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Prolific Writer
Join Date: Feb 2006
Posts: 367
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Am I My Father's Son?
One day a person took it upon themselves to tell me that I was a mirror image of my father. Their statement had a profound effect on me, seeing as how I have only seen my father a dozen or so times in my entire life. Although they were only referring to the physical similarities it still made me think. How much are we like those that gave us life?
I was raised by my mother and had the dubious distinction of being a step child. The experience in itself was unique to say the least. Some people would say, well you were raised by your stepfather, but I would have to disagree. I was not raised by him. I grew up in his home. The raising of a child involves many different things.
In casual conversations with friends while reflecting on our childhood memories, some would tell me when their father first taught them how to throw a football, or the first time they went fishing. Others would fondly remember their fathers attending their various extracurricular school activities, cheering at football games, coaching softball games, taking them and other teammates to basketball games. Whenever these conversations would arise, I was reduced to the position of active listener, for I was never introduced to these things.
My stepfather made it quite clear to me at an early age that I was just that, a stepchild. Not one of his own brood, whose lives he actively participated in. I remember being awakened in pre-dawn hours by the sounds of my stepbrothers, getting prepared to go on fishing trips, but I was never invited. On occasions when the big game was going on at the high school, and one or both of my stepbrothers was sure to be a participant, the house would be abuzz with excitement. The constant anticipation of game day having finally arrived and everyone was ready. But once again as would become the norm, I was not invited.
Sometimes I would wonder to myself, “do they even know that I am here?’ But that question was easily answered when I would make the mistake of bringing notice to myself.
I would often pester my stepfather on things only to be dismissed as being bothersome or in the way. I would ask how a fishing rod works, only to be told to go away, go play with your friends. Sometimes I would see my stepfather outside, throwing the football with his sons, and run outside to participate, only to be ridiculed at the first dropped pass,” take your ass in the house!” When activities would take place at my school, I would rush home, bursting with excitement at the thought of both my parents participating, only to be told (mostly by my stepfather) that there wasn’t enough time for his participation. It’s not that important. Although not physically abused, (in fact my stepfather only took the belt to me once) the apathetic, inattentive nature he took towards me slowly took its toll.
Maybe my choice of activities as a child did not fit his ideologies of what a boy should be doing. While other boys played outside and roughhoused, I would sit in my room and read. In the days before the internet, the encyclopedia collection at my home offered me hours of entertainment. Sometimes I would simply pick a section of letters, A-F, and read those for the next three days. Other time would be spent reading comic books, my first true love. By learning to read at an early age, comics opened to me a world limited only by my imagination.
I would often hear my stepfather say,” He needs to go outside, sitting in that dam room all day!” But I was gravitating toward what I felt at the time was the only thing I was good at, entertaining myself. While other boys my age were supposedly beginning to gain exposure to the opposite sex, I became a withdrawn hermit, still only wanting the attention of a father figure.
That longing disappeared one day in my youth when I overheard my stepfather outside talking with one of his friends.
I had recently received my report card and it was stellar. Straight A’s across the board. Most parents would consider this an accomplishment. Imagine my disappointment when I overheard him say,” hell; he should get good grades, sitting in that dam room all day. He needs to go outside and get his dick wet.” Well that moment alone changed my need for a father figure. Hearing such a statement at that point in my life caused me, already an insecure preteen virgin, to halt my attempts to become endured to him. No longer would I seek his stamp of approval to justify my existence.
Only in recent years have my stepfather and I become amicable enough to tolerate each others company. Despite his attitude toward me in my youth, I have always respected him, mostly based on the life that he made for himself. He moved to Houston from Louisiana in the early seventies, with literally nothing. He managed to gain employment almost immediately, staying at the same job for nearly thirty-five years. He developed his credit, established his savings, bought a home and is now comfortably retired, never having to have to work again, a virtual picture of stability, financially securing the future of his family through hard work and perseverance. His children mirror his work ethic, already establishing tenures ranging from ten to twelve years on their respective jobs. I grew into manhood in his presence and yet, I am not like him.
How much are we like the ones that gave us life? While growing in the home of one man, my life, in most of its decisions and actions seem to mirror another, my biological father.
Although my actual time spent with him is sparse, I know very well of him.
He was a loner, preferring to spend most of his time away from his loved ones, in the process costing him more than one or two relationships. He would continually jump from job to job, always placing the blame on some other person or entity, rather than taking a look at himself and realizing, hey buddy, if it’s happened at least four times now, maybe the problem is you? He would constantly break promises. He would always promise to make those promises up, so you can see how the number of broken promises would always be disproportionately higher. He never had any money. Hell, he lived at home with his mother well into his thirties, only getting an apartment when her complaints over his marijuana use became more than he could bear. He was so unstable, always with a new car and all of it’s tricked out toys, but having to have to borrow money from his mother to take me to the movies when I would spend time over there. Because although my time spent with him was, as I said earlier sparse, most of that time was spent alone, or pawned off with other relatives of his, while he was off doing whatever. That time spent alone, waiting for my real father to step up and be the man my stepfather wasn’t, made me quite aware of who my father was.
Now in my own adulthood, I wonder why my life mirrors his. My job history has been exceptionally erratic, having already gone through ten jobs by the age of twenty-five. If it were my mother’s decision to make, I would probably have stayed home longer than I did upon graduation, but step-dad don’t play that. His rules were eighteen, graduate and move out, end of discussion. And if he did that with his own kids he dam sure wasn’t going to make an exception for me. Forced to move out early, I never learned the lessons of financial responsibility, going from living at home on $800 a month to paying for rent, lights, transportation and food on $800 a month. So I jumped from job to job to job to try and enable me to live, in the process becoming so financially unstable that I practically live two paychecks away from being homeless. All of this tends to make me search out something better for myself so I take classes, hoping to eventually land a better job, but this comes at a price.
The price it seems I now have to pay is charged to me in the form of not having enough time to spend with my own son. It seems as though I am never there to throw the football. I don’t have time for the father son fishing trips, and even if I did, I don’t know how to fish. I can’t seem to ever make it to any of the school plays or parent accompanied field trips, something else always unexpectedly coming up. So he spends more and more time alone, wondering about his father. Maybe he is saying to himself that he doesn’t want to be that way, not like me. Not like his father. How can I tell him it doesn’t matter how or who raises you. In the end the only thing you’re going to be is your father’s son.
Last edited by ebmadman : 03-05-2006 at 03:52 AM.
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