How does one begin to composition themselves to give honor and thanks to parents who would otherwise be deemed unworthy?
I've always known that there is and always has been a struggle in the relationship that I hold with my parents. Of course, the revelation didn't come until I was old enough to truly understand more complicated concepts and the ability to analyze them; yet nonetheless the thought has always been 'why is my family not the image of the great American family I see in the magazine;' 'why is it that I only see my father and my second family only during certain holidays;' 'why does mom work two jobs and leave us kids here at home alone;' 'why is my family not a family.'
The memories of my childhood are few and far in between. I can't say that I recall my three best friends "John, Marcus, and Billy-Joe," because they didn't exist. I don't remember having a large playroom full of toys, and the latest and greatest arcade games, because it didn't exist. Neither can I say that every Christmas I woke to loads upon loads of new things to call my own and revel in joy about, with John, Marcus, and Billy-Joe, because this simply did not exist.
Don't misunderstand, though. I'm not out to make it appear that I had the most awful and disappointing childhood. And frankly, I will be the first to admit that there are plenty upon plenties of millions of grown men and teenage young boys who are locked in cold prison cells, who had much worse experiences than I. But unlike some of them, I was so lucky...rather blessed, to not be raised in a ghetto; my parents weren't led down the hard to kill path of heavy drug usage, or even thievery. I wasn't influenced by the streets and being in a gang is not where I sought refuge. Although, being raised in a single family home with three other kids, there were the typical hard times---scarcity of food, unpaid bills, food-stamp recipient, housing assistance--but it wasn't bad enough to kill me. They say the quickest way to poverty is having children out of wedlock, and my mother had four reasons to be on that waiting list for assistance, four free lunch forms to fill out, and four child support checks to collect, and prayed to God they came through 'cause God knows some of us had some deadbeat daddies. But we made it. I'm not in jail, I'm not on drugs, heroin, speed...all the above. I'm not a Blood, I'm not a Crip. I'm not in somebody's mental asylum. Despite that though, where does the real deficiency lie? Where was I really robbed as an individual? Where wasn't I nurtured?
Not only my mother, but my father---even in his absence (which was no fault of his own)---failed to shape the man I was to inevitably become. They failed me because they never made the time to spend time with me. They never really showed me the evils and goods, the trials and the triumphs of the world. They never guided me in what was acceptable and what was not. Basically, I raised myself. They sustained me in my physical being---keeping me clothed, feed, sheltered---but I made me and the world made me who I am today. When I didn't know the answers to a question, I feed my inclination for knowledge; When I was covered and shadowed by clouds of darkness & depression, sadness and shame, I sheltered my own head. And when I felt naked without a person in the world to seek cover, I clothed my own body. Everything I know and everything I have ever known is from my own experiences, or from the mouths of other people who took the time to educate and love upon little ole' me. Somebody was caring enough, had the heart enough to say "I'm going to show this child." But for the most part I've had to learn from my own mistakes, some of which I still make today.
The education I have is because I pushed myself, I motivated myself to do better and be better than my parents were. I was motivated by what not to do, rather than what to do. I have a hard time not blaming my parents for some of the shit I go through each day of my life. Sometimes I play that "what if" game, which I hate; but how do you not, when everything you aren't is because they are not and did not. I blame them for not being involved in my life---why didn't you ask me how school was, or even if I meant someone "special" at school. I blame them for my lack in talent and for making me an inactive child---why didn't you put me in baseball, football...hell, why not ballet. Maybe I could have been a great pianist, or an all-start athlete. I blame them when I can't express myself because I lack the vocabulary, or the education that I desire because they didn't feed me knowledge at home. I blame for not informing me of the weary and wayward ways of the world. Why wasn't I educated about where I came from, my ancestors, my heritage, the persecution of my people. Why didn't you give me a good sense of pride in being a black man in a white man's world. Hell, because of that I struggled with claiming ownership to who I am and from whom I come! Why didn't you...why didn't you be a real parent, a real mom, a real dad and help make me what I could have become or should have become.
You know, this is somthing that I truly thought I could conquer in a matter of days. But out of all the things in my life right now that I am slowly, but surely gaining confidence and bravery to defeat...this is the one battle that pains me more than any. Don't get me wrong...I'm not depressed, and I'm not stressed. I'm just tryng to do better for myself and for my own life, so that I may have peace, prosperity and so that it may be well with me. But this I can't forgive. And as much as it hurts me to say it, my parents failed me and cursed me; and damnit it ain't so easy to just forgive something or someone that has always hurt you. So, really, how do I let go? I want to forgive badly, but I can't close a grave that somebody is still digging?
