You're 6 when you realize that your father
doesn't have a normal job. Yes, you know that "we" own a record
store, but you also observe that not everyone who comes into the record store
actually buys any music. You are that kind of kid, observant, watchful… Nosey.
So you watch as money exchanges hands with no records sold. Yet, those
customers run gleefully out the door as if they were just given the new Michael
Jackson album for free.
You're also 6 when you are awakened in the
middle of the night. Indiscernible words from voices that are clearly
recognizable.
"Call 911!"
"Man, are you crazy? All this coke in
here."
"Yo! He's seizing; he could die,
man."
"We gotta hide this coke first."
You instinctively know not to come out of
your room, not even to use the bathroom. So you lay awake all night trying,
unsuccessfully, not to wet your bed while contemplating why the police will be
mad that there is coke-a-cola in your house. You finally conclude that this
must be why you are not allowed to drink coke: it's bad for you and the police
don't like it. But why do they sell it in the stores? It takes another two
years when you realize the difference between coke and 'coke'. Still too young
to be distinguishing between the two.
At age 10 it dawns on you that none of your
friends have thousands of one dollar bills wrapped in rubber bands hidden in
the bottom of their closets. That's where their shoes are stored; not under
their beds like yours. None of them get their lunch money from bundles of cash
hidden in their room. They get checks made out to the school in beautifully
written cursive. If they do get cash, it's a twenty from mom's purse or dad's
wallet. And they don't get sideways glances from the judgmental lunch ladies
who always give you one of two looks as you pay: disgust or pity.
Without the explicit explanation of what
'this' is, you're constantly told that "all of this is for you, my
children that I love so much". You carry this with you. As you grow, you
slowly understand the implications of “this”. In some ways your very existence
has caused the, once beautiful, teacher and mother of three across the street
her family, job, and looks. At 12, you feel responsible for the loss of her
livelihood.
At age 15, you begin to wonder if every drug
addict you see in your, now rundown, neighborhood is supplied by the same man
who used to spend his time passing out milk to your friends in elementary
school. This is not the neighborhood of your childhood.
You're 17 when your entire world changes as
your father is taken from you. While you know he is guilty as sin, you still
hope, pray and beg that he will be coming home soon. That somehow the last 15
years of your life has been someone else's. That it is not your father in that
orange jumpsuit sitting across from you in the crowded visiting room of the
county jail. That is not your father. Your father would never make you a
fatherless child. Never make you a fatherless daughter. Never make you a
statistic. But he has.
Although you are not the one who committed
the crime you are embarrassed. You dread
that in inevitable question that always comes whenever you let someone in close:
where is your father? There's always a pause while you search for the courage
to answer truthfully. And in those quickly passing moments, the look in your
companions’ eyes always gives away their fear of having asked the wrong
question. Maybe he died... maybe she doesn't know where he is. Sometimes you
think it may be better to answer this way. You never do. You realize that you
are, nonetheless, ashamed. You are 22.
At 26, you now have three children. The idea
of ever doing anything that would separate them from you is unimaginable. Yet,
you now know that you will do whatever it takes to keep them fed, clothed,
safe, and even a little spoiled. And as that third child, a son, is born, you
begin to ponder what his life will be. How hard will it be? Because you know
that simply due to the fact that his mama is black and his daddy is Mexican,
his life will be so much harder than others. What will he have to do to
survive? To care for his family? You vow to never let history repeat itself.
So what exactly do you do when you know the
father you adore so much helped to destroy the neighborhood, culture, the life
that you loved? It isn't until you are 30 that you realize that you have to
love him anyway, especially in those times you find yourself hating what he did
the most. You must remember that the sins of the father are not your own.
