To whom I share a name,
Tonight a memory flashed throughout my mind. I remembered skateboarding through my grandparents’ neighborhood, this was maybe 2011 or 2012, wearing one of my grandma’s wigs. I was supposed to be hanging out with my dad this day. I recall not seeing any of my (summer) caretakers for most of this day. I felt freed. Freedom……Freedom was once a word I would use to describe time spent with my father during my youth. Nowadays, I’d like to call his parenting style “soft neglect”. He did not punish me often. He did not bestow many explicit lessons onto me. He did not express much expectation towards me. My dad has always felt more like my brother. I’m thinking of him tonight. I’m thinking of the void that remains in me because of him. I’m thinking of his amazing laugh and confidence. I took his laugh. I claimed his walk. I reconfigured his language into a tongue of my own. Tonight I’m thinking of my dad not meeting my children. I am wrestling with the dissonance of missing a connection that never existed. I don’t think he ever understood me as a living, sentient, person. I was his follower. I was his asset. I was his son. I am his son. He took pride in something he did not understand. This slick talking; sly, and easy-going, charismatic man made me—in collaboration with the god, KP, of course [she’ll get an essay too, one day]. A prideful sinner and a sinful saint created me. Wow. I’ve been writing about this for over a decade and a half. I think one day he’ll know I like women and men—and even people who are neither. Yes, they exist Pop. Maybe one day we’ll talk about your mom dying. I’ve never seen a death impact the living in such a way. I’m sorry Pops.
Once Yours,
Ryan