Sins of the Father

I hadn't spoken to my father in over two years when I got a text from my cousin Arielle informing me that my sperm donor had recently started experiencing an irregular heartbeat and that after being monitored for a month would possibly need a pacemaker or medication. Both of my parents were turning sixty that year; the chances of losing one - or both of them - were growing higher by the day. Still, I couldn't help but look back at the tempestuous relationship I had with my father and wonder if it wasn't the root cause of a lot of my issues in the present.

My mom and dad were born two days apart in 1966 - ironically, my mom's second husband has the same birthday as my dad, but he was born in 1960; there's something about April 15th in my family: my dad, my stepdad, my cousin Daniele, my second cousin Gabriella, my Uncle Tony, and my aunt Svetlana all share the birthday. I'm not sure when or how my parents met, but I know that my mom getting pregnant was an accident; her younger brother was stealing her birth control pills. My mom felt that she wasn't a good fit for the role of mother, so she made an appointment to get an abortion; my grandma begged her not to, having been through an abortion herself. She offered to help raise me if that was what my mother needed. In the end, my mom couldn't go through with it and married my father. My grandma told me more than once that when I was born, my dad held me in his arms and said, "Now I have a buddy." The future had seemed so bright with promise then. My parents divorced when I was about two-and-a-half years old.

When I was a kid, I absolutely worshipped the ground my dad walked on. I loved when I could go spend time with him. Whenever I left his house, I'd cry my eyes out and long to stay with him forever. He was the youngest of eight kids; a total mama's boy. Sometime after he'd been born, his dad had walked out on the family and moved up to Onaway, Michigan - his hometown - to be with his mistress. I had heard rumors that he would occasionally return home to the family and sleep with my grandma. Grandma Mary was the sweetest person ever to walk the earth; she never had a bad thing to say about anyone. As her baby's baby, I was revered by her, which definitely helped endear me to her over my mom's mother, who was strict and wasn't afraid to punish me if I was out of line. When my Grandma Mary passed away when I was four, my dad and I were both devasted; it was the beginning of the fracture that ruined our relationship.

Once my grandmother had passed away, my dad began to drink more. My mom tried to do the classic every other weekend arrangement that is common in divorced parents, but no matter how many times my mom called him, he wouldn't answer the phone; he'd told her that she wasn't allowed to just stop by his house either. I was too young to know any of that, but as my dad buried his grief in alcohol and women, I became less of a priority in his life. When I did get to see him, he'd take me to a bar, where he'd drink and play pool while I sat at a table and drank Sprite or 7Up. His friends would come over, and I'd be told not to leave the living room; with the TV as entertainment, it didn't really bother me, but once I snuck down to the basement to see that he and his buddies were sharing what looked like cigarette. I told my mom about it, not knowing any better; she was livid. It wasn't until my early twenties when one of my coworkers lit up a joint that I remembered a lot of those details: the distinct smell of weed, the way my dad would be like a zombie afterward. Before he took me home, my dad would take me to Kmart and buy me a toy; that part I liked, though one time he wouldn't let me get a Storm action figure from the X-Men because she was "a girl" and I "didn't need girl toys."

When my dad was hungover, he wasn't nice to me. I vividly remember once when I was five or six, he was talking about the weather and how it was going to be humid outside; I mistakenly thought he said "human." That one got me a slap across the face. Another time, I was so excited to go to Kmart to pick out a toy that I put my shoes on the wrong feet; my dad kicked me in the back while wearing his heeled shoes. Still, I loved my dad more than anything.

As I got older, we moved first to Port Huron and then eventually to Chesterfield. Even at a young age, I knew that if my dad wouldn't make a twenty-minute drive every other weekend to see me, he definitely wasn't going to drive two hours one way. I started to only see him when I was visiting Bay City - Easter, summer vacation, my birthday, and Christmas. My dad lost the house that he'd inherited from his mother, moving first to an apartment in Auburn before living in his friend's attic, another friend's basement, and then settling in at his sister's house.

