When asked about my father, I usually respond, “For the longest I can remember, it was just my mom and me. I can’t remember a time when it wasn’t,” which isn’t entirely true. I have early memories of my father spoiling me with clothes so I could feel comfortable and look my best. I remember him taking me to work with him in his truck. Until I turned 9, life was simple; I had a picture perfect family with a set roof over our heads.
When I was 8, he decided to start a music career, and this one choice led to him being poisoned by greed. Suddenly, it felt like my mom and I, the life we all had together, weren’t enough for him anymore. He wanted everything he could not have, and everything he already had, like me, could not keep him satisfied.
When I was 9, he started taking me around a number of strange women that he introduced as “family.” One after the next they would come back like a terrible rash. One night after coming home with my father, I sat and talked with my mother about my day. From our conversation, my mom gathered that my father had been unfaithful. When she confronted him, he denied and denied, whipping up an argument.
My Father, the Imposter
I didn’t know the man that lived in my home anymore. It was like he became an imposter wearing my father’s skin.
In my mind, I couldn’t fathom him being with anyone other than my mom. But, as their argument escalated, he became so angry and hostile that I felt like I was watching him put on a new face. I had never seen that side of him, and I was consumed with fear and sadness. Looking back at it now, I realize it was embarrassing for him. He had worked so hard for his family only to tear it apart.
They fought and, at first, it was just loud accusations that rolled off their tongues. Then they got closer and pulled away from each other as if they were trying to contain a bomb. Their words became shrapnel as they threw their lifelong regrets in each other’s faces. Then, suddenly, their fight became physical.
That fight became a recurring nightmare of abuse against my mom and me that lasted weeks. With every strike that he laid on us, our picture perfect family broke into pieces, leaving us feeling lost and defeated. (I mostly choose not to get into specifics about the violence we endured because I do not want to burden anyone with the weight of my worst memories.)
What disappointed me the most was how much my father continued to change into a stranger after his adultery came to light. I lost him that day, and I didn’t even realize it.
I didn’t know the man that lived in my home anymore. It was like he became an imposter wearing my father’s skin. There was no longer a feeling of safety and comfort when I looked at him.
Then, after weeks of abuse, my dad took my mom off the lease. He forced us out of our apartment, while he went to stay with one of his many girlfriends. I felt heartbroken and abandoned. My mom and I lost everything. We had nowhere to stay; my mom didn’t have a steady job, and my picture perfect life was ruined.
Living in a Shelter
With nowhere else to go, we eventually found a domestic violence shelter that housed women and children.
I recall walking up the five green flights of stairs to our apartment in the shelter for the first time. Looking up at my mother for some version of reassurance, she said, “We’re gonna make this feel like home,” but her words only provided a momentary comfort. All I could think was that this place wasn’t my home. These were not the same walls I grew up with.
Within these walls, instead of safety, there was a sense of danger and hopelessness.
I will never forget the tears pouring down my mother’s face, pooling on the ground by the time we made it up to the apartment in the shelter. As we entered our new “home,” it seemed like a prison cell. There were bars on the window, a cheap metal bunk bed, and brown stains on the ceiling from leaking water.
At school during the day I could pretend the realities of my home weren’t there. Every night, coming home and seeing all the other families who lived in the shelter for similar reasons reminded me that our lives were now a worst case scenario.
My memories of the shelter are now compartmentalized in the back of my mind like pages in a filing cabinet: images of abusive husbands in search of children and wives, gunshots within the building, and ambulances for the many families who couldn’t escape the violence. These images, along with memories of the abuse my father put us through will always be engraved in my mind.
I couldn’t comprehend how my mom had allowed us to be in this position, and I resented her for it. The only other feeling my heart held was hate towards my father and all he had put us through. I spent my middle school years in a quiet rage.
Feeling Fatherless
I held my anger inside, but my blood would boil every time I saw one of my friends’ dads pick them up from school. Some deep part of me held onto hope that my father and I could rebuild our life, and I think that was the only thing that held me together, preventing me from spewing my rage.
I didn’t physically see my father while my mom and I lived in the shelter. I do not know whether or not he tried to see me. Maybe he did and my mom was trying to do what she thought was best and kept him away. Or maybe he just didn’t care enough to try and make things right with his daughter (I wouldn’t be surprised).
Though my dad was largely absent, throughout the most aggressively depressing moments of being in the shelter, my mother was always there for me, no matter how many times I messed up.
