These guys I’ve counseled in drug rehab groups are so angry at their own fathers. It’s almost always the same story: Their fathers weren’t in their lives; they had no male role models; they feel like they were left to fend for themselves.
I’m a living example. My father lived with us, but he never talked to us. He didn’t explain things; he never guided us. He was a provider and that was it. He used alcohol as his crutch. I used drugs. Fortunately, my sister Resa and I were able to clean up our lives and move in a new direction. Resa conquered her habit years before I did. Once she made up her mind, she checked herself into a rehab facility and has never looked back. Today, she’s a spiritual person filled with peace. A project manager for a major company, she owns her own home in the country, an hour from the madness of our Newark hometown.
Drug and alcohol abuse serves a purpose, I now know. It makes you feel whole, accepted, important. It hides your pain. It covers up the stuff you’re not proud of. You can’t get better until you start living your life with purpose.
After nearly throwing my whole adulthood away on drugs, I’m happy to say that I’ve finally figured out what gives life its purpose. It occurred to me on the day that Rameck strode across the stage in his cap and gown to get his medical degree from the University of Medicine & Dentistry of New Jersey. I felt like I had suddenly found my direction after decades of being lost.
I know it was his big moment. But it was mine, too.
Sitting there inside the PNC Bank Arts Center, a huge outdoor arena, I watched the graduates parade in. All I could think was “Wow.” The moment felt so auspicious, so full of success. It was a gorgeously clear, sunny morning.
As I sat in that seat watching my son achieve his dream, I saw Rameck accomplishing what I hadn’t been able to do. In college, my dream had been to be a chemist, but I ended up letting the chemicals control me. As I admired my son looking regal in his cap and gown, I realized that my dream hadn’t been lost—it had only been deferred a generation.
At that moment, there was no drug, no high that could equal my pride in that realization. Although I couldn’t undo my own mistakes, I could take pride in the fact that I had helped my child to hurdle over the obstacles that had tripped me up.
Big and little epiphanies started washing over me as I surveyed the scene.
I remember savoring the moment with Rameck’s maternal grandmother, who was in a wheelchair and battling liver disease. I was so grateful for her.
She had been the one to shoulder the hardest part of raising Rameck. Both his mother and I had been dealing with our own problems and pain, so she stepped in without a fuss and provided a healthy life for him. She was such a wise, patient woman. Whenever her daughter bad-mouthed me in front of Rameck, she always quietly told Rameck to go figure things out for himself and not to let his mother’s bitterness dictate his opinion of me.
She seemed to see the bigger picture of life, and didn’t go barreling after instant gratification the way Arlene and I had done. Even in my worst years, she didn’t judge me harshly the way the rest of the world seemed to do. Her words, but even more so her example, had long pushed me to be a better father.
On that glorious graduation day, she was in failing health and would only live a month more. But she had survived long enough to see Rameck become a doctor. Her joy was boundless.
I was beginning to understand the supreme contentment she had found in being a steadying influence for a child. It wasn’t something that I found easy to grasp during my wilder years. I wished to God I hadn’t had to go to hell and back to learn it.
When the ceremony was over, there was the usual rush of people. It took a while for Rameck to find us. He, Sam, and George had to take a few minutes and pose for photographs. The local newspaper was getting ready to do a front-page story about the three of them. It was the beginning of their fame.
I stood back quietly, letting the unforgettable scene unfold. I didn’t rush to get to Rameck. I just waited my turn, watching him all the while. Finally our eyes met, and we came together and hugged warmly. I was full by then. He knew it.
It’s funny how on milestone days like that, proud parents can’t help but think back to when their children were small. As I stood there, I flashed back to the day when Rameck first announced that he wanted to be a doctor.
It had sounded like such an impossible dream at the time. Yet here was Rameck, standing at my side in full doctoral regalia, his cap and gown.
I said to myself, almost out loud, “Parents have to believe in their children.”
No matter what their dreams sound like, no matter how outlandish, you have to support your kids, I’ve realized. Never tell a child they can’t aspire to be an astronaut or even the president. What right do we have to tamp down on their dreams? That seems to me to be part of the problem. Parents who had their dreams dashed end up doing the same thing to their kids.
As much as I tried to be there for my children, I must admit that my drug dependence was the ultimate act of selfishness. I should have put my children first. When I finally, truly put my children first and kicked my drug habit, I found that the pieces of my life fell into place.
Now, with my son as my hero, I have found my own place in the work world. I didn’t stop with getting my community college degree. I went on to earn a bachelor’s in psychology from Montclair State University, and am now working on my master’s. I’m studying to become a licensed professional counselor. I’m proud of the man I have become.
I was searching for relief, escape, and pleasure when I stooped to taking drugs. I now know that a much greater joy and pleasure comes from seeing your kids soar over their obstacles. A father’s support can go a long way toward pushing kids to ignore the temptations of the streets and to go for their dreams. I now know that you’ve got to believe in your kids and be there for them no matter the outcome.