I have fond memories of the time that he lived with my Aunt Marilyn and my cousin Arielle. They rented a farmhouse about ten minutes from my grandma's house; Arielle and I were almost the same age and although we hadn't gotten along as young kids, we were the best of friends as tweens. My Aunt Marilyn was the closest thing to her mother that I could ever find; kind, generous, gentle. One summer, I was spending a week with my dad when he decided to go out to the garage and start drinking; I was occupying myself with video games and my new Batman comic. I drew one of Catwoman's poses from the comic and excitedly went out to show my dad, not knowing he was drunk. Instead of complimenting my - limited - talent, he drunkenly asked if I liked pussy. He told me that if a woman told me to go down and lick her pussy, that I was to do it, no questions asked. I was eleven or so at the time and couldn't figure out why a woman would want her vagina licked. The conversation made me incredibly uncomfortable, but like kids do, I sort of repressed it and went back inside to have dinner with Aunt Marilyn and Arielle. After we'd eaten, Arielle thought it would be funny to put makeup on me; I didn't have a problem with it. I had spent a lot of my childhood crossdressing - not as a fetish or a way of expressing my gender dysphoria - because it got me attention and allowed me to play a role. It never occurred to me that it wasn't normal or that my dad wouldn't find it as funny as I did. He was furious; we had a big fight, ending with me in tears. My cousin Megan picked me up, comforted me, and brought me to my grandma's house, where I knew I was safe and accepted. My dad called me once I'd gotten back home to my mom's to apologize; I forgave him and tried to act as though it hadn't hurt me as much as it did.

Once I was in high school, my dad barely spent time with me when I was visiting. One year over winter break from school, my grandma dropped me off at Aunt Marilyn's house so that I could see my dad for the day. I had told him ahead of time, letting him know when I would be in town; instead of canceling his plans to help his newest girlfriend - a fat woman named Connie - move, he spent maybe five minutes with me before leaving. I distinctly remember overhearing my Aunt Marilyn tell her oldest daughter Melanie who was visiting from Canada that she felt bad for me, that my dad always abandoned me to go have fun when I was visiting. That was the first time that I felt that my feelings were valid, that it wasn't normal how I was being treated, that I wasn't just creating drama for the sake of attention. My mom always did her best to encourage a relationship with my father; when I visited my grandma, he had an open invitation to come hang out with his ex-wife's family. There was no animosity encouraging me to feel anything but love and respect for my dad.

When I got older, my dad would buy a prepaid calling card and give it to me to call him so neither of us would have to pay - that was back when even landlines cost money per call. When I'd ask him how he was, he'd whine about having to pay child support for me; once he told me that my mom had had me start school a year later than I was supposed to just so she could get child support from him for another year. We'd talk one Sunday, he'd promise to call me the following Sunday, and then I wouldn't hear from him for months. That was when I had the epiphany that my dad would never make me a priority in his life, that I would always come last. My Uncle Tony would work himself into the ground all week and then make the two-hour drive one way to pick up his two sons every other weekend; he never complained. My dad wouldn't even think of doing that.

I turned eighteen in October of my senior year. My mom and I went to Bay City to see family and celebrate the momentous occasion; against my better judgement, I invited my dad. He had a little too much to drink and at one point, cornered me, telling me he was going to call the young girl who lived next to his friend. He said that she was a good looking girl and she'd come over and take my virginity for me. I was incredibly uncomfortable, but didn't know what to do or say - I couldn't say anything to my mom, my Aunt Julie, or my Uncle Tony without making it obvious that the reason that I was so uncomfortable was because I was gay; none of them would have cared, but I was terrified of coming out and had convinced myself that I could keep it a secret forever.

By the time I graduated high school, our relationship was chilly best. I knew I was gay, but was afraid to tell anyone, especially my dad. I was touched when he showed up at my graduation ceremony, but that was immediately destroyed when he promptly left right after. It would have been one thing if there had been a pressing reason that he couldn't have stayed awhile, but as was usual with him, there wasn't.

