Mensah Demary on trying to mend the bridge between father and son.
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In the 30s, we start with comparisons.
“I look nothing like my father,” I say to women who ask me if I look like my father, if I see the resemblance they’ve seen. My father: accomplished academic and health practitioner, a roiling spirit slowed by age and consideration. And who am I in relation? We see eye to eye despite my height — a couple of inches above his balding head, the source of the genetic failure atop my scalp — but up here, inches taller, I’m in the clouds. Still a believer daydreaming while avoiding nightmarish sleep.
Bonded by New Jersey woods connected by paths made via dirt bike wheels, he and I went in separate directions. I’m here in Brooklyn, secluded in this sprawling enclave cloistered by ghouls and angels, hipsters and bohos, hiding in plain sight until I piece together the next phase. I’m a child of the new era, half my life digitized and conducted online; this persona you know and read is a heartbeat better than an NPC in an RPG; meanwhile my father rocks a landline and drives forty miles to see his mother. I haven’t seen my mother in two years and can’t get myself to stepping, to head down south, to pen an email to say “I care.” Evolution and revolution are flip sides of the same blade; my face and body and brain have been reanimated by depression. He is happy, full stop.
I am nothing like my father.
In the 20s, we look for bridges.
His hand clasped my shoulder. I stared out the tall windows of my apartment, made mine because “our” and “we” and other pluralities became irrelevant; 1 + 1 = 3 somewhere in South Jersey, somewhere in Chicago, somewhere in my memories. His hand clasped my shoulder as I asked why and he asked why ask why and I bristled. Stood. Turned away. Such a mess, such a mess was his son and I tried to see me his way. All I saw was shame, the fuckup creative artist who turned relationships and matrimony into graveyards and I asked why and he said because you did what you wanted and I paused.
I really cannot write about this topic anymore. I loved a woman. Married her. I cheated. We can’t even be friends now without awkwardness, without measured speech. The end.
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He will not live forever, I say to myself whenever I ask myself if he’ll always be here for me. What would I do without him? I have to ask. I have to stare into the void, become wide-eyed with terror, turn toward reality despite wanting to retch.
Time kills us all but I don’t want it to apply to him. And yet… he grays. He takes on the hue of my philosophy, my stance on all things. He is still strong, but not as. He is still fast, but not quite. He is still brilliant, but the body dims in minuscule ways.
He loves life with his wife, partner in crime, and they give me hope. Dear god, if he can do it then, dear god, please say I can do it too. Find solace. Retain love. Give love. Become vulnerable and, in turn, invulnerable to a paw swipe from some unknown creature stalking me through the night since adolescence.
He will not live forever, but he can’t leave yet. Not yet.
In the first minutes, we consider names
I was given his name and to date, I wish this hadn’t happen. Men with their fathers’ names nod with me, sway and swish church fans to say “preach it” and this is deep down religion I’m speaking; I don’t need the weight, I have my own to carry, and a father’s name is an anchor affixed to a newborn boy’s ankle. Sons are born to fathers as pack animals.
I gave myself my own name when I was 18. I’m speaking in retrospect now, attempting to back into time and maybe bump into the subconscious:
maybe I needed separation or demarcation between his weight and mine;
maybe I wanted my own identity;
maybe aesthetically speaking, I don’t care for his name but it is his name all the same so — I put the legal name change documents in a drawer, I talk myself out of taking myself to the courthouse to strike his name from my record, because my name is his name and he is my father who will not live forever (not yet).
My son will not have my name, I tell women who ask me if I’d give my name to my son.
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About the author
Mensah Demary. Curator of @spectermagazine. Columnist for @TheButterBlog & @fourculture. Archivist of gaps between memories. #CarefreeBlackBoy
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This article originally appeared on Medium
Photo credit: Stefano Corso/flickr