Category: life

Happy Father’s Day To The *#FatherlessTribe

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I was fortunate to have my father for 17 years. It has now been 19 years past that. The most interesting thing about this holiday is that my birthday follows it. In essence, I was my father’s present.  How awesome is that?

For the 19 celebrations since his departure, there are some years that are harder than others. There are some years where I can drum up memories and smile, and not cry at all. Then there are years, like these, by which someone whom I know has, too, become a part of the Fatherless Tribe.

There is no explaining to a small child or a teenager such as I was, why their father is dead. Whether by weapons of war, medicine, or man, there are few things that ease it. There are fewer things that make it all make sense.

The troubling thing for those of us whom have walked along this path for some time, is the memory, memories and their preservation. 

As you age, certain things get forgotten about, replaced and are harder to recall. Parental memories are some of the most precious created, and are the hardest to replace. I have been without my father for almost two decades. 

At the realization of it? I wept.

I wept because this chasm created by time and space cannot be repaired. What has said, has been meant. What was offensive is now unforgiveable. What is unsaid is now silent. In that silence, you have to remind yourself to keep living.

There are people, with great care, who put their social media-ascribed holiday imagery up, whom randomly text you after outings with their living fathers to ask, “How are you?” And more often than not, you lie to get off the phone or don’t answer.

There have been twenty summers almost since I lost my father. Twenty. There are births and birthdays he has missed, along with the mundane that comes along with this life–phone calls, hugs and visits. There are days where something will happen and I will know exactly what he would say. And I laugh so hard my body shakes.

Then there are days, where I fight to remember his voice. Where I have to remember his birthday. New, more pertinent facts have taken place of the spaces that align to his memory. 

These are the days, going towards these holidays in those years where I feel like a bad daughter. Where I think that I need to forget the little things to remember the big things…like his voice.

I’m not that 17 year old girl anymore.

But if I could talk to her, I would tell her this-

“Death is one of the few definers of  this life. Do not let it consume you. Although he is not here, you are the evidence that he did live. You shall not die as he did. Your life is stretched before you. 

Give weight and wait to the days ahead, Jennifer. They will require your strength and discernment. From that, you will learn what it is to be the daughter you will need to become. Being able to grieve does not make you less strong.”

My advice, my wisdom, my love to the #FatherlessTribe this Father’s Day is this:

Live.

Do not wall out the world, but remain a part of it. Remember self-care is all that is required of those that love you.

Love.

To honor is a form of love as well. There is no greater honor than love.

Remember.

The day  is to honor your Father, whether he be bound my earth and stone or in  his favorite chair or a ballgame. The day is not to forget you have a father, but to celebrate him. 

Allow yourself the privilege of celebrating or even not celebrating. You are allowed to remember him. It is okay for your memory to be jogged with company and pictures.
 Celebrate him. Love him. Make new memories to secure the old ones.

Few things are solved by forgetting.

 

*Follow @theladyofharris on Twitter and use #FatherlessTribe if you are celebrating Father’s Day without your father/father figure. Offer advice, comfort and encouragement. Thank you. JBHarris.

Dear Daddy

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Daddy-

It has now been so long since I have heard your voice, laugh or stories. I am now almost a score (20 years) without you. So much has happened in the world now, Daddy. So much has changed, and yet stayed the same. I became a Mom, the country got a black President and I became a published writer who preaches the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

I miss you, Dad. I miss when the safest place was your shoulders. I remember how full your laugh was, and how you taught me how to hustle and not take ‘no’ for anything I wanted. I remember what you told me about people who design to stop me–and how to avoid foolishness at all cost. I’ve tried my best to do that, Daddy. Being meek as a dove, and wise a serpent, the Good Book says.

I tell the kids about you, show them your pictures, and relay your legend by my memory and voice. I tell them how you grew up, how you got to be so intelligent, and how because I am your daughter, they, too, shall excel and do and be.

In my writing now, I confront the impasses of time. I try to correct them through imagination when memory’s imagery tells me otherwise. 

I remember as I grew up, I began to feel as if I couldn’t do anything right, nothing was good enough, and the fact that I no longer wanted to be cardio-thoracic surgeon? But a writer? That seemed to devastate  you.

 The fact that I wanted to heal with word and not deed seemed to push me further from you. From that root, I began to despise you…with all I held, until I could no longer find love…until I could not find you again.