When I moved in with my grandma in the summer of 2010, I was nervous about running into my dad; I didn't want to fight with him, but I also didn't want to interact with him at all. One unsuspecting Saturday afternoon, he showed up unannounced; I hid in the bathroom for at least a half hour, trying to figure out how to get away before getting caught, but he'd already been told that I was there. I grudgingly went out to the garage to talk to him; I lied, saying that I was moving to Indiana with my mom, that this was a last hurrah weekend in Bay City before the move. He had been on his way to see his friend, Matt, who lived on the next road over; he promised to come back and see me the following day before I left, but as was par for the course, he never showed. If I had had any doubts that I was justified in not wanting a relationship with him that showed me just how right I was.

It wasn't until the summer of 2015 that I saw him again; Arielle was getting married and had asked me to stand in her wedding as her "brides man." I was touched and readily accepted the honor, not even considering that my dad might be there. As the date grew closer, I began to get nervous about seeing him - and his siblings. The day before the wedding, my friend Bambi and I had tickets to see Nicki Minaj on her The Pink Print Tour; that night, I started smoking again.

The day of the wedding, I was grateful that I had to be to the church earlier than the rest of the wedding guests. After I'd chatted with Arielle and gotten reacquainted with her sister, Melanie, I changed into my tux. As the guests started showing up, I snuck out for a cigarette and bumped right into my dad. Our conversation was awkward, almost like two strangers making small talk, but I'd heard that he'd given up drinking and that he'd found his faith again, embracing his Catholic upbringing. He seemed different, taking an interest in my life. For the first time, it felt like he actually wanted to have a relationship with me, that he had seen the error of his ways.

After that night, we met up once a week or every other week. He'd take me to dinner or to his apartment to smoke weed. He was incredibly proud of the fact that I "burned," too. He made me uncomfortable when he talked about my mom like he was still in love with her, or the time he told me that when we'd first seen each other at the wedding, he'd thought for sure that I was going to tell him that he was a grandpa.

Somehow, we managed to have the healthiest version of a relationship that we'd been able to have since I'd been a young boy. Things went well for about five months until everything exploded. The car I was driving - my mom's old Lincoln Continental - had a propensity to burn through serpentine belts; I'd just had mine replaced, but when I started my car to go to work, I heard it crunching under the hood, before bits of it came shooting out. My grandma was at church; I had to be to work in twenty minutes. My manager was kind enough to come get me; on the ride to work I called the shop where I got all of my car work done. They said that if I got the car in they'd look at it that night and have it ready before I had to go to work the following day - perfect! I called my dad, asking him if he'd drop my car off at the shop for me; he told me that he was tired from working all week and didn't feel like it. I was pissed, but decided to be the bigger person and instead of fighting about it, I got it taken care of and didn't message him about it again. About a month later, he texted me around three in the morning asking if I was still mad at him; I was honest and told him that I wasn't mad anymore, but that myself - and the family members I'd told about it - were disgusted that he hadn't helped me. I explained to him that it would have been one thing if he had had plans or was physically unable to do it; he just hadn't wanted to. I reminded him that I had never asked him for anything, that I was disappointed because I'd expected him to be a dad. He blew up at me, telling me that I should have just called a tow truck, calling my puss cakes, and saying that I was acting just like my mother; that was the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back. My fingers flew over the keyboard of my phone as I typed out that of course I acted like my mother; she had raised me while he had been too busy feeling sorry for himself because his mom had died and my mom had moved on. I told him that he had always prioritized himself over me. True to form, he told me that because I was still wide awake at three or four in the morning that I wasn't an adult and that I needed to grow up. I ended the conversation by telling him to enjoy growing old and dying alone because I was not going to be around. I felt vindicated, free, as if a weight had finally been lifted from my shoulders. I wouldn't have to worry about hiding my sexuality from him, nor the fallout if/when the truth came out. I had said everything that I had kept inside for so long, I had purged. I felt brand new.

