Life went on without him, for years. I graduated elementary school, then high school, then I started my first year of university. I made peace with what my mom had said: he knew where to find me. I had no interest in reaching out to my father again.
But I wanted to know my siblings. After that afternoon in his mother’s hallway, I searched for Krystal nearly every day without telling anyone. I felt hopeless; she could’ve been in any city in England, and all I had to go off of was a childhood photo—I didn’t even have the spelling of her name. Each day, I typed variations of her name into a search engine, hoping for different results this time. Each night, I thought about our reunion and tried not to lose hope.
Weeks before my first holiday break at Western, I stumbled upon a girl on Facebook whose first name was a shortened version of Krystal. Over the years, I had searched endless profiles, looking for a resemblance to the girl in the photo in the faces of these women. She was the closest match to the girl in the photo. She looked like me.
I sent her a message, asking her if she knew a man by my father’s name. She said he was her dad, and I told her that I thought we were sisters. Krystal didn’t hesitate; she knew who I was. She had also been looking for me. I was eighteen when I found my sister.
There was so much about Krystal I had missed out on, and there’s much I still don’t know. She is nine months younger than me. She’s lived in a small town in the United Kingdom for so long that she has a thick English accent. She’s a professional athlete. Though she lives across the ocean, she is still suffering the immense pain of feeling abandoned by our father. Unlike me, she hasn’t given up trying to reach out to him. We stay connected through social media, congratulating each other on our achievements and liking each other’s posts. We send the occasional message to remind one another that we love each other immensely, even if we haven’t met.
Three months after I connected with Krystal, I was home for the weekend when the doorbell rang. Jehovah’s Witnesses were making their rounds in the neighbourhood this time of year, and my mother went downstairs to answer. Her voice was low, hushed. When she came back upstairs, she was sullen and pained.
“There’s someone here to see you.” I didn’t recognize the seriousness in her voice, or her disturbed expression. My mother was a jokester, always in good spirits even when she was upset or hurting. I went downstairs. It took many seconds to recognize my father’s face.
“What do you want?” Those were the only words that offered to come out—the only appropriate response.
He stared at me in awe, almost on the verge of tears. “You are so beautiful. You’re so big now.”
“What did you want?”
“To see you,” he said weakly like even he knew the answer was not so simple.
I hesitated, but I let him come upstairs, and we spoke for half an hour. He asked me to give him another chance to make it right. I didn’t want to open that part of myself up again. But I pitied him, how desperate he was, how clueless he was about me. He pulled a scraggly piece of paper out of his pocket with a number and a name: Simone. It was the contact information for my older sister, he said, and she wanted to meet me.
When I got back to London after winter break, my father, as promised, contacted me. He’d call during class, or in the evenings. He tried to force his way back into my life, pestering me about calling him “Dad,” refusing to hang up until I said “I love you.” Not wanting to hurt or embarrass him, I forced it out with such difficulty that it made me physically sick. I stayed silent while he tried to guess my favourite colour, my favourite food, my age. He gushed about Simone, but he never brought up any of his other kids. He never admitted to or apologized for his absence in any of our lives.
The uneasiness that I felt about him had resurfaced: a pit in the bottom of my stomach, a cold sweat, a lingering tension and anxiety made worse by hearing his voice. His intrusion in my life drained me. The burden of deciding whether I could make peace with his disruptive presence or if I should confront him about his absence made it hard to focus on anything else. I hoped his interest in me would fizzle out again as it always had before, and that things would go back to the way they were. But I didn’t want to come off as cold-hearted or ungrateful—what kind of child calls their father to ask him to leave them alone? While friends socialized in each other’s rooms, I retreated to my own, thinking about him, my newfound siblings, and this whole other life that ran parallel to mine—an alternate life that I could have been living but couldn’t even imagine for myself—all on top of the new life I was already trying to build.
A month later, Simone called me. “Hey, sis.” It was the first time I had ever heard her voice. “I know we haven’t met but I’m your big sister and I love you,” she said. “And you’re the first person I’m telling this to, but…I’m pregnant. You’re going to be an aunt!”
We spoke as if the circumstances had not robbed us of the chance to know each other. Simone said she had known about me since she was a child. We had lived our lives only thirty minutes away from each other, always close but with no chance of connecting. Simone said I had more nieces—children of her older brother—and that we had even more siblings: Devin was the oldest, followed by Simone. Then there was me, Krystal, Andre—Simone and Devin’s full brother—two younger boys, and a baby who Simone didn’t know well; there were too many to keep track of, and possibly more. Our father was in and out of their lives.
I never thought I’d have the privilege of having a niece. With no siblings, no close cousins or family outside of my mother and grandfather, I had come to terms with not being an aunt. To hear Simone place me in this role without even knowing me, entrusting me with this title, was an honour.
I was overjoyed for her—for us—but I mourned the years of our lost connection. I didn’t know what it meant to be a sister, let alone an aunt.
Finding Simone was the only valuable part of seeing my father again. We have so much in common—an interest in astrology (she’s an Aries, like our father), shared political views, the same sense of humour, a love of energy healing and spirituality. We meet up when we can, and in the meantime, we text and send each other holiday cards.
