Chapter 3:
Crumbs
For most years of my childhood the holiday season played out fairly consistently and comparably. The first decade or so of my life my father's parents lived up in Oklahoma. After my grandfather died when I was 5, we continued to visit my grandmother. We made the trip most Thanksgivings and gathered with other out-of-town cousins and relatives. Around middle school my grandmother moved down to Texas, 35 minutes away from our home, so we visited every single Sunday afternoon. Recounting this is even strange for me to look back on because it was all, truly, fairly "normal" - something most aspects and recollections of my life have never been.
As a young child I battled through intense insecurity issues, extreme anger outbursts and unfathomable emotional irregularities from years of physical and sexual abuse under the care of my mother. Elementary is a pretty chaotic blur, but by the time I was heading to middle school I was an all A student, respectful classmate and loving son. I was deathly shy, awkwardly quiet and devastatingly depressed.
One Sunday visit to my grandmother's - post Thanksgiving festivities, just mere days after the full house filled with bellowing cackles of yesterday's tales, when quiet had finally resumed and peace was in restoration - one of my most difficult memories to experience occured:
The last moment I was ever violent. The last time I ever willingly hurt somebody through physical force. The last combative interaction I ever had with my father.
For many years, I struggled to go back to this moment. To face myself as myself. To accept and transform the real and upsetting recognition that I had behaved foolishly, harmfully and childishly. That my actions were uncalled for, twisted and damaging. That what was standing in front of me was a hero, the hero, of so much more than just this one life, just this one child. That I was blessed in ways I couldn't even understand. To have had the father I had is immeasurably fortunate. This moment was, ultimately, gigantic for me and one that when faced, helped me grow as a man and as a friend and as a son.
My grandmother, Meemaw, always had sweets and treats and breads and goodies out on the kitchen counter so any Sunday was a delicious one, but especially the Sunday after T-Day. This time there was one slice of the chocolate pecan pie remaining, and I was for sure going to make the most of that opportunity. Chocolate pie was incredible. Pecan pie was the best. But both? In one? I gotta have it.
I scooped the sugary slice, plopped it on my plate and around the counter waltzed over my dad. He smiled all goofy and swooped his curious fingers down to my pie and took a pinch.
"HEY! That's MINE!" I shrieked in horror as my dad turned around giggling and racing back to his seat.
I sprinted after him and the second I was within reach I shoved him HARD, rocketing his already accelerated forward momentum and launching him into the solid wooden chairs along the corner of the room, into the dining table, against the wall and down to the ground.
The second I touched him I felt sick. The moment my arms reached his back, I knew I was wrong. I had overreacted. I had messed up. I was hurting somebody I loved. But it was too late. I had made my choice. I was taking my action. I didn't choose to maintain enough discipline of my own reactions to have a more thoughtful and accurate assessment of how to process and feel and release my emotions. I didn't reflect the patience that I knew I had to channel in order to have a more true experience that reflected the reality around me more closely so I could react with sense and grace and understanding. I let it slip. I neglected my self-accountability. By the time the bad action had occurred, the preventative practices became obsolete.
My dad's eyes welled as he looked back at me in disbelief from the cold, hard ground. He didn't even try to stand up immediately. He took his time. It hurt. Of course it hurt. Those were some high quality wooden chairs on top of some hard cement tile. He landed with speed and chaos, thanks to my shove. But the hurt in his eyes was something much deeper, higher and stronger than any physical concept. That hurt came from love. I had proven that I wasn't ready to be trusted. I had lost my father's belief in my word, in my being. That was intense for me to cope with. The look on his face was an honest one, the look of somebody who had just been backstabbed by his closest friend, because he, in fact, had.
My father didn't speak to me for several days. It was very rare that the intensity of my actions and misbehaviors resulted in the silent treatment from my father. He was an extremely patient, wildly strong individual who took on a lot of challenge everyday and didn't wear a bit of it for others. He was peaceful, calm and disciplined in ways I've only recently even recognized. He didn't stop speaking to me because he wanted me to learn some lesson. He genuinely needed that time, that space for himself to regain composure, maintain clarity and proceed as his healthiest, most true self for what I might put him through next. He valued being a father and the responsibility that comes with bringing a new life into this world more than anybody I have ever known. At 12 years old, and after a few years of continuous growth, bonding and maturing, he had begun to see me shine. He had begun to ease his worries about my day to day well-being and started to see my potential be actualized, and not just hoped for.
And then I had another setback, another attack, another act of anguish that was taken out on him...again. And it shook him up. And it shook me up. And it never happened again.
When we did finally talk about it he explained to me that all he got from my pie was "a couple of crumbs" and that he was goofing off, not acting maliciously. Recognizing this, I sensed how I took those exact actions and spun them as some self-victimizing act against me. I felt like such an idiot, because my father was never against me. Ever. I created that in a split second of pain. The impact on me from those who did hurt me was lingering and I had to stomach that and continue to aim higher and grow further.
My father died a few years later after a 2 year battle with an extremely rare form of cancer. We were best friends. We were just alike. We had established fun, peace and love between each other for a brief moment, after years of hate and misunderstanding and rage, and then he was gone.
To be able to say I have way more positive memories with my father than I do negative ones is actually quite incredible, as my life was very difficult to experience from where I was internally through those years. But, even more than that, most of my positive memories through those years of struggle and pain involve my father. Right there. Laughing. Smiling. Joking. Encouraging. Loving. Beaming.
And thank God I got to be close to him for as long as I did.
Happy Holidays.
This is just one story, the third story, in a series of stories that makes up what you read today. Rooted will never cease to intrigue and will always aim to inspire. I am deeply grateful for the experiences that I have had, the people who have pushed me to share them, and those who discover and receive my expressions today and tomorrow.
See you next week with a new tale from the depths of my past - bleached onto my eyes, deep rooted into my mind, refined and healed through my soul and articulated down to this page for all to hear.