In 2019, I was woken up on my birthday by furious knocking on my bedroom door. It was about eight o'clock in the morning - my grandma knew better than to wake me up before noon unless it was life or death. With my eyes blurry from sleep and not having my glasses on, I stumbled to the door, throwing it open; my heart plummeted to my colon when I saw that it was my dad. He pulled me into a hug and handed me a card with some money it. I was so taken by surprise that I told him to give me a minute and I'd come out to talk. I put my glasses on and grabbed the print of the picture of myself with William Shatner that I'd had taken back in the winter, when my friend Amanda and I had gone to an event at the Dow Event Center in Saginaw; my dad was a huge Star Trek nerd. He barely glanced at the photo when I showed it to him, instead talking about how Kaley Cuoco - of The Big Bang Theory and Charmed fame - was Shatner's daughter and how hot she was; I knew that Kaley Cuoco was not William Shatner's daughter, but I didn't want to argue with him...and she was unobjectively hot.

For the next few years, we maintained a tepid relationship. After losing his father, my dad must have begun to grapple with his own mortality; he became insistent that we needed to have a relationship with each other. In the days after COVID shut the country down, he'd meet the kids - Jeffery and Julia - at Meijer. He came to see us at Christmas time and gave both kids money; I was touched that he understood how much the kids had come to mean to me, that they were the closest to grandchildren that he was ever going to get, unless he wanted to count my cats. It was around that time that I learned that he knew I was gay; that he and my uncle Jason had discussed it; my dad's solution was to get me to go to the Green Spa - a massage parlor known for sex trafficking - and have one of the girls "sort me out." I was disgusted when I learned that he had said that, that he refused to understand that being gay isn't a choice, but I was grateful that he wasn't reacting too badly; he hadn't confronted me and told me I was going to go to Hell or knocked me out. When my uncle assaulted me and I fled - leaving my beloved cats behind - my dad started coming to my apartment to give me money, cigarettes, and weed, He seemed proud of the fact that I was living my own life, however unconventionally. I hadn't allowed myself to fully let him in after our falling out, but I began to try to maintain our truce; I didn't like it when he dropped by my place unannounced - it was so awkward - but I was grateful that he had stopped making shitty comments about my cats, about how I needed to stop worrying about them and focus on my life.

Everything came to head in 2024. At that time, I had long curls - a perm - and had taken to wearing eyeliner and mascara, simply because I thought it made my eyes look good. I had noticed that since moving out of my grandma's I had gotten gayer, but it was the first time in my life that I had the freedom to be myself without having to worry about other people's reactions. One Saturday night in January, I was at work, trying to get my dishes done so that I could go home and begin my weekend, when my phone started ringing. Confused, I looked at the screen to see that it was my dad.

"Hey," I said, wedging the phone between my cheek and my shoulder.

"What's going on with you?" he asked. I sensed an aggressiveness in his tone.

"Just...at work. Trying to get out of here."

"What's going on with you?" he repeated, as if he hadn't heard me.

"I'm at work," I laughed, "trying to get everything done so I can start my weekend.

"What the hell is going on with you?"

"What do you mean? I told you what's going on. I'm at work and I'm trying to get out."

"Can I ask you a question and have you answer it honestly?" my dad asked, sounding less aggressive.

"Sure..." I replied, my pulse quickening. Was this it? Was this the moment that we would have the talk about my sexuality? I reached for my bowl and took a hit, desperate to calm down.

"Are you gay?"

"Yes." There, was that so hard. "Is that a problem?"

"Kind of." Oh. That was not the response I'd been hoping for. "Why do you have to put it out there?"

I knew that he was referring to my Facebook; he'd recently made an account and added me as a friend. I didn't post anything too crazy, but he must have seen the pictures of me with the winged eyeliner.

"It's not something that I'm ashamed of," I said, keeping my voice steady and calm. "It's who I am. Why would I hide it?"

"Are you trying to make a joke out of me?" he demanded.

I couldn't believe that he had the audacity to make my sexuality about him. It was 2024, it wasn't as if being gay was something new and scandalous, and he'd already known! Had he decided to pretend he didn't know until he just couldn't handle it anymore and flipped his lid?

"Okay, we're done," I said calmly, somehow burying the anger that was searing my gut. "Don't ever call me again."