Too many fathers today end up denying a future to their next generation, because they don’t believe they have anything to contribute to a child’s life. They simply give up. They’ve let the world eat them up and spit them out. Anytime a man allows himself to get caught up in that cycle of drugs and jail, it’s obvious that he’s given up. He believes there’s no other way to survive. He thinks he has no power and no choices.
But these fathers do have power. They have the power to undo generations of hurt by simply stepping into their children’s lives and providing the attention and support that their kids need to succeed.
It’s tough to teach yourself the ropes of fatherhood when you didn’t have a good role model. As someone who testified against his father in a domestic violence trial, I can certainly admit that. My mother so feared for our family’s safety when I was a teenager that she took action one day, secretly moving her children to a new apartment while my father was at work. Although my parents never divorced, they remained separated from that point on.
But I believe it’s not healthy to dwell on all the things your father didn’t do for you. Even if an absentee father dragged your self-esteem down, the glow of watching your child achieve is a wonderful cure for that problem.
I figured it out late, but I’m grateful that I figured it out at all. Some fathers never do.
Chapter 3
RAMECK
Arrested Development
IT’S JUST NATURAL TO yearn to spend time with your dad. I’m sure that’s why some of my happiest memories are from those summers when Dad would put me and my sisters in the car and take us to amusement parks and the beach.
Dad made it a Memorial Day ritual to take us to Great Adventure, an amusement park about forty-five minutes south of Newark down the New Jersey Turnpike. To Quamara, Daaimah, and me, it seemed that the drive there was just as much fun as going on all the rides. We’d snack all the way, from a cooler full of fried chicken and drinks. We would have such a good time, singing campfire songs in the car and playing games. Or my father would push a CD into his player, and surprise us by blasting the newest Tupac song whil
e we drove. Anything to entertain us.
You’re probably picturing this scene with a carload of kids laughing and talking, right? But guess again.
My siblings and I were all grown-ups, singing at the top of our lungs, stuffed into the car with Dad at the wheel. You would have laughed to have seen us in this arrested stage of development.
I was a grown man in medical school by then, wrestling with a demanding class load, but my dad’s triumphant return had me feeling like a little kid. The three of us were getting our first chance at having a real daddy. All of us seemed caught in a time warp, even Dad, who organized the corniest of outings for his three children once he got clean. He seemed to be trying to make up for lost time.
My joy stemmed from more than just our trip to the amusement park. I knew that my lifelong roller-coaster ride had finally come to an end.
I can’t explain why I knew in my gut, when my dad disappeared for a year into those back-to-back rehab programs, that he would win his battle this time. I could just feel it. There would be no more relapses.
As time went on, I felt even surer. Although we were allowed only the barest of communication with him—only phone calls on Sunday, or handwritten letters back and forth—I could sense a difference. He sounded less shaky, more determined in his letters. Then his “I’m Sorry, Son” poem showed up in my mailbox. Its beauty and eloquence gave me hope like I’d never allowed myself to feel before.
When Dad came home, he had a new take-care-of-business spirit. First, he tackled the task of cleaning up the mess he had made of his life. He got a job and found himself an apartment. He paid his tickets and got his driver’s license restored.
And then he enrolled in school. While working full-time, he juggled a full college load and earned two degrees. I marveled at how he did it all. Dad shared with me that he had written out a one-year plan, a three-year-plan, and a five-year plan for success. Suddenly, he had a point to prove, mostly to himself. He really wanted for himself many of the things he saw me achieving. An unquenchable desire to learn and live as much he could had leaped into his soul.
He felt that he had wasted too many years, and that realization seemed to give him superhuman strength. He even began putting away money to build a retirement home on some North Carolina property owned by our family. Dad put himself on a strict budget so he could stockpile funds for the future. The new possibilities of his life excited him.
Suddenly we had a go-to guy. Dad made it clear to my sisters and me that he wanted us to call on him if we needed financial help. I was doing okay, but he did assist my sisters occasionally if they couldn’t pay their rent or make a car insurance payment. This was the father none of us had ever seen.
Often, my phone would ring at night and Dad would be on the other end. “I just called to say good night. I love you,” he’d say. We’d talk about our day, and then he’d hang up with an “Okay, I’m on to the next kid.” My sister Quamara said it made her feel like a princess when she got those nightly phone calls.
Daaimah, Quamara, and I found ourselves having to adjust to this new family arrangement. Having been raised separately, we had grown quite used to saying “my father” when we talked about Dad in our daily lives. But here we were, sharing a dad for the first time, and realizing that it didn’t sound quite right to say “my father” when we were talking about him to one another. Eventually we got used to the fact that siblings call their father “Dad” when speaking to one another. We just had to train our mouths to use the term.
On Sundays, we’d gather at Dad’s mother’s house in the afternoon. It didn’t matter what I was going through at school, nothing could keep me from those Sunday dinners. I kept a board game, Taboo, in the trunk of my car, just so we could divide the guests up after dinner and play. Often Dad, Daaimah, Quamara, and I would end up on the same team. I loved hearing my father’s loud laugh and seeing the delight he took in pulling the once-tattered corners of his family together.