I've always known that there is and always has been a struggle in the relationship that I hold with my parents. Of course, the revelation didn't come until I was old enough to truly understand more complicated concepts and the ability to analyze them; yet nonetheless the thought has always been 'why is my family not the image of the great American family I see in the magazine;' 'why is it that I only see my father and my second family only during certain holidays;' 'why does mom work two jobs and leave us kids here at home alone;' 'why is my family not a family.'
The memories of my childhood are few and far in between. I can't say that I recall my three best friends "John, Marcus, and Billy-Joe," because they didn't exist. I don't remember having a large playroom full of toys, and the latest and greatest arcade games, because it didn't exist. Neither can I say that every Christmas I woke to loads upon loads of new things to call my own and revel in joy about, with John, Marcus, and Billy-Joe, because this simply did not exist.
Don't misunderstand, though. I'm not out to make it appear that I had the most awful and disappointing childhood. And frankly, I will be the first to admit that there are plenty upon plenties of millions of grown men and teenage young boys who are locked in cold prison cells, who had much worse experiences than I. But unlike some of them, I was so lucky...rather blessed, to not be raised in a ghetto; my parents weren't led down the hard to kill path of heavy drug usage, or even thievery. I wasn't influenced by the streets and being in a gang is not where I sought refuge. Although, being raised in a single family home with three other kids, there were the typical hard times---scarcity of food, unpaid bills, food-stamp recipient, housing assistance--but it wasn't bad enough to kill me. They say the quickest way to poverty is having children out of wedlock, and my mother had four reasons to be on that waiting list for assistance, four free lunch forms to fill out, and four child support checks to collect, and prayed to God they came through 'cause God knows some of us had some deadbeat daddies. But we made it. I'm not in jail, I'm not on drugs, heroin, speed...all the above. I'm not a Blood, I'm not a Crip. I'm not in somebody's mental asylum. Despite that though, where does the real deficiency lie? Where was I really robbed as an individual? Where wasn't I nurtured?
Not only my mother, but my father---even in his absence (which was no fault of his own)---failed to shape the man I was to inevitably become. They failed me because they never made the time to spend time with me. They never really showed me the evils and goods, the trials and the triumphs of the world. They never guided me in what was acceptable and what was not. Basically, I raised myself. They sustained me in my physical being---keeping me clothed, feed, sheltered---but I made me and the world made me who I am today. When I didn't know the answers to a question, I feed my inclination for knowledge; When I was covered and shadowed by clouds of darkness & depression, sadness and shame, I sheltered my own head. And when I felt naked without a person in the world to seek cover, I clothed my own body. Everything I know and everything I have ever known is from my own experiences, or from the mouths of other people who took the time to educate and love upon little ole' me. Somebody was caring enough, had the heart enough to say "I'm going to show this child." But for the most part I've had to learn from my own mistakes, some of which I still make today.
The education I have is because I pushed myself, I motivated myself to do better and be better than my parents were. I was motivated by what not to do, rather than what to do. I have a hard time not blaming my parents for some of the shit I go through each day of my life. Sometimes I play that "what if" game, which I hate; but how do you not, when everything you aren't is because they are not and did not. I blame them for not being involved in my life---why didn't you ask me how school was, or even if I meant someone "special" at school. I blame them for my lack in talent and for making me an inactive child---why didn't you put me in baseball, football...hell, why not ballet. Maybe I could have been a great pianist, or an all-start athlete. I blame them when I can't express myself because I lack the vocabulary, or the education that I desire because they didn't feed me knowledge at home. I blame for not informing me of the weary and wayward ways of the world. Why wasn't I educated about where I came from, my ancestors, my heritage, the persecution of my people. Why didn't you give me a good sense of pride in being a black man in a white man's world. Hell, because of that I struggled with claiming ownership to who I am and from whom I come! Why didn't you...why didn't you be a real parent, a real mom, a real dad and help make me what I could have become or should have become.
You know, this is somthing that I truly thought I could conquer in a matter of days. But out of all the things in my life right now that I am slowly, but surely gaining confidence and bravery to defeat...this is the one battle that pains me more than any. Don't get me wrong...I'm not depressed, and I'm not stressed. I'm just tryng to do better for myself and for my own life, so that I may have peace, prosperity and so that it may be well with me. But this I can't forgive. And as much as it hurts me to say it, my parents failed me and cursed me; and damnit it ain't so easy to just forgive something or someone that has always hurt you. So, really, how do I let go? I want to forgive badly, but I can't close a grave that somebody is still digging?