I ended the call and succinctly blocked his number. It was the freest that I had ever felt. I wanted to cry, not from pain, but from elation and relief. I had finally severed the tie to one of the most unhealthy relationships of my life. I no longer had to be afraid to admit who I was, didn't have to experience the discomfort whenever my dad tried to talk about women with me. At thirty-three I had stood my ground and defended myself without stooping to his level or losing my temper; I had handled it with grace, dignity, and class.

Later that year, I learned from my cousin Megan that my dad had showed up at my grandma's house. With both of his parents gone, he had developed an odd affection for his ex-mother-in law. The story went that he'd shown up - drunk - and while talking to my grandma, had started on about me being gay and how hard it was for him; my grandma simply told him that I am the only son that he has and that if he wants to have a relationship with me he needs to accept that I'm gay. If a woman in her eighties, a staunch methodist, can learn to accept and love her gay grandson unconditionally, why can't a man in his mid-fifties? I was irate to think that he had the nerve to go to his ex-mother-in-law and try to commiserate with her, the woman who referred to me as her rock to everyone.

Looking back on the history with my father, I can't help but conclude that my relationship - or lack thereof - with him, especially from so young an age, made the blueprint for my dating life. I like guys that I have to fight for, have to chase for their time, attention, and affection. If the good things come too easily, it freaks me out, makes me not want it, because I don't know how to have an intimate relationship with a man without their being struggle and strife. When it comes to dating, I feel like that little boy who jumped through hoops to earn my dad's love; I crave the drama and tumultuousness because that's all I've ever known - I don't know how to have a normal, healthy relationship.

I recently unblocked his number after seeing that he had called the pizzeria where I work. One day, I was scrolling through my call log to find my hairdresser's number when I saw that he had called twice - once each year - since our last conversation. It annoyed me, rather than garnered sympathy for him. All of my adult life he has tried to manipulate and guilt me into having a relationship with him, not understanding that it's unfair of him to do so. As a parent, you can't just decide it's time to be a parent - on your terms. When I loved him, when I needed him, he wasn't there for me; he was never reliable or willing to make me priority in his life - that honor went to beer, marijuana, women, and God.

I'm not saying that he never did anything right, there were times when he gave me just enough to make me think that this time would be different, like when he learned that my uncle had assaulted me and was going to go to my grandma's house and fight him. At times, he was generous, like when I became aware of how my shopping addiction was affecting my bank account and he paid for my work shoes, or when my cousin Jocelyn proposed that we go back to New York for New Year's - just two months after we'd gone for my birthday- and my dad had offered to give me money to cover any expenses. Deep down, I know that he loves me - the best that he can - but I know enough to know that I deserve better.

Now, knowing of his current health issues, I'm anxious. It wouldn't be out of character for him to try to sweep in and pull me back in, using the "I could be dying!" excuse. Honestly, I don't care if he's dying, in fact, I would prefer that; he got at least $10,000 from his father's estate - unless he leaves that money to the church, it's logically going to go to me. I'm not too proud to take money from him, simply because I can use the money to improve my life and do things that make me happy like going to New York or helping out family. Success - by legitimate means - has no conscience or culpability; while it doesn't erase the past or heal the wounds, it can offer help at time when it is most needed or a means of bettering yourself - sort of like a consolation prize.

I've been subscribed to the belief that you have to forgive someone for hurting you just because they're family; the fact that you share blood, makes it worse in my eyes. So many people think that they can get away with saying and doing atrocious things because they're family; not with me.

I don't know if there will ever be a time or a way for my dad and I to repair our relationship; I'd say it's like a ceramic bowl that has been glued back together too many times. Certain members of my family have always listened to my grievances about my dad but sagely reminded me that he would be gone one day and that I shouldn't completely write him off; since the incident in 2024, they've changed their minds. I believe that I am doing him - and myself - a greater honor by being open about my feelings and sticking to my guns; what good would a half-hearted relationship do besides slowly eat away at us? I will always be grateful for the part he played in bringing me into existence, but it doesn't need to any more than that. It's not like all this time I've had a hole in my heart where a dad was supposed to be; I've learned to find strength in myself, my friends, and my family, the ones that have always been there for me when I needed it, not just when it suited them.