#jon.c

Father's Day is complicated for me, as it is for many of us.

The closest thing I’ve ever had to a traditional father was my grandfather. Reginaldo Robinson. I lived in his house in San Jose, Costa Rica until I was four years old with my Abuelita, and my mom’s siblings, Tio Reggie, Tio Johnny, Tia Erica, and Tia Jennifer. My mom gave me his last name when I was born, and he accepted me like I was his son. I’m still the only grandchild listed as an heir in his will. But I was so young when I lived with him that all I can remember are memories of memories. Each looks like a Monet in my mind’s eye; edges are dull, colors are washed and blurred, and only the impression of an image can be seen. I don’t remember what his hands felt like, but I remember feeling safe when he held me. He was larger than life itself to me, likely because he was the biggest person I had ever seen at that age. I don’t remember what his voice sounded like, but I feel like if I heard the voice of God, I might mistake it for his.

He was an educator, and he taught me how to be a student of life. I remember sitting in his study, surrounded by countless books, at my desk with my Abracadabra English + Spanish coloring workbook. I learned how to read and write, in Spanish and English, from those books. Well enough that on Saturday mornings, he’d hand me the pages of the newspaper he finished them so I could “read” them. I’d stare at the pictures and letters, trying to infer what I could about the story from the very minimal words I could understand. The only one I can remember was about a small-time robbery that had taken place a few miles away. He was so proud of me for figuring it out. I wish I could remember his voice.

I don't know who my biological father is. That's by choice. He date-raped my mother, and she never told him she ended up pregnant with yours truly. She's asked me numerous times throughout my life if I had any interest in knowing more about him. I've consistently been uninterested in knowing a man who would do a thing like that to anyone.

She did tell me his name once - when I was getting my marriage license. They ask you to list your parent's names on the form you fill out. I called her, but she didn't pick up. So I wrote the name Carlos Amarillo. "Yellow." Coward. She called me back and told me his name. I couldn't recall it six days later. I've never seen a picture of him. I don't know how tall he is. I don't know what he does. I don't know where he lives. If I bumped into him on the street, I'd never know it. I don’t even know if he’s still alive.

I had a stepfather for about ten years. They were less than ideal. He was an average man, with above average strength, and below average empathy. His mind was warped and dark, likely a result of a similarly less than ideal childhood, and he seemed most proficient in misleading strangers and hurting those closest to him. Though I haven’t seen him since 2008, I know exactly where he is. He’s serving 54 years in a California state prison for the eight years of sexual abuse he put me through.

I used to hate him. I’d imagine myself bigger and stronger, standing up to him the way I always wanted to but never did. I’ve watched him die in my thoughts so many times that his actual death will probably feel like deja vu. But for the past three years, when my thoughts turn to him, I just feel very sorry for him.

Knowing firsthand what the pain of a tortured childhood can do to an individual, I wonder how alone and afraid he must have been to become the man that did those things to me and my family; to people who showed him nothing but unconditional love and respect, even as he tore us down and tore us apart. I wonder if he looks back on his life and his choices and feels any shame. What nightmares does he have? Are they like mine? Has he found a way to heal from his hurt? Or has his circumstance killed any hope of that happening?

Since I was eight years old, the only part of my future that I’ve held to consistently is my desire to be a father. It’s my dream job: to be a good dad. There is no greater responsibility, no higher purpose to commit your life to, than caring for and raising a new, completely innocent life. Standing between a child and the dark, treacherous, violent world they will one day enter is the only place I’ve always wanted to be. My mother did that for me. And I’d say, given what we’ve both been through and where we are now, she did one excellent job.

My mother is, without a doubt, the best father I could ever have. It is her example I one day hope to build on. She’s as hard a worker as ever there has been. We’re both at the office on a Sunday today, her in Las Vegas, me in New York. I get that from her. But more importantly, she gave me my heart. When I open it, it’s because she showed me how. I’m most grateful for the way she showed me the world. She taught me how to think, not what to think. How to love, not who to love. How to care, not what to care about. I can’t recall any instance of me asking her a question and simply getting a straight answer. She always responded with a process to find the answer myself. It didn’t matter if the question was “why is the sky blue?” or “why can’t I celebrate Halloween?” I hope I can do that same thing for my children.

I don’t think there’s any one right way to do it. Nor do I believe you have to have had a good father to be a good father yourself. I’m confident that the lessons I’ve learned have prepared me to be the best father I can be. But I’m human, so every now and then, Father’s Day rolls around, and my confidence falters. “What kind of 'great father' can you possibly hope to be?”

(via me)

screwfaced

go outside, lay on my back, and smoke a fat blunt...