The day I met my dad

Hey Fatty McFatFat -

You don’t know your dad, do you? I assume he’s no longer with us on this earth because if you lived until 6, and he had you when he was like 2 or 3, then he’d be like…10 or 11 now and it seems unlikely that a puppy mill papa would live that long. Condolences.

It’s not weird for animals like dogs and cats not to know their parents. It’s not like they’re being raised by them, right? They’re just born, feed a little at the teat, and then instinct takes over to keep them alive. Human children need so much more than that. I met my dad when I was 17. I suppose I met him when I was born. He did turn up at the hospital after the main event and stare at me in the nursery with such intensity that it prompted a nurse to sprint down the hallway and in her thick Floridian drawl, breathlessly and frantically tell my mother, “Ma’am — there’s a black man looking at your baby.” What can I say? It was the 80s. In Florida. Tallahassee, Florida.

I met my dad when I was 17. My cousin from Nigeria was studying in the States and he wanted to meet me and my brother. We decided to drive to to Pittsburgh to meet him, and because our father lived in Pittsburgh we thought, well why not meet him, too. Arriving at my cousin’s place was just fine, easy even. We had no history other than that of family, we got along and enjoyed ourselves. The next day, our dad picked us up to take us to eat. I can’t remember now if it was for lunch or dinner. I know it was light outside and we went to a Korean barbecue place.

He drove a car — was it gray? Or blue? Either way, he didn’t get out of it when he drove up. So strange. He hadn’t seen me since I was 3 and the man didn’t get out of the car to say hello to his long lost children. Not even lost, just long. He knew exactly where we had been all these years. He just sat placid in the driver’s seat, and let us decide who would draw the short straw and have to sit in the front seat, eerily close to the man that was responsible for our existence on this earth, but to whom we had no connection. I drew the short straw.

I slide into the car and looked at him right in the eye. It was a Toyota Camry? Or was it an Accord? Something small-ish so it felt claustrophobic. Thick and intense with the air of people who had not met and did not want to. There was a pause. And then he leaned over to hug me. I instantly withdrew, scowled and said, “Don’t fucking touch me.” My brother corrected me. Told me to be nice. I might have settled on a handshake but I don’t remember.

He drove and began speaking, I think. I could only stare at his hands. My hands. Then I studied his face. My face. My nose, my eye shape. My fingers gripped the wheel, guiding the car nervously along. Growing up with a white mother in a white family, you forget that people tend to look like their parents. It was the first time I’d seen a family resemblance outside of my brother. It didn’t make me feel normal. Just numb.

At the restaurant they gave us tea. The kind of tea they serve in the tiny cups with no handles. Jasmine, I think. I started ranting. Why had he left? Where had he been? Why didn’t he support us financially? Why was he such a worthless piece of shit? You know, the real, hard hitting questions you might expect from a 17-year old girl. As I spoke my brother wordlessly filled up my tea cup whenever it got low. Our father played with his food. Twirled noodles around on his plate like a 5-year who was avoiding eating his vegetables. I remember thinking he looked so small, so timid, so powerless. And he was. At least I thought he was in that moment.

Lunch or dinner ended. He drove us back to our cousin’s apartment where we went inside. Before we got out of the car, the told us to tell our cousin to “bring me my son.”

When we walked through the front door, a small boy — around 6 or 7 years old — ran past us in a flash and out the door. My brother and I both froze, the wind from the little boy’s acceleration still fussing up the air.

And just like that, all of my power was gone.

We drove 9 hours back home the next morning. I went back to school on Monday. I got good grades. I finished up my junior year. I applied to and got in to college. The thing I didn’t realize is that if someone told me right now that they had just met their father for the first time, I would be like, “Oh my God, are you ok? Take some time for yourself. Maybe go to therapy!” But 32 year old me wasn’t around for 17 year old me. 17 year old me didn’t know about vulnerability and the power of allowing yourself to crumble, just a little even. 17 year old me was a little girl, and the even littler girl inside of her was devastated and unable to process the reality that there was this man in the world who defined nearly every aspect of how she interacted with the world. I didn’t learn that for many years.

I wonder if you met your dad — would you have even known it was him? Would you go on running and playing and humping? Would you tell him not to fucking touch you? I can’t imagine that you would. Just wag your butt and accept him with love because you don’t know any other way. You don’t have the default of hurt to guide you in those moments.