Thursday, I got into my car, ready to attack the day.
I had a quiz in three hours to study for, then two classes before our weekly meeting to edit articles.
As I put the keys in the ignition and started my car, I heard the engine begin to crank. It struggled for a second, then stopped, and I quickly realized that my battery was dead.
I wasn’t surprised. The previous night, my check engine light came on, and the dashboard said the battery was low.
Instead of letting the massive inconvenience ruin my day, I walked to campus and began studying for my quiz.
I’m trying to focus on not letting things beyond my control bother me.
I knew I needed a jump, but I had never done one before, so I called my former assistant manager, Jordan, who’s more like a big brother, to come help me later that day.
When he arrived, instead of taking the cables and starting the car himself, he made me learn how to do it in case it ever happened again.
“Red to power, red to power, black to ground, black to ground,” he said.
We got the car started in about 10 minutes, and it worked for a few hours before dying again later that night – but this time I was prepared.
I jumped my car the next morning myself, and as I watched one car bring the other to life, I thought about a person in my life who’s been dead to me for a while.
My father.
It would have been great to have my father standing there, proud that his son learned a simple but important process he’ll need for the rest of his life, but instead, it was another hurdle I had to get over without him there.
The worst thing about growing up without a father is that I had no one present to teach me simple things like changing a tire, changing my oil or cutting grass.
I’m graduating from college soon and don’t know how to tie a tie.
And sure, I can’t blame that all on my sperm donor – we live in a world where information is available in a few seconds with a Google search. I can take the time to learn any of these fine-motor skills on my own, but I’d imagine it’s a different feeling to establish those memories with a parent.
My mom was always at school or work, or making up for time she lost raising kids since she was 19. My sister raised us until we were about 9, then she was off to college to begin her life after sacrificing much of her early years watching two kids.
Because of my father’s absence, I had no one to help me practice my jump shot or work on my handle when I played basketball. I had no one who gave me the “birds and the bees” conversation, and more importantly, no one to teach me how to treat women or engage in healthy relationships in a world dominated by toxic masculinity and oversexualization.
I can’t blame him for the way I’ve behaved in the past; those are lessons I had to learn on my own. But there are an endless number of areas of my life where I wish I had a father figure available, and the fact that I did not put me behind the eight ball mentally, emotionally and financially.
I have little to no memory of his existence, and the only things that stick out are the cruel behavior he subjected me to as a kid, such as whippings or forcing me to eat food I didn’t want.
My latest encounter with him involved him, the man who abandoned his twin boys for a decade, calling me a coward for not wanting to speak to him on the phone for the first time in years.
My reason for silence is that he’d been for so long, and I’ll never forgive him for that.
As much as I wish I had him in my life, the time has passed for that, and he’s just another one of the billions of people on earth that I don’t know.
Though I do owe him some thanks, he took a few minutes of his life to create me, and then spent the next 22 years giving me a great example of what not to be in life.
I’d like to think I’m doing okay so far.