There is an impasse now, Daddy. This great chasm that I cannot come to you or you to me. Between us now is regret and time. You have not seen the woman that I have become. The things that I have overcome, the willingness to be passionate and go after what I want. You will ever remember me as a seventeen-year-old girl. Oblivious to her thirty-five year old counterpart.

I made the decision to forgive you, Daddy. I made the choice to forgive you for being what you thought was adequate to equip me. That’s the job of good fathers:  to be prophets for their children, to help them around blind curbs and dark alleys. Some of us get those lessons in toughness quicker than others. Some times, those prophets know they won’t be there always to hold the left children to assure their passage.

I hated that I didn’t feel worthy, that I didn’t feel good enough. I hated that I couldn’t fix this, Dad. I am jealous now when I see my friends still enjoying their fathers in their midlife still. I try not to be, and have adopted Father-figures at points by other older men in my life. For that, I am grateful.

I understand that there are irrevocable, non-negotiable  things in this life. Death is one. Parental love another. I know you loved me, Daddy. I know that you tried as hard as you could to be there with me, and make sure that I was okay…gon’ stay okay, and remain okay.

You said that one day we would sit around talking about you. Welp, you always knew you would be a legend…just didn’t know how big.

Love,

Jennifer

Being The Rock

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Titus 2:7 (ESV)-

Show yourself in all respects to be a model of good works, and in your teaching show integrity, dignity,

I’m not getting on this whole bandwagon of MEN ARE TRASH or the other of a similar phrases. I’m not one that gets on bandwagons anyway. However, this is not one that I would even consider.

It’s easy to say as other hurt women do, that “Men ain’t (bleep).” I have said that more than once about the men I was dating, and one I was married to, when something didn’t happen the way I thought it would or should.

There is a pattern I keep seeing in these type of trends. Everyone is happy about being hurt, bitter and alone. Everyone is trying to hurt everyone else before they can get hurt. *In this whole assertion and movement to dismantle patriarchy, we have to remember that men are human too.

There are some men that are raised to only show two emotions:  anger and toughness. If they show tenderness, mercy or any sensitivity then they are seen as ‘soft’ or  ‘gay.’ It is seen as manly to be disrespectful, arrogant and angry. None of those things make for lasting,  healthy relationships.

The meshing of women and men in relationships aren’t a new thing. There is something to be said of voicing opinion and realizing what it is to be male and female. There is something to be said for appreciating the awesomeness of the male species.

Fathers-

The men that set the example for how you are supposed to be treated as a woman, as a girl, as a human being. The person that is the model of what to do for a boy. The person that allows you to be and do with no pretense.  The person that gives you half of whom you are and shapes whom you will become.

These men in this position  go beyond biological donation and blood relation. These are the men that come in and take this position from death, marriage or other life changes. They shouldn’t be discounted.

Sons-

The young men in our lives that depend on our maturity and ability to adapt to change. Their mothers should not make their emasculation their mission. They should not be reared to handicap, and should not have the expectation to replace men that left their mothers, that hurt their mothers, and should be able to fulfill all the days of their lives. Every man was once someone’s son. 

These same sons need to see their fathers:  good, ill or indifferent. They need to see the impossible is not so. They need to see their father’s as human, fallible and…redeemable. So when that same redemption is needed, they can give it to themselves first…not wait for the world to gift it. 

Uncles-

My daughters have been blessed to have two extra uncles, non biological. These men have decided that the have loved me and my family enough to allow them to be a part of their lives. 

They allow them them to be safe and protected. They support my husband in the awesome job he’s doing as a Dad. Uncles are glue in family life. They shouldn’t be overlooked. 

My favorite uncle? Patrick. What made Patrick so dope? I felt safe around him.

Friends-

Some of my closest friends have been male. These have been the guys I consider my anchors, that I can go to about anything, at any time and not feel judgement.

 There have been times where I didn’t feel my female friends would really show me the strength (read:  compassion) needed. But more than once, I found myself on a receiver in full meltdown and needed anchor in a good guy friend.

As women, as quiet as it’s kept (as my Nan would say), women lives their lives defined by men:  maiden names, married names, the titles we keep (Miss vs Ms. vs Mrs.). 

