As we draw closer to the end of the first decade of the new millenia, I begin to reflect on my life to this point. There are so many subjects worth discussing, yet I am focused on the diminishing memories of my father.
My parents were divorced by the time I turned nine. He held what was considered a good job for a black man in the 1970’s. He was a machinist supervisor for a large tool and die company that has long since been acquired and acquired again. I have memories of him coming home at night after work and I would rush to the door to greet him. Wrapping my little arms around his legs as he scooped me up to give me a big juicy kiss. I used to think that I made his day as much as he made mine.
I remember him bringing home little trinkets from work such as a metal stamp that had the letter “P” fashioned on the top. That is the first initial of the first name that we shared.
He would take off his shirt and give it to me. I remember the scent. Dusty and oily, but never smelly. That scent is burned into my memory as clearly as the cologne that I am wearing today.
He used to take his shirt and throw it over my shoulders as he turned my little frame and buttoned the top button around my neck. All of a sudden his shirt became a cape. I would take off running at that point. Zooming around the house, I pretended to fly. I was trying to be the super hero that believed him to be. The wind was so cold as it fluttered my “cape”.
Fast forward a few years. My father hadn’t worked for at least two years. He was one of the original “Stay-At-Home” dads, but not in a positive sense. I found out much later that he had been fired for having an affair with a female subordinate. She wasn’t the first or the only. I know of at least one half-sibling. He always drank, but I never realized how much until I was a teenager. I didn’t know what that funny smell coming from the bathroom was until later when I knew what marijuana was. I didn’t understand why he’d get so mad at times that he would lay hands on my mother. To me, he still wore the cape.
When my mother decided to leave him in the summer of 1980, she left for work as normal. My older brother told me that we were going to catch the Metro and ride to downtown Houston. I loved going downtown. I liked the excitement of the hustle and bustle and the smells of food. The people always seemed interesting, but I wouldn’t talk to them because they were strangers. It was always an adventure and I was excited to go. We rode the bus, but I noticed that we passed our usual stop. We eventually transferred to the bus that I knew would get me to my aunt’s house. I knew the bus lines well. I knew then we wouldn’t make it downtown that day.
My mother made arrangements for us to stay at her sister’s house until the divorce was final. I was confused and mad as hell. Why did I have to leave my house? Why did I have to leave my father? My young mind did not see that he had become a destructive force in our family. He was not good for us anymore, but that wasn’t clear to me until much later.
January 1st, 1981. The divorce was finalized and we were back in our home. Mom was cooking parts of the pig that I won’t describe in this post. Good traditional food. The house was warm and the smell of good food hung throughout. I missed the cape and the man who wore it. Then there is a knock at the door. It’s him. Daddy. I vaguely remember starting to rush to the door when my brother stopped me. I wanted the cape again.
He was drunk. And loud. He demanded the furniture that he was awarded during the divorce procedings. He and my mother argued. My older brother stood at watch, ready to take him if he became violent. I was confused. Was he coming home? After many ugly words to my mother while standing on the front porch we used to sit on at times, the cape was ripped to shreds with these words…
“I’m going to forget that I ever had this family!” That was the last time I saw him.
That was the day Superman died.
Every so often when I look in the mirror, I physically see him. He had a “square” fro and I am bald. Our faces are both round, but not in an obese kind of way. My eyes are much like his. I am my father’s son…but not really. It’s easier to leave than to man up. It was the last and most lasting lesson he taught me.
I thought I had reconciled myself with his absence, but I’m not so sure. I’m not saying that I want him to come in and let’s pretend that nearly thirty years hasn’t gone by. I’m not even saying that I want him to play “grand dad” with my kids. I would like for him to see the man I’ve become, but I’m not sure if it is so that I can hear him say “I’m proud of you, son” or for me to show him that I did it without him.
Superman lives because I wear the cape now. For my two kids.
Long live Superman.
Mr. Man
