When my beautiful daughter came into this world, I decided I didn’t want to hold onto that spite for my father anymore.
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I had an unusual and unprecedented conversation with my mother last June. I got to hear the story of the courtship which led to my birth for the first time in my forty-two years. And I heard it on the eve of my first baby’s birthday. We had planned a gigantic party for the summer weekend of my daughter’s tenth birthday—a catered “taco fiesta” with family and friends at a fancy hotel with a pool. My little girl had been anticipating the shindig, no lie, since she was three years old. My biological parents both flew into town for the celebration.
My mother has held a deep, long-calcified loathing for my biological father, as did I for years and years.
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My mother, who is Pennsylvania Dutch and English, raised me. My father, who is African American, abandoned me before birth. My mother later married and I took the Sicilian surname of the man whom I would rightfully come to call “Dad.” My mother has held a deep, long-calcified loathing for my biological father, as did I for years and years.
When my beautiful daughter came into this world, I decided I didn’t want to hold onto that hatred for my father anymore. It was a surprising choice, even to me; spiritually and culturally, my ex-wife and I wanted something healthier. My daughter’s heritage is celebrated dearly on both her mother and my sides. She and her brother are a mix of black, English, German, Spanish, black Irish, Mexican, and Native American. They are both lively, smart, and striking. I could never, ever, in a thousand lifetimes, abandon my children. Yet, the appreciation of our family’s shared cultures was more important to me than my personal issues with my biological dad’s poor choices. My ex-wife and I broke the cycle of our mutual and respective abandonment, abuse, and intimacy issues by doing the opposite of what our imperfect parents did when rearing us.
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We, too, are imperfect. However, in divorce, my ex-wife and I are now far better at co-parenting than we were while living under the same roof. It’s been a blessing to play in our neo-American, five-piece family symphony with our two kids and their stepdad, my ex’s new husband. This is what works for us, despite our respective families’ begrudging acceptance of our divorce. Our dissolution brought about a solution to our volatility. We’re not perfect in divorce, either, but we’re healthy, we get along far better, and we consider ourselves best friends.
What was so damn amazing about my mom’s story was the groundedness of it. I had never, ever heard of my coming into the world with my two biological parents present and participating. Raised by my single mom, I had heard the heart-wrenching notes of an unrequited love song; my father has yet to fully articulate his side of the tune, still. But that weekend my mother volunteered a hagiography of their courtship and I felt like I finally had what so many other friends of mine did—the story of me becoming me through my mother and father.
That storytelling, so emotionally and psychologically new and cathartic at once, went a long way to alleviate the self-conscious mystery of me. Honestly, part of my teenage angst came from a feeling of walking this planet accidentally, at best. It was like a bedtime story with softly existential touches. Something in me healed in the telling, however abridged. The older, more rational me didn’t seek to over-intellectualize the story to the younger, more emotional me who really needed to hear that tale told.
And there was something very poetic about hearing my origin story with my own children and ex-wife present the same weekend we were celebrating our first baby coming into this world eleven years ago.
Previously published on The Angry Therapist blog.
Photo/Pixabay
Great article Sean! I really enjoy reading your articles! Keep them coming!
Thank you Stacy for the kudos!