My sister’s love has kept us close, even when I was so afraid of this life-changing relationship that I pulled away. She sends me photos of my niece. She’s come out to support me in my career and has even met my mother, bridging our worlds. I wish I had met her when we were children, before life got busy. I think about the lost time with my niece, who has grown so much every time I get to see her.
When I was twenty-six, Simone invited my mother and me to my niece’s seventh birthday. At the candy-themed party, my niece ran around with her friends, her tutu bouncing up and down, her smile of pure joy. I was relieved when she looked at me with that same happiness and familiarity, leaping into my arms, kissing me. But I also felt sadness. Standing against the wall, I watched her interact with Simone’s friends like they were family. People sat at round tables chatting and laughing, already well acquainted. I was an insider by DNA, but an outsider in their lives. I thought about how much time it would take, how much effort would be needed to fit in as if I had been there from the beginning, as if we hadn’t grown up in two different families. There was no equation I could solve, no calculation to determine that it could happen in this lifetime.
But, despite our lost time, I feel a sense of pride that is new to me, just knowing I have siblings. It is incredible the way my father’s adult children all support each other even though we don’t know each other well. It is miraculous in itself that we have all grown up to be accomplished, intelligent, loving, protective, and kind. It’s as if there’s an unspoken agreement that we will never let his genes define who we are.
I like to think of all of my father’s kids as seeds of the same wilted flower, scattered across this universe—not doomed by virtue of our breeding but, instead, surviving because we are uplifted by t
he forceful winds of our strong-willed mothers and the purest beams of sunshine from our rundown grandparents, who selflessly took on the burdens of parenthood again—whose labour is never done. They give up everything to make up for the man who gives nothing. They break themselves just to see us bloom.
* * *
///
Through my two sisters, I heard some of the ways in which my father disrespected the mothers of his children—the secretiveness, the cheating, the emotional and physical unavailability. I learned about his own abusiveness towards women not long after my own assault. My father had latched on to the women around him, a parasite—taking advantage of them, hurting them as they loved him, taking away parts of their lives while creating new ones. He had caused enough pain—to my mother, to my family, to my siblings, and to me.
As I thought about how to tell him I wanted to end our relationship, I stopped responding to his calls and replied with one-word answers to his texts. One day in March, he texted me: Happy Birthday! Your birthday is sometime soon, right?
I had put off ending my relationship with Joshua because I didn’t want to hurt him. I almost paid with my life. Now, my father was costing me what little peace I had left. No. You’re not even close, I texted back. Then I blocked and deleted my father’s number from my phone.
I haven’t spoken to him since. When I see Simone, who is in rare contact with him, we both refer to him as her father, not mine.
There is no amount of viscosity in our shared blood that could convince me that I must speak to my father, or that I will inevitably end up like him. His mistakes are not mine to atone for. As I made myself absent from my father’s life, I tried to make myself whole again.
I am still trying.
* * *
///
In between stuffing our mouths with chocolate and extra-buttery popcorn, Taz and I unleashed our failures into the universe, proclaiming that we had just hit rock bottom, again.
This ritual happened every week on my queen-sized bed, where we usually both slept. Equipped with snacks, our coziest pyjamas, and the TV shows we spent hours streaming on our laptops, we aired the self-inflicted grievances that had us feeling low-down, no good, and triflin’: a fuckboy we’d caught feelings for but swore we wouldn’t see again; the brownies we’d eaten out of the garbage for the third time that week; the 8 a.m. classes we’d missed so often that the professor didn’t recognize us when we finally showed up. After we admitted our guilt to each other, we’d help one another make resolutions to do better—a fresh start.
We wanted to keep ourselves and each other accountable, but playing the role of responsible adult was a hard task. One minute Taz was bribing me with ice cream to just let go of the bathroom rug so I could at least cry hysterically over a guy in the comfort of my bed; the next I was consoling her as she cried for home, mascara-stained tears down her face and a cigarette between her quivering lips. Sometimes we hit rock bottom at the same time: homesick, lonely, and without purpose. We were six feet under and resurrected so many times that we began buying each other greeting cards from the encouragement section, with motivational messages like “Things will get better” and “Good luck on your new journey.”
Without any outside guidance, each mistake felt like a defeat. We didn’t yet understand that tripping over the fine line between freedom and failure was part of the growing pains of easing into young adulthood on our own, far from home and without parental support.
One place we would go to feel in control was the library. We’d put on a nice outfit, do our makeup, then pack our backpacks to spend hours at the Allyn and Betty Taylor—eating pseudo-healthy snacks, trying to study, and scoping out boys who seemed like a better alternative than the guys we’d meet at bars.
After Joshua, I wasn’t ready for another serious relationship, but I wanted to start dating again. I knew from movies that the cool girl always got further than the needy girls. I scoured lifestyle magazines and relationship advice columns. I learned about the necessity of the chase. That being chill—not a nag—makes you the one they’ll stick around for. (I know now that ideas like these are just patriarchal requirements that tell women that, in order to be desirable to men, in order to be in a relationship, you should not have needs, concerns, or expectations. And if you do, don’t express them.) At the time, I thought it would work.