It’s normal to want to regain something of what is lost–that autonomy of destiny, being able to feel self-determined.

*That shouldn’t be done at the expense of other people, no matter the sex. There are some really good guys out there. You shouldn’t spend your life hating the many because of the few.

*-I will be the first to say that there is a problem with patriarchy, rape culture and the care and protection of women.  How we treat women needs to change. The sexualizing of girls and women needs to change. That starts with how we treat and teach our sons. There is nothing wrong with men being able to voice opinion and emote and ask for help. This “Man-Up” insatiable nonsense needs to stop. Now, is there a level of strength in controlling emotions that men seem to have mastered? Yes. Is it needed? Yes. But that strength does not deny humanity. We gotta do better.

The New Normal

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I beginning a long time St. Louis resident, I hate the fact I have to catch the bus at night. I dislike the waiting in the dark, the transient nature of the will of on time bus drivers and always, the walking. In losing of my car in March, I have had to go back to mapping and treading the metropolitan area by mass transit and light rail found in Metro and MetroLink. Working in Clayton, commuting from Ferguson requires 90 minutes-each way, each day. And I work the graveyard shift.

 

In taking the 61 Chambers to the North Hanley station (where that eastbound route ends), I walked to the platform to wait for the first train to take me towards Clayton. I was aware there were police officers on the platform, there is an excess of  police officers everywhere in St. Louis City and County it seems. Almost like they are in constant preparation to quell insurrections, and there is a most uneasy peace to this:  they must do their jobs, and I must live.

 

While waiting for my train, I hear laughing behind me;  there were three white police officers on the platform. I shuddered. As I steeled myself on the inside from the unseasonal May cool, and the discomfort of the near presence of the STL County PD, I heard one officer tell the other two, “I’ll fuckin(g) kill you.” I have never felt more unsafe in a public place than after that was said.  Now, to be clear. The officers were speaking to each other, no one was harmed, and they were “joking” amongst themselves. Yet, I had never felt unsafe. Ever.

 

I checked my phone, and wanted to make sure I had enough battery life. Those bars and percentage would allow me to make true what would happen, rather than what people would hear over local news. I would upload to Twitter first, I thought.  I would call my husband next. I wanted to know exactly where these officers where and where they were going. My Eastbound Metrolink train came, and when it did? These same three officers jumped on that train. I kept looking over my shoulder. I wanted to make sure I could see them, even if I had my back to them. I know they had a job to do, with all the violent outbursts on Metrolink trains and buses lately; I knew that there was a plea from Metro for more security. However, I was not reassured I was safe. Not being able to constantly see them, my back to them, was my armor-my shield. At my Forest Park-Debaliver station transfer point, I got off the train, trying to regain my social equilibrium. The same officers got off the train. My Shrewsberry-I 44 train towards my final destination came, and  got on the train. Those same three STL County PD followed.  I sat again, my back to the officers and made eye contact with one. I felt the fear in back of my throat, and gripped my phone, in case I had to document and upload evidence.  I calmed down, and tried to prepare my mind for the next eight hour shirt at my employer, McKnight Place Extended Care in Clayton.

 

I heard, “Tickets, transfers, Metro Passes.” My heart fluttered. I wanted to scream and curse. I didn’t want to seem that I was afraid. I dug out my transfer out of my pocket as he approached me, my heart beating in my chest, in this combination of fear and anger. I showed it to the officer in my left hand without looking at him, my utter disrespect shown in my lack of eye contact. He stared at it longer than I thought necessary, and that made me uneasy. My stop came soon after, and I walked through the MetroLink doors and up the Clayton station platform to cross over the bridged overpass which took me over the quiet of I-70 to head to my Number 97 (Delmar) bus. I looked over my shoulder, and looked at the same officers to make sure I knew where they were.

As rolled over the experience in my mind riding the last bus to work, my ninety minute saga almost at an end. I wondered how my foremothers and fathers felt in these situations. Was it this exact, stifling feeling?  I felt vulnerable, fearful and angry. I wondered if that same helpless was felt by my ancestors while trying to navigate the identity of being black and American. While being enslaved and stripped of anything that made them human or visible.

My new normal, the new normal subsists on being able to have a voice and evidence of all that could happen to me or others in these instances of fear, racism and perception of threat to be met with the consequence of badge and service weapon.