Dad’s new lease on life came with a side benefit. I got to carve out a better relationship with my relatives on his side. I hadn’t seen much of Quamara during my teen years, but with Dad linking us, we became really close in our twenties. I went to her college parties, and she came to mine. George and Sam adopted her as their “little sister” too, although she was our age. In fact, when Quamara’s car broke down, George gave her his old car. He didn’t charge her a cent. His only request was that she transfer the title and registration to her name before she took it from him. My family was so grateful we couldn’t stop thanking him, but he was like, “Man, don’t thank me. Quamara’s family. That’s just how we do it.”
My father’s mom and I came to know each other better, too, and together we stamped out the early uneasiness we’d felt toward each other. A big turning point came during my early years at Seton Hall when she opened her home to me. I had been in a quandary over where to stay during winter break. Carla Dickson, who ran our Pre-Medical/Pre-Dental Plus Program aimed at retaining minorities, strongly believed that her flock of at-risk urban students should stay on campus year-round. “I don’t want you going home and hanging out with your boys. You might get into trouble and not come back,” she told us.
Carla searched hard for an on-campus job that would allow me to live in the dorms during the break, but she couldn’t find anything. I had no choice: I needed to get my stuff and go. But where? I felt too old to bunk at Ma’s house anymore because it was crowded. I knew I’d have to share a bed with either my uncles or my cousins. I had gotten used to college life where I had my own space. I really had to find an alternative.
Then my dad’s mother made an offer. “Why don’t you stay over here for the winter break?” she asked. Her invitation felt so good. I stayed in her attic room, grateful to be sleeping in my own bed. She treated me like royalty during those few wintry weeks. It was like paradise to feast on her cooking every day. I can tell you with confidence that my grandmother makes the best Sunday dinners in America. My friends and relatives tease me about how much I gloat over how well my Nana prepares a meal. They think I’m playing, but this is the honest-to-God truth. No one can do it better.
There weren’t many people in the house, so it really did seem like a serene haven. I could come and go as I pleased. I felt comfortable. Whenever I came in, there would be a home-cooked meal prepared for me, and all I had to do was warm it up in the microwave. I usually arrived late at night. I had a girlfriend at the time and we tried to spend as much time together as we could during the winter break. I tried not to abuse the freedom my grandmother gave me, making a point to come in at a respectable hour. The only night I remember coming in very late was when I had a huge fight with my girlfriend and I went over to her dorm at Rutgers University in Piscataway around midnight. I didn’t get back until a few hours later. Even then it wasn’t a problem, at least not with Nana. My girlfriend was a different story.
It felt blissful to not have to worry about Nana’s attention as I had been doing since childhood. We had come a long way since those early days when it seemed that she favored the other grandchildren over me. I remember always trying to rationalize the reason why. Often I would tell myself that “the other kids spend way more time over there than I do, so it makes sense that Nana would be more attached to them.”
Our relationship had improved a bit since then, starting when she made an effort to take me and all her grandchildren to her family reunions down south. I was a preteen, and still struggled with feeling out of place on those trips. Relatives didn’t recognize me because it seemed I’d shown up out of nowhere. “Oh, this is Bobo’s son,” she’d hasten to tell them. But I still felt disconnected, like an unofficial member of her family rather than a true relative.
Just when I had given up hope that a real relationship could ever emerge, she took me in.
If there was any ice left between the two of us, it definitely melted away while I stayed in her attic room, far from the negative influences of my old neighborhood. I’ll alway
s appreciate that she reached into my life and rescued me when I needed a safe place to keep me from running wild during that first college break.
Would fate have led me to hook up with my old friends and drop out of school if I hadn’t stayed there? I don’t know.
But I do know this: The haven she provided for me is exactly what my father so desperately needed at age eighteen—but didn’t have. The choices he made during winter break in his freshman year caused his downfall. Just home from his first semester at Assumption College, Dad went looking for his neighborhood buddies and found them shooting heroin. The fact that he didn’t say no when they invited him to try the drug would haunt him forever.
When I think about how our lives paralleled until that critical point, I feel unbelievably humbled.
He took one road, and eighteen years later at that same fork, I took the other. The choice he made caused me to aim for stability. And my choice helped give him the inspiration needed later to resurrect his life.
We’re inextricably linked, for better and for worse, I’ve learned. In fact, researching this book has taught me much I didn’t know about the similarities between my father and me.
Just like him, I allowed my friends to persuade me to do things I felt uneasy about.
I also found that I respond to women in a way that’s very similar to my father. We don’t tend to be the pursuers. Rather, we both have a history of sliding into relationships with women who sought us out. Women who loved us with everything they had.
It has amazed me to learn that my father had a love for math and science as a boy just like I did. It’s a little embarrassing to admit it, but I’m so excited to finally discover that I’m just like Dad.
The Bond: Three Young Men Learn to Forgive and Reconnect With Their Fathers Page 24