His name was Garland. Three-year-old me thought that was the funniest name I had ever heard. If I had had a bigger vocabulary by then, I might have blurted “Who names their kid Garland??!!”
It might be easier for me to remember what he looked like because of the number of times I have been told “You look so much like your father.” But since hardly anyone even knew who my father was as I grew in age, the statement was usually delivered by my mother, her brother and her mother.
Before long I started feeling resentful of that. After all, the name Garland would be hissed with the dripping venom of a rattlesnake when my mother said it. Then one day a petite young woman rang our doorbell. Despite repeated warnings in the weeks before that not to, I dashed to the door and jerked it open.
Even to my very young eyes, it was clear the young woman was a grownup version of…well, me! The resemblance of this woman to the mental image I carried of myself took my breath away. Had I been a little older, I might have been convinced I was simply in some kind of dream state.
Aunt Vivian was her name, she told me. She said she was my father’s younger sister. My mother, after throwing me the icy, chastising, evil-eye for once again being disobedient, greeted “Aunt Vivian” with a squeal and a hug, thus confirming her identity.
From that day forward, I looked “just like your Aunt Vivian” instead of my father. That was fine with me – she was bubbly, beautiful and beyond the reach of my mother’s wrath. But it was also a development I came to view as sad; because that was the day my father left my life almost forever.
Recently I have found the courage to question my mother about the series of events that led to Garland disappearing from the lives of his two young daughters. I also wanted to see if she still had the photo I can see in my head of Garland in a swimsuit standing in the shallows of Lake Michigan holding the hand of toddler me. I can see the sun bouncing off the ripples of the lake water, and the white satin ribbon that anchored the top braid of my hair.
Mom doesn’t even remember the picture. She wonders if I had seen it the one time I was allowed to spend two weeks with Garland’s parents at their summer home in Idlewild, Michigan, a rural resort community where “prominent” African American families in the Midwest “summered.” The *rural* part is what I remember most, after the beach and boardwalk, because of the haunting memory of chickens being chased down and having their necks wrung. Nothing like watching a headless chicken flying madly around the barnyard spewing blood in all directions to help a kid make a memory!
From all accounts and from my suspect memory, Garland was a handsome “brown-skin” man with a receding hairline (thanks a lot, daddy!), medium height and the powerful, athletic build of the champion swimmer he reportedly was.
You have just read everything I know about the man who contributed half my DNA. He would show up exactly three times before he died in 1971. One Easter Sunday he arrived at the front door bearing a gift of live baby chicks, which my mother rejected loudly and threw him out. I wanted those chicks.
The next time he drove up to my grandparents’ house as we were having dinner. With him was a young woman who carried an infant. He had brought her by to show my grandparents how much his new baby looked like my little sister!
The third time he didn’t actually show up. He called me at my Milwaukee apartment where I lived with my new husband. The spies he had in our town who kept him informed of our milestones had told him I had gotten married.
As an allegedly grown woman, I minced no words explaining to Garland exactly what I thought of a man who would leave his children for years on end without any attempt to visit or speak to them. I called him a poor excuse for a man, in fact. Despite his protests that my mother had made that next to impossible, I told him to forget my phone number and leave me alone.
Five years later, as I stood and viewed his lifeless body lying in the puffy white satin of his casket, I wondered what I had missed. Who was this man I looked and apparently thought so much like? Why had he abandoned me? Why did he allow us to grow up without him, all the while keeping tabs on our little triumphs?
The answer is all too familiar. He got caught cheating. My mother threw him out. My mother is the least understanding, least flexible and least forgiving person I have ever known. He got behind on his child support payments. She canceled all visitations. She told him he would never see his children again because he was nothing, never was anything and never would amount to anything. How do I know this? I heard her tell him. "He was worthless. He was a drunk. She and her children didn’t need him or his money. Go to hell.
What I hated him for most was that he listened to her and didn’t fight for his right to be in our lives.
As my sister and I were turning to leave the chapel after the funeral services ended, a little girl around the age of 6 pulled on my sleeve. I looked down to see a miniature version of myself.
“Are you my big sister? Mommy says you are my sister.” Through a veil of tears and a sad, sad smile, I nodded yes and gave her a hug.