He would sometimes call me from one of his many new phone numbers. I would answer and it would be OK between us for a little while, though our calls were bipolar in the sense that some days we joked around and others all he wanted to do was talk badly of my mother.
Though my dad was largely absent, throughout the most aggressively depressing moments of being in the shelter, my mother was always there for me, no matter how many times I messed up. Before life in the shelter, I was an academic overachiever. This is partially because I knew that education would be my ticket to a better life. During this time, my grades started to slip and I was afraid that I would disappoint my mom.
When my first rough report card arrived, her first words were, “It’s OK. You’re an intelligent girl. I don’t blame you for not being able to focus.” Her reassurance made me realize that she will always love me, and that we could figure out my future together, which relieved some of the stress that I felt to do well in school despite my life circumstances. Through the time we spent in the shelter, she taught me loyalty and true love.
My Father Catches Up to Us
After a year and a half of being in the shelter, we finally left. I was 11 or 12 and excited to have a better living situation. We spent the next year and a half moving, bouncing from the home of one family member in the Bronx to another. Then, my mom’s Section 8 housing voucher came through, and she used it to get us our own apartment in Harlem. It had taken some time, but she had pulled through.
I will always remember the day we moved into our new apartment in Harlem. There was no elevator, so I had to climb five flights of stairs. Then I opened our green door and saw all the empty space inside. The living room had a big window that opened up to the fire escape and was covered by a large metal gate. To my right was a pretty small kitchen, but it was big enough for two people. Walking in a little more, there was a short hallway to the right that led to the bedroom that would be mine and, across from that, a bathroom.
After U-Haul brought all of our stuff, we started to settle in. For the first time since leaving my childhood home, I wasn’t restless; I was content.
The next night, I was up late in my room doing homework for the morning, struggling to keep my eyes open, when my father stormed into the apartment. He’d found out where we stayed from a relative on his side of the family. He was stumbling and smelled as if he carried the bar with him.
Devastated, Again
He and my mom went back and forth for what felt like hours. They continuously yelled hateful names at each other while I sat in my room like a deer in headlights. In a fit of rage my mom got up and ran to the kitchen to call 911.
Immediately my dad started to pummel my mom. Once again, he used his hands to destroy our serenity. My mom and I were in utter shock. As my body went stiff and my mind raced, I heard him begging for us to stop trying to call the police. “I’m your husband and a father. I can’t get arrested for teaching you right and wrong. I’m not the bad guy here.” His words sounded like he was trying to convince himself of his lies. Not a single other word was exchanged during this time. The silence that came after was so loud it was deafening.
I have never felt more disappointment in my life than at this moment. Being reminded of that side of him cut off any remaining emotional attachment I had felt for him. I could not even go to school for a week due to the constant repetition of this night in my head.
Afterwards, I truly wanted nothing to do with him, but he was like an incessant bug always buzzing in my ear. He would call me nonstop to guilt trip and blame me for our relationship being strained. He would still come around and stay in our apartment (rent-free) whenever his latest girlfriend had had enough. Whenever I made honor roll, he would show up to take responsibility for my intelligence.
It seemed as though he always knew the perfect moment to come back into my life and disrupt it.
Cutting Ties
We didn’t finally cut ties with my father until the beginning of 8th grade, when we moved in with my grandma in Brooklyn.
He didn’t know the exact address, so he couldn’t just show up whenever he pleased. I was able to completely focus on school and my applications for high school. I had been nominated for a fellowship program called TEAK, which helps talented students from low-income families access the most selective high schools and colleges. They introduced me to the idea of attending boarding school.
Though it was not something I’d thought about before, when I looked into it, I started to love the idea. It would provide a high level of education, teach me independence, and give me a chance to just be a student away from all the stress of home. Then I got in, and I was on my way to boarding school and had found a way to escape further, away from my father and his drama.
With distance, I can now see the damage he has done to my mom and me in clear view. I have a hard time letting people in or believing in their ability to change. On the other hand, it feels powerful to ensure that the trust I do give is earned.
Though some days I wonder if my ‘father’ regrets anything and I bitterly loathe him for abandoning us, now I’m also able to see the resilience my mom and I share.
Being raised by a single mother and, currently, my grandmother has taught me to be independent, resilient, brave, and determined. I am who I am today because of them. I have learned from my mom by seeing how she overcame whatever struggles were thrown at her to provide for me. With her example, I’m choosing to not let my father’s actions define me.
I can only focus on what I have control over and the future that lies ahead of me.