I remember meeting my father for the first time when I was 15 years old. I rode a grey hound bus for a day and a half. I endured the smells of food, people, overused sanitizers, and two long layovers in towns I’ve never heard of before. When I stepped off the bus the next morning in Detroit, Michigan I saw a modestly dressed man who resembled me standing at my gates entrance waiting for someone. He greeted me as if he knew me and his voice matched the one I’ve heard over the years on the phone. He took my second suitcase and we got into his van parked out in front. The trip to his house only took about 15 minutes. We pulled up to a vintage two story home with three vehicles parked in front. The paint on the house was old and faded and there was a long wooden fence that adorned the side of the house. I entered and saw a stack of boxes as if someone was in the process of moving. This man who said his name was Gary asked if I was hungry. I was very hungry at the time but I lied and said that I was fine. I was really overwhelmed with emotions. I finally had a father who I could get to know. I had a million questions I needed answered all at once. I had to calm my racing thoughts. Tomorrow would be another day for more answers. The next morning, we visited an exotic car dealership. There was this red convertible near the exit that stood out from the other cars. My father noticed me eyeing the car and complimented me on my good taste. He told me after we left that he would consider buying me that car after I had finished working for him over the summer. I felt entitled to the car because he was absent most of my life. He owed me this one treasure to make up for all those lost years. It wasn’t entirely by choice on his part. My mother decided for them both, which caused our prolonged separation until now. I was optimistic, expecting him to be a man of his word since we were starting our new relationship. The following day I sat in front of his warehouse in the humid heat daydreaming while tending to the produce he had me selling. I thought of all the places I would go in my new car. I was going to be one of the most popular kids at my school because of this car. I would pick up all the pretty ladies and usher them around town. This Mercedes convertible had custom chrome rims, candy red paint job, all white interior, and a Bose sound system. It was only a few years old so it looked brand new. All I had to do to earn it was work this summer at his old dusty warehouse doing odd jobs when asked. I figured these two months would pass by like a cool breeze. That cool breeze turned into a raging tornado soon after I had arrived. The first week went by normal enough, but by week two we were two male koi fish in the same small glass jar fighting for dominance. With my southern upbringing, I was raised to respect my elders, especially your parents. I was obliged mainly for the grand prize I desired so badly to receive for working. I thought we were breaking ground in our relationship at first. I quickly saw the deep resentment he had towards my mother, which he decided to take out on me. He first questioned our paternity by saying that my mother was seeing another man soon before they started dating. Next he said that if I was his son why didn’t I carry his last name? All this stung me at my core. I just met this man and all I wanted to do was make him proud of me and happy. I would’ve changed my last name for him. I would’ve done almost anything, but most importantly I just wanted to have a dad. I wanted a father to build great memories with together--as my friends I grew up with were able to do. I worked hard those weeks trying to impress my father. My best efforts never seemed good enough. The harder I worked the more he criticized my attempts. I began to rebel in my heart the day I almost died working for my father. He instructed me to do a dangerous task with painting the back garage by using a termite infested looking ladder. I would be some 15 feet off the ground to reach the top. I had to go up to the second to last step to reach this height. Halfway into the project the ladder broke and I fell on the ground landing hard on the concrete with the bucket of paint nearly missing my head as it fell with me. The bucket hit me on my shoulder, which sent a shock of pain to my neck. When my father came out to inspect all the chaos, he did not ask if I was okay, he only reprimanded me for breaking his old ladder. I thought this was heartless for him not to be concerned about my wellbeing. This resentment grew like a cancer from that night forward. The following week we worked together sawing down limbs from trees that fell on power lines at people’s residences. One day we were greeted by a pleasant lady in her mid-sixties. She offered us tea. My father declined for us both and we soon set up for work. My job was to hold the ladder steadily and hand him his tool of choice for each section of the job. It took different steps when cutting down branches on live power lines. We had to be very careful. As he would cut back and forwards with this saw connected to a long pole that had a rope attached to it, the blade would be swung down after each cut flying in the direction of my head every time barely missing me. I asked him to be careful swinging that blade so close to my face. He told me to be quiet and just hold the ladder steady. Sure enough on the next swing the blade veered directly at my head. Instinctually, I lifted my arms up to protect my face and felt the blade bury deep into my skin. When the teeth of the blade came out I could see the white meat of my flesh before the blood started rushing out. The elderly lady saw what happened from her back kitchen window and came running out to help aid me. After she bandaged me up she suggested that my father take me to the hospital. He calmly told her that I would be okay, that the cuts would heal. He may