Father Knows Best

Yesterday, I watched “Tony Robbins: I Am Not Your Guru” on Netflix, and about fifteen minutes into the documentary, Tony pulls a girl out of the audience who can’t seem to meet her dietary goals.

“Whose attention did you crave the most growing up?” he asked.

“My father’s” she replied.

“What did you have to do to keep his attention?”

“Stay out of his way. Be perfect. Be good”

“What do you blame him for?”

“Being an addict. Drugs and alcohol”

“What else do you blame him for? Because we often blame for the bad, but never see how that person being who they were made you who you are today.”

As Tony began diving into his own childhood issues with an abusive mother, I began thinking about my own answers to these questions. I realized that I too have blamed my dad for all of the awful things I’d experienced, but I had never blamed him for who I’d become because of who he was. In that, I owed it to myself to reach out to my father.

We began a back and forth about all of the things I felt he had given me for having been a part of my life. This doesn’t negate the abuse, the years of low self-esteem, self-hatred, etc., but this was the first time I’d considered that there was more to the story than just me and my mother’s shared experiences.

In my story, my father was a monster—a violent, rage-filled man, whose voice alone could make me shake in terror for hours. He was a man who thought that everything I did was wrong, including the way I held my hands, the way I walked, and the way I talked. He was a man who was not easily pleased, and in whose presence I never felt that I was enough. I never felt worthy.

In his story, he very much loved me. He wanted me to become everything that he was not. He felt that he had an obligation to prepare me for the reality of life—because nothing and no one had ever done him any favors. His method of control and aggression were mere tools that he had learned from his grandmother, which he believed were necessary for parenting. My mother disagreed.

In our phone conversation, he shared that he always loved me. He said that he and my mother strongly disagreed on how I should be parented. He used the iron fist, as it was all he knew, and she felt that not everything deserved a lash or a hit. It created a rift in his relationship with me, and how much time we spent together. It affected the way he connected to me, because he felt powerless in the process of raising me, choosing to accept what he felt was defeat.

I listened, and probed only when necessary. It was one of the most prolific and necessary conversations I’ve had in my lifetime. I needed to hear his truth to be able to discern THE truth, which was very different than the truth I had told myself. When we don’t know, we assume. We create a narrative about what these events and changes say about us, based on what we felt while we were experiencing them. For years, I told myself that my father did not want me because I was gay, weak, feminine, and/or worthless. I believed I was a mistake--a problem--broken, and needed fixing. Thus, I pecked at myself and everyone else around me for never being enough.

Today, I am freer than I’ve been in a long time. I am free from the burden of trying so hard to be an image of perfection. I have accepted that I am and have always been more than enough. Not only am I more than enough, I have always had everything I have needed to survive in this lifetime. I was blessed to be created by two of the most resilient people I know. I am blessed, because I have witnessed the strength of my father who dropped out of High School in the tenth grade and went on to operate a small business. I watched my mother toil day in and day out--working multiple jobs and obtaining several degrees, while raising three children alone. I am who I am, and I am enough. I have peace today, friends. #BlackBoyJoy if you will.