A global family failure

I trusted him. I didn't know him, or him us, but I still trusted him. He had a kind face, like my grandfather. Warm and sincere, he gave me a sense of real security, like I could tell him anything I wanted to and he would listen and provide the right counsel.

My sister and I sat in his chambers listening to him ask us questions. I felt awfully small sitting in there, sinking deeply into a large leather-bound chair, but again I trusted him. I was about 12 at the time, my sister 10.

The judge began to ask us questions about our abusive birth father, what we did with him when it was his turn to do stuff with us, how we felt about it, and why we no longer wanted to do stuff with him.

I remember the judge asking me directly, "Do you want to spend time with your father anymore?"

"No," I answered.

"Are you scared when you're with him?"

"Yes."

"Does he drink when you're with him?"

"Sometimes."

"Do you think he'll hurt you when he's drinking?"

Pause. "I don't know."

Similar answers from my sister. The entire time the judge enveloped us with a sobering warmth, one that gave me the confidence and comfort to be completely honest.

"Again, I ask you -- do you want to spend time with your father anymore?"

"No."

After that visit, we were no longer forced into visitations with our birth father. A year later was the last time I saw him.

I'm sure that because my mother worked for the police department and our soon-to-be stepfather was a cop, that helped get us face time with the judge, probably circumventing the family court system somewhat.

But it could've failed for us, the entire global family system that included our parents, other family members, friends, the police department, the court system, the social workers -- everybody.

It failed for Charlie and Braden Powell and their mother Susan and the millions of other victims of abuse.

No matter how "evil" we claim the Josh Powell's of the world are after the devastating facts come to light, we all failed in the end because we didn't protect our children and all the victims of intimate partner violence.

We didn't give them a voice. We didn't give them safe harbor. And then we have to bury the victims and mourn the loss that could've been prevented.

It was a global family failure that could've failed us all those years ago. Thank God it didn't.

And thank God the B-hive will always have a voice. The Mama and Daddy promise you that.

A Brief Tale of Blue Genes

It's time once again for Fatherhood Friday. Fatherhood Friday is hip place at Dad-Blogs.com for dads and moms to share stories, ideas, photos and movies with one topic in mind – fatherhood.

***

It’s four in the morning and as I lay in bed tossing and turning over a million different things, one of those being that someday Bea will ask me what happened with my father.

Not the man I call Dad today but the man I share genes with, my birth father. She’ll come across something I’ve written, an old photograph, and then she’ll ask questions about him, why I don’t talk about him, where he lives now, what happened to him, to us.

She’ll ask and I’ll tell her a brief tale of blue genes.

***

The last time I saw my birth father I was 13 years old, my sister 11. It was visitation day; I don’t remember what time of the year together. I only know it wasn’t hot or cold. He came to our front door dressed in a faded flannel shirt and blue jeans. He might have worn a cowboy hat. I’m not exactly sure, but I see it on his head. He held a grocery bag full of dirty carrots pulled from his garden.

Eternity. My sister stood slightly behind me, one hand on my shirt. I don’t remember what I said, if anything.

Then he said, “So, you don’t want to see me anymore?”

I nodded slowly. My sister pulled on my shirt. I must have said something to prompt his question, but I was too scared to even think.

He pushed his cowboy hat back, set the bag of carrots down and said:

“Goodbye kids.”

And then he left. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.

***

My childhood memories of my father aren’t pleasant. He drank a lot. Smoked a lot. Beat my mother a lot. Fooled around with other women a lot. Ignored my sister and I a lot.

Although he never touched us, we feared his violence; my sister and I would hide in my room while he ranted, boozed and abused my mother. Twelve years my mother lived that hell, nine of it with us in tow.

I raged quietly, impotent, nothing I could do to stop it. I only had the fantasy of heroic intervention – the skinny, asthmatic, bookworm, introverted nine-year-old boy beating his dad to a pulp.

There were less than a handful of quintessential father-son moments: the building of my tree house, the actual building I only recall through photographs; the watching him build his alcohol-powered planes, constructed with balsa wood, tissue paper and the paint sealer called dope; the day I took my training wheels off my sweet purple bike with the banana seat and he pushed me up and down the street.

There were also the fleeting moments of forgiveness when he’d apologize to us all and say he would change, but never did. Alcoholism became the disease that justified the abuse.

Even after we left him, he did have visitation rights for a few years and those were almost as unbearable as living with him. Those visits always felt forced, as if he were doing someone he didn’t like a favor of watching us for a few hours, sometimes for the night. We had nothing to talk about, nothing to share, nothing in common.

Except for blue genes.

***

(The following segment is from a previous post last year titled Daddy K takes the long road home)

The road to fatherhood began abysmally for me – from abusive biological father, to abusive first step-father, to self-abusive anxiety-ridden depressive teenager (me), to self-abusive anxiety-ridden depressive young adult (again, yours truly), to self-abusive anxiety-ridden depressive angry resentful deceptive longed to be liked poor excuse for a contradictive man and husband (marriage #1), to brooding on the brink of finally mastering control of my life with a pre-Mama A saying stand up and get it together or get out.

Stand up and get it together. Get off the ground. Let go the legacy of anger and fear. Have hope. Have faith.

(No worries, I've always had a good heart, there were good times along the way, and I had good father I'll talk about in one of my next postings).

Which is why The Road by Cormac McCarthy had such a profound effect on me last year when we listened to the audio book during our Southwest trip (and I just found out it's going to be a move this year). It was one of those defining moments that filled our hearts with choice.

WARNING - For those of you who haven't read it and plan to, do not read on because I've got a spoiler coming.

The Road is a post-apocalyptic story of a father and young son trying to survive a horrific world gone mad while traveling on a road to the coast, a road of hope. Sadly when they reach the coast and can't find any civilized civilization to speak of, hope is all but lost. The father is very ill and dies, leaving the boy alone.

Then, out of the darkness, a man offers his help to the boy. The man tells the boy he needs to come with them, because they can help him. The boy is resistant; he doesn't want to leave his dead father and he's unsure of the man's motives.

"Are you one of the good guys?" The boy asks.

"Yes, I'm one of the good guys," the man answers.

The boy takes his hand and they walk off.

Stand up and get it together. Get off the ground. Let go the legacy of anger and fear. Have hope. Have faith.

Be one of the good guys.

***

Three decades have gone by. A week ago I learned my birth father has lung cancer. He’s in treatment but his prognosis isn’t good.

Apathy, contrasted with my ghostly childhood memories, filled me with a contradictory sense of inaction and empathy.

It’s a surreal feeling – not really caring or motivated to do anything but understanding the shadow world you share with your father – the blue genes.

Unconditional forgiveness portends remorseful reciprocity. In other words, you have to own it and own up to it in order to find redemption and solace with those you’ve wronged.

My birth father didn’t do that with me, and although I didn’t have to do that with him, my conditional forgiveness was given.

That was enough for me to heal and live my life and finally become the father he never was.

Jesus washed the feet of his betrayers, but I will not wash the feet of my father.

He should make peace with his.

Bea may never understand why I feel this way, but if we bring her up her as well as we plan on doing, then that’s not such a bad thing after all.

Maybe tonight I'll sleep better.