have been accurate about my physical state but emotionally I was damaged from this second failed attempt on my life (as I had begun to think). The last air in the balloon popped the day when two other guys and myself were shoveling wood chips into one of my father’s loading trucks at a job site. I had to use the bathroom so I walked towards the empty house on the property. He saw me leaving and came rushing at me yelling like a rabid bull telling me to go back to work. I told him I wanted to use the bathroom; he barked, saying I needed to ask him first and to return to work. I felt spit hit my cheek as he ordered me back to work, which only aggravated me more. He stood directly in my face where I could see the rage in his eyes. That was all I could bear. I then stood closer in his face in full defiance. I was at my tipping point ready to exchange blows if necessary. This stranger with the title of father at this moment meant nothing to me. He was never in my life before. Who the hell did he think he was? To prevent this situation from escalating I simply walked away. It took me three exhausting hours on foot to find my way back to my father’s house. Over the next two days I planned my escape. The moment came on a cloudy day when my father went to pick up more roofing supplies. I was in front of the warehouse selling fruits and vegetables again. I waited 15 minutes to make sure he did not double back as he had done before. I then grabbed my luggage that I had smuggled the day before and hid in his other truck parked out front. I caught the next bus that stopped at the corner of the warehouse. It took me downtown near the GM building I remember seeing in a Robo Cop movie once. I was lost in this notorious city of crime so I called my uncle who later picked me up in his new white jag and took me to his mansion with his wife and feisty poodle named Misty that scared me as a child when I visited for my other uncle’s funeral nine years before. A week later, I headed back on the Greyhound bus to Atlanta. I had lost all hope and expectations of ever seeing that red convertible or my father ever again.
"You become your worst enemy when you tell yourself you can’t achieve something when in fact you can be and do anything you want in life." My third grade teacher, Mrs. O’Dell, told me that after I told her I couldn’t write. On the first day of school, Mrs. O’Dell presented each student with a black and white hundred-page notebook to write in each morning. I doubted I would ever become a successful writer because I was told that I had ADD and dyslexia. I was the only kid I knew that failed the first grade. So I told myself that I was stupid and dumber than the other students. My penmanship was horrible and my attention span was as unpredictable as how the wind blows. After Christmas break Mrs. O’Dell introduced me to my favorite childhood book, Where the Red Fern Grows, written by W. Rawls. We watched the movie after she read the book to us. It was a story about a poor boy from the Ozarks named Billy who worked hard around town to save up enough money to purchase two hound dogs, Old Dan and Little Ann, to go raccoon hunting for furs. Billy was brave, honest, and giving, which were qualities I aspired to have.
After the emotional ending of the movie, every eye in the class was full of tears. Mrs. O’Dell then shared with us how to write poems to express our feelings and thoughts. Her style of teaching encouraged me to connect with education in a way I never knew was possible. The things I was once scared to do, I now looked forward to learning. I was excited because I was motivated to read more and write. Because of Mrs. O’Dell, I stayed up all night in bed writing until my fingers became numb. I needed to prove to myself that I was not a failure. Mrs. O’Dell taught me that I could do anything that I put my mind to. I desired to make Mrs. O’Dell proud of me and prove her right. I also wanted one of those large scratch and sniff fruity stickers she passed out for completed work she deemed excellent. My mother was home cooking one of those hamburger helper box meals that you add meat to. I asked her to help me with the editing of my poem at the dinner table; she said my poem was profound and that I was a talented young writer as she kissed me on my forehead.
The poem only had a few grammatical errors she easily fixed. I wanted this poem to be perfect; it was my first poem and my first glimpse at what true power my words could have on people. I went to school the next day and waited last to read my poem. I cared a lot about my teacher and mentor Mrs. O’Dell who I wrote and dedicated my poem to. I heard poems my classmates wrote about dogs and cats, the sun and the moon and now the class would hear my poem called TEACHERS. It was silent in the class as I walked to the front of the chalkboard to read.
The silence was finally broken by the sound of Mrs. O’Dell’s gentle cry. She asked me in a soft voice to come to her desk. I was deeply moved, I never knew a poem could affect someone so emotionally. I understood how movies could because there were actors and dramatic scenes, but a simple poem written by me, a nine year old boy. Mrs. O’Dell asked if I had help writing the poem. I promised her that I wrote it all by myself. She told me to never stop writing because I was great at it. I read the poem again at the school’s assembly honoring teachers later that year. That was the last time I read that poem because Mrs. O’Dell framed my poem and hung it on the wall behind her desk. What I discovered through my education was that I could bring happiness to someone through the power of my words. I never again doubted what I could do positively through this river in my life. I will always remember Mrs. O’Dell’s inspiring words, “you become your worse enemy when you tell yourself you can’t achieve something when in fact you can be and do anything you want to in life.”