Garland was gone to her, just as he was gone for us all. I hope she got to know him better than I did.
It might be easier for me to remember what he looked like because of the number of times I have been told “You look so much like your father.” But since hardly anyone even knew who my father was as I grew in age, the statement was usually delivered by my mother, her brother and her mother.
Before long I started feeling resentful of that. After all, the name Garland would be hissed with the dripping venom of a rattlesnake when my mother said it. Then one day a petite young woman rang our doorbell. Despite repeated warnings in the weeks before that not to, I dashed to the door and jerked it open.
Even to my very young eyes, it was clear the young woman was a grownup version of…well, me! The resemblance of this woman to the mental image I carried of myself took my breath away. Had I been a little older, I might have been convinced I was simply in some kind of dream state.
Aunt Vivian was her name, she told me. She said she was my father’s younger sister. My mother, after throwing me the icy, chastising, evil-eye for once again being disobedient, greeted “Aunt Vivian” with a squeal and a hug, thus confirming her identity.
From that day forward, I looked “just like your Aunt Vivian” instead of my father. That was fine with me – she was bubbly, beautiful and beyond the reach of my mother’s wrath. But it was also a development I came to view as sad; because that was the day my father left my life almost forever.
Recently I have found the courage to question my mother about the series of events that led to Garland disappearing from the lives of his two young daughters. I also wanted to see if she still had the photo I can see in my head of Garland in a swimsuit standing in the shallows of Lake Michigan holding the hand of toddler me. I can see the sun bouncing off the ripples of the lake water, and the white satin ribbon that anchored the top braid of my hair.
Mom doesn’t even remember the picture. She wonders if I had seen it the one time I was allowed to spend two weeks with Garland’s parents at their summer home in Idlewild, Michigan, a rural resort community where “prominent” African American families in the Midwest “summered.” The *rural* part is what I remember most, after the beach and boardwalk, because of the haunting memory of chickens being chased down and having their necks wrung. Nothing like watching a headless chicken flying madly around the barnyard spewing blood in all directions to help a kid make a memory!
From all accounts and from my suspect memory, Garland was a handsome “brown-skin” man with a receding hairline (thanks a lot, daddy!), medium height and the powerful, athletic build of the champion swimmer he reportedly was.
You have just read everything I know about the man who contributed half my DNA. He would show up exactly three times before he died in 1971. One Easter Sunday he arrived at the front door bearing a gift of live baby chicks, which my mother rejected loudly and threw him out. I wanted those chicks.
The next time he drove up to my grandparents’ house as we were having dinner. With him was a young woman who carried an infant. He had brought her by to show my grandparents how much his new baby looked like my little sister!
The third time he didn’t actually show up. He called me at my Milwaukee apartment where I lived with my new husband. The spies he had in our town who kept him informed of our milestones had told him I had gotten married.
As an allegedly grown woman, I minced no words explaining to Garland exactly what I thought of a man who would leave his children for years on end without any attempt to visit or speak to them. I called him a poor excuse for a man, in fact. Despite his protests that my mother had made that next to impossible, I told him to forget my phone number and leave me alone.
Five years later, as I stood and viewed his lifeless body lying in the puffy white satin of his casket, I wondered what I had missed. Who was this man I looked and apparently thought so much like? Why had he abandoned me? Why did he allow us to grow up without him, all the while keeping tabs on our little triumphs?
The answer is all too familiar. He got caught cheating. My mother threw him out. My mother is the least understanding, least flexible and least forgiving person I have ever known. He got behind on his child support payments. She canceled all visitations. She told him he would never see his children again because he was nothing, never was anything and never would amount to anything. How do I know this? I heard her tell him. "He was worthless. He was a drunk. She and her children didn’t need him or his money. Go to hell.
What I hated him for most was that he listened to her and didn’t fight for his right to be in our lives.
As my sister and I were turning to leave the chapel after the funeral services ended, a little girl around the age of 6 pulled on my sleeve. I looked down to see a miniature version of myself.
“Are you my big sister? Mommy says you are my sister.” Through a veil of tears and a sad, sad smile, I nodded yes and gave her a hug.
Garland was gone to her, just as he was gone for us all. I hope she got to know him better than I did.
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