Happy Father's Day

When I was 3 years old I remember my father kicking my ass because I had climbed up on his prized Cadillac and my little shoes must have scuffed the finish. My mother says I was too young to remember and I must have heard someone talking about it.

I used to be locked in my room as a child so I would "study". My father would force me to clean the house and wash the dishes while my little sister got to play with her dolls and my mother shopped the pain away.

I never wanted for anything materialistic. I used to wake up in my old bedroom every morning and run to my dresser cause I knew my father had left me a brand new Masters of the Universe action figure. Everyday. On weekends I'd get the play sets and vehicles. All my friends loved coming over cause I always had the brand new video games. They'd tell me how I had the best father ever.

I used to get beaten for using the wrong eating utensil. For slurping my soup too loudly. For getting anything lower than a B in school. For my mother taking my side in arguments. For my making him look bad. For my bad manners.

I got beaten till I was big enough to fight back. I was fifteen the first time I took a swing at my father. I was sixteen when I broke his arm. I made the mistake of telling everyone about his affair that I'd know about since I was thirteen, after he berated me at a family Fourth of July gathering for asking why my cousin, who was 18 at the time, still had to ask permission to go out. I found myself in a choke hold against the wall. He found himself curled up in a ball on the floor with me kicking his battered body as he cradled his broken arm.

Once he realized he could no longer break me physically, his abuse turned psychological. He managed to make my mother believe I was lying about the affair because I was angry at him and trying to cause trouble. My relationship with my mother, although much improved now, has never really been the same ever since. Anyone who would listen heard about what a terrible son I was. The liar, the fuck up.

I was class vice president, homecoming king and editor of the school paper in high school. In college I was on the deans list and again editor of the award winning school paper. I managed to never join a gang and kept myself outta any big trouble.
Yet it was never enough. Because in order for him to maintain the image of the perfect father, if I wasn't gonna play along and be the perfect obedient son than he would make me the problem child.

I remember when I was in high school suddenly the guys I hung out with in the neighborhood being a problem because my father had told my mother they had asked him for marijuana when he was coming home from the bar one night. I didn't tell my mom I was pretty sure if my friends were looking for weed they wouldn't have to resort to asking my father where to get some. Years later I came to find out from the same guys that my father had drunkenly approached them about scoring some coke the night in question. Then proceeded to talk about "his faggot son" with my friends.

I was involved in a high speed chase with my mother and sister in the car when we happened to run into him on the street after he moved out and my sister attempted to approach him and he and his new bitch ran into their car and sped away like she wasn't shit.

From my father I learned how to be dependent. I learned how to lie and be phony to get what I want. I learned to put on a facade in order for people to like me. I learned that love = materialism. I learned how to scream and shout. I learned how to punch and choke. I learned to not take anything from anyone or be stepped all over, to the point of paranoia. I learned to manipulate. I learned to solve things with my fists. I learned to be on guard and ready for an attack from anyone cause if the man who spawned me seemed to hate my guts and wanted me destroyed, what can I expect from anyone else.

I'm still trying my best to unlearn the lessons I was taught by my father. I spent years being the kind of person I hate because that was all I knew. Guess we hit on the why I hate liars and my tendency to tell the truth to a fault.

I don't hate the man. My faults; inherent, learned or beat into me, are what makes me. I can see I'm not a perfect man and because of what I went through I understand why I can be a little volatile. I see how I can be difficult to deal with. I'm not trying to make an excuse for my actions or for his. I can understand how outside influences and past traumas can shape and make you see things in a way you might not want to. From what I understand he didn't have the best childhood either. I think he just never learned how to be a good father. Fortunately for me I had other role models I could look up to for that.

So enjoy your steaming pile of nada damn thing, dad. Happy Fathers Day. Thanks for the memories, asshole.


Daddy Dearest and I.