 minutes early. I ordered a coffee, so I did not seem like I was loitering in the shop. I sat near the window, watching any and every black woman who entered, hoping that she might be my sister. I started sweating. I had called her a few times to make sure that she just did not get the time wrong. At around 50 minutes in, I texted my sister Kiesha asking, “How long do I wait?”
Kiesha said that she would have already left. That flipped a switch in me. I started sweating more. This was not how it was supposed to go.
I envisioned our meeting as assurance of all the things that I have wondered about. We would sit at a cute little table and comb through the photo albums. I would see a man who looks exactly like me, the emptiness I felt inside would be instantly gone and all would be well. This would be the perfect end to my coming of age story. It would be one of the easier journeys that I’ve embarked on.
But life is not like the movies and happy endings are only meant for Disney.
I threw my coffee and the pictures that I planned to give her in the garbage. When I was outside the coffee shop, tears filled my eyes and the Chicago wind slapped me in the face. Realizing that I had been stood up by my only connection to my deceased father, put things into perspective. This hurt differently. I had told all my friends that I was going to meet her and how excited I was. How would I explain this to my friends? How will I explain it to myself? I wanted to do something reckless, get something pierced or a meaningless tattoo, but that proved to be too much work. I went home and ate my feelings.
While I was at home, I outwardly moved on and figured that there must be another way to find out what my father looked like.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
My phone rings and Martha calls. I answer on the first ring. She explains to me that she thought we were planning to meet Tuesday. An honest mistake. She was visiting our brother Daren, in a city about 200 miles away from Chicago to see if he would come and meet me as well. I thought this to be extremely sweet.
The next day, I went to the same coffee shop and came prepared with pictures of myself for her to have. I wait about 10 minutes and think to myself, not again.
Soon after, she calls.