And it did, temporarily.
I didn’t meet anyone at the library, but I did date a couple of guys that I met on our nights out. I voiced no issues or complaints in these brief relationships. I waved away their half-hearted guilt with a smile when they didn’t call, and shrugged when they cancelled plans. I didn’t open my mouth to demand we talk about the status of our relationship or say that I didn’t like the way I was treated. I was an almost-girlfriend, a maybe-girlfriend, a conquest, a convenience. I let men walk all over me, and once I finally had enough, I walked out, only to end up doing the same thing in the next relationship. I’d done it with Anthony—even when his disrespect was blatant, I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable by bringing it up. I didn’t want to look irrational or hysterical.
Women are often socialized to be inconvenienced and not inconvenience. If we speak against this dynamic then we’re selfish and demanding. We’re trained to be okay with discomfort, especially when the source of that discomfort is men. Meanwhile, men are socialized to go after what they want, whatever the cost to others—including their partners. This is also true in casual relationships, which often begin in a post-secondary setting where hookup culture condones the mistreatment of each other. To have fun and be casual seems to negate basic human dignity.
We prefer to blame women for staying with assholes rather than question men for their actions. And we’ve seen what happens when we do call out men, especially on social media platforms. Suddenly we’re angry, crazy nags. We’re ugly, undesirable feminists. We deserve to be raped, harassed, killed. All for asking men to do better.
In my four years of dating in London, I met all kinds of men who became part of my relationship repertoire: cuddle buddies, friends with benefits, “I’ll see you at the bar” guys, boyfriends. I navigated these encounters by acting chill and compliant. I often didn’t ask men to do better. Even when I was drained from giving undeserved chances, even when I was ashamed of myself for my lenience, saying nothing seemed better than saying anything at all.
* * *
///
To find Black people in London, you needed to know where to look. On Mondays and Wednesdays, some Black folk came out for dollar-beer night at Jack’s. Then there was Twisted Thursday. If you didn’t go to Twisted Thursday, you would never know that so many Black people existed in London. Dozens filled the club and streets in swarms, just to show off and show out. On Fridays, those same people were at Up On Carling. On Saturday, they were at Club Large, a Black-owned nightclub.
Twisted Thursday was a weekly bar night organized by Jamaican international students that took place in the back of the Barking Frog. They played dancehall, reggae, and soca, drawing in the Caribbean crowd from across the city. It was the best-kept secret in town—even bartenders who worked in the main lounge didn’t know it existed. It was a small crowd, one that became more familiar with every passing event. There were no white boys pointing and laughing at us when we danced; no one jumping up and down and spilling their drinks on us or pushing past us in a crowd. Here, people knew what it was like to be the outsider in a bar.
Taz and I never missed a Thursday, but the night I met Nathan, I nearly didn’t go. We arrived late, and he was standing in my usual spot. All by himself, a cross between Malcolm X and The Weeknd, he was dressed in a long-sleeve, red-and-black plaid flannel shirt and fitted black jeans. He was tall with broad shoulders and brown hair buzzed short. As he texted on his phone, the light illuminated his furrowed brow and his full, pink lips that were parted slightly. When he finally looked up, he smiled at me, and asked if I wanted
to dance.
Nathan spun me around and pulled me close. Something about him felt familiar; the rest felt like trouble.
“What’s your name?” His voice was surprisingly deep and husky.
“Eternity,” I said.
“Eternity.” He lifted his hand up to my shoulder and slowly grazed a finger down my arm, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps—his eyes never breaking contact. “That’s a name I’ll never forget.”
Nathan went to college in Hamilton. He was visiting friends in London that weekend. Soon, we were casually seeing each other. He was the first person I had really liked since Anthony. With Nathan, I didn’t have to worry about being used as a novelty.
When I visited him, we got to know more about each other. He encouraged my writing, the one skill he said he wished he had. We talked about Drake’s latest album, Take Care. Nathan rarely cracked a smile, though he was never mean or moody. It made it all the more satisfying when I’d make a joke and, at the most unexpected times, a giggle would emerge from his lips. His dry sense of humour and monotone delivery made me laugh, even when he was being serious. It felt like we had known each other for years: our hands immediately clasped when we walked side by side; my head rested naturally on his shoulder when we went to the movies. I was nursing a crush so intense I could barely speak.
But sometimes, I wouldn’t hear from him for weeks. We had never talked about what our relationship was or where it was going, so I hung on to the small wins—a smiley-face emoji, how quickly he texted me back, if he kept the conversation going, when he suggested our next meet-up—reassurance that our relationship wasn’t as casual as it seemed.
Just before March Break in my second year, Nathan texted me. I’m coming up to London for March Break. I’d love to stay with you.
Yes, of course, I texted back. I gave myself permission to imagine what our beautiful weekend together would look like, and the possibility of a relationship after I confessed my feelings.
They Said This Would Be Fun Page 17