A Father’s Love
As I sit here waiting to find out when we can take my father’s body home to be buried next to his parents and listening for movement from the bedroom to say my mother needs me I think back on my childhood. Many people say you can not possibly remember your childhood’s early years. I guess it depends on what those early years were like.
I remember a series of homes or buildings with beds where people lived who were paid to care for me and that is all they did. No one loved me or held me and told me that I was someone worth knowing for the first three years of my life.
I remember my third birthday perfectly. Right down to the dress I was wearing. I had never celebrated a birthday before but now I was in the home that would become my forever home with two adults that loved me and wanted me. That’s powerful for a child and something you never forget. Sure I have forgotten a lot of my childhood but I have not forgotten what matters the most.
I remember a huge family coming to the house that was to be my forever home for dinner and cake and ice cream. i don’t remember ever having cake or ice cream before that day. I remember tons of presents from this group of strangers called family and I remember the man who would be my daddy and the man who would become my favorite uncle taking turns riding me on their backs and the women fussing at them if they hurt me they would not let them keep me. That really scared me. I know they were joking but when your three and want someone to keep you its terrifying to hear they might not get to so I held on so tight they said I was choking them.
I remember the dress because the man who would be my daddy took me to the store just me and him and said he was buying me a birthday dress. He bought me a beautiful mint green dress, white tights and white patent leather shoes with panties that had ruffles on them. (Yes, I was one of those kids who dressed prissy)
Life changed for me in that house so much so that I never wondered why I was not wanted in the first place. It only mattered that I was wanted now. My parents spoiled me there is no denying that. They spoiled me more than I care to admit but they also taught me good values and morals so that I never became a spoiled brat. They raised me to believe in myself and not ever let anyone put me down or make fun of me. I remember coming home from Kindergarten and while I ate my snack I asked my mom why kids called me a zebra. She got very upset and said maybe they thought zebra’s were the most beautiful thing on earth. That made me so proud. But that evening I heard her crying and telling my dad she wanted to put me in private school because kids were being mean to me. I did not notice honestly that I had a black father and white mother. It just did not occur to me that they were different from anyone else. I knew I had lived in homes where everyone was black and in homes where every one was white. So I guess I did not see color that early in life.
As I got older I asked more and the fact that I always knew I was adopted made me wonder all that much more why I had the light coffee colored skin but did not fit in with black families and none wanted to adopt me. But I also did not fit in with white families and none of them wanted to adopt me. Finally when I was in second grade my parents set me down and had a long talk trying to explain to me why I was different. I did have a biological white mother and a biological black father who could not keep me. So they told me.
So from then on I did not care what others called me or said about me I knew why I looked different and that was alright with me. The fact that the same mixture of family adopted me made us a perfect family to me.
I remember dad teaching me to ride a bike, how to swim for hours on end. How to fly a kite, throw a softball, how to bowl and taking me to my mothers dance studio for my dance classes. I remember him taking me out for dinner on our daddy and daughter date. We always had so much fun together. I remember him reading to me from day one and so happy and eager when he taught me to read. I remember him teaching me to drive and the tears in his eyes when I graduated High school and left for college. I remember him crying when I graduated college and moved to New York City to make it on my own. I remember him calling every night to ask did I remember to lock my doors. I remember my dad flying to me when I broke a bone or was sick and taking care of me.
I am not trying to say Mom did not take care of me because she did and we spent just as much time together. But this is a tribute to my dad.
I have heard people say over the years anyone can be a father but not everyone can be a daddy. My dad was both. He may not have been my biological father but to him I was his everything. He would tell anyone I was his reason for living.
I remember three months after turning 19 getting a letter in the mail from Social Services saying the enclosed letter was being sent to me on behalf of my biological mother who wanted to make contact. I did not open the letter until I was 20 years old. It upset my parents that I would not open it and it upset them that it had come at all. Finally on a visit home my dad walked in and handed me the letter (I had left it at their house. I truly had no interest in learning about this woman who gave birth to me) His exact words were only she can answer the questions you had as a child as to why you were given up.
I read the letter with them there. I wish I could say her words hurt me but it was like reading a letter a stranger wrote to me.
I read out loud and I could see my parents getting angry, upset and feeling emotions I was not feeling and maybe it was not normal but I did not care why she gave me up I was honestly happy she had because I had the perfect parents.
My birth mother had gotten pregnant by a boy she dated in college unknown to her family. He was black and she was white. This was 25 years ago so its not like it was back in the olden days when this was unheard of. But she knew her family would never accept me. So she never told them about me. Her parents were both dead now and so was her brother. The only ones who still did not know about me were her current White husband and their four children but if I was willing to meet her she would eventually tell them about me and have me meet them too if they wanted to. So suddenly I have four half siblings and a woman who gave birth to me that may or may not want to be a part of my life. I did not want to even entertain the thoughts of meeting any of them much less have them in my life.
Many people guess my origin as Italian because I do have a tanned color to me until I go in the sun and then I look like someone who has been in the sun to much. I have silky hair and other than my coloring you do not know I have black blood in me. I loved it when people would tell my parents I looked like both of them and we all smiled and winked at each other. But this women who gave birth to me made me feel like she wanted to meet me first to see how much of my biological father I had in me before she would think of telling her family about me. I use the name Shaniqua Fason on social media because it is the name the foster system gave to me. My birth mother never gave me a name. And I do not want to use my adopted name on Social Media simply because I like my private life to be private.
I grew up with the best of both worlds where the color of someone’s skin did not determine if you loved them or not. It did not determine who they were or who they could become. It was just skin. Nothing more and nothing less. Just skin.
When I told my parents I did not want to meet her or even answer her letter they told me I had to write back and tell her I was not ready for contact at this time which is basically the shortest thing I have ever written to anyone in my life. (You read my blogs you know I get long winded right?)
My father was diagnosed with cancer three years ago. He went through all the treatments and was in remission. In June he came out of remission and was very sick. This time the cancer had spread through his body and it was just to late to do anything for him. The cancer was going to take my daddy away from me. I left NY and rushed to Fla where my parents have a home and spent the last months of his life loving my dad and making sure he knew how much I loved him and how wonderful a father he was.Not because I had any quilt over growing up and leaving home but because I would not have tomorrows with him and I wanted every today I could possibly have. We had great memories together to talk about and laugh about. Not long after the doctor told him he was terminal he asked me to do one favor for him. If I ever did meet my biological family to not leave my mom behind. And to enjoy every single day on earth and live my life to the fullest. I promised him I would do my best to take care of mom as well as he had and that she was my mother just like he was my father. There would never be anyone else who held those titles because they earned them by loving me as their own.
I Know I will miss him every day of my life and the only regret I have is not giving him the grandchild he kept teasing me about but one day I will adopt a little boy and give him my father’s name. I cant think of any legacy better than that to repay the man who loved me as his own child.