Love is not something that all fathers verbally express to their sons. For those men, itap mostly just something thatap understood, not spoken.
My father told me he loved me very few times, none of which I can now remember. I just knew of his sacrifice, his long hours at work and away from his family. His occasional yielding to my will regarding Twizzlers or toys was his way of saying he loved me.
He died three years ago in August. The following December, I got married to Confidence, an outspoken performance poet fluent in Japanese. I took on the role of father to four children, one of whom is 16-year-old Messiah.
I work much in the same way that my father did. I work, sacrificing my body and time to the daily grind of two or more jobs so that he can have food, football equipment and whatever else he may need. But itap not the same.
That I would have difficulty being in a role of authority not filled by Messiah’s biological father became a hurdle I did not see coming.
When Confidence and I were dating, I talked and joked with Messiah, not foreseeing the day he would disrespect me continually.
My father commanded respect on a lot of levels. He was big — 300-plus pounds of mass left over from his college football years with Baylor University. as a part of the legendary 1974 Miracle on the Brazos team. He was assistant pastor at the Church of Revelation in South Oakcliff, a black neighborhood in Dallas. He was always involved with the lives of the boys in the church, making sure they were on the right path, with school grades or getting a job.
It got to the point that my father was referred to as “Uncle Billy” by a generation of men who were not related to us.
Culturally, I was taught to respect men who worked hard, so I just expected the same of my son.
It was not quite so.
“Yes sir” is not a phrase that falls easily out of Messiah’s mouth, but thatap to be expected when most of the male authority figures in his life are absent.
Messiah’s biological father left him for drugs, going through run-ins with the law that have kept him in and out of prison. So for him, no one (other than his mother) gets the amount of respect from him that my father demanded out of me.
Confidence calls that patriarchy — but that’s a dirty word on my wife’s tongue. For her, it is a poisoned history of chest-beating and empty barking to prove who is right. And, perhaps, I have proven her right on occasion.
I’ve come close to trading blows with Messiah on a number of occasions. His smart mouth is the light to my fuse. We explode in a mushroom of loud, angry voices and buried feelings. When the smoke clears, we hug. We both say we’re sorry, and we move on.
The last fight was mid-March of 2015 while his mother was out of town for the Women of the World Poetry Slam in Albuquerque, N.M. When it was over, I read him a poem I wrote about my frustrations over trying to be a father to him.
He explained how he had taken on the role of man of the house for so long in absence of his father.
Eight months later, I took Messiah to a Broncos game, the one they lost to the Oakland Raiders. His contrarian nature, of course, led him to root for the Raiders, who dominated the game. Still, itap events like these that hopefully are helping to rebuild our bond.
Sometimes, we even say words to each other.
“Thanks,” he says.
“You’re welcome,” I say.
It may not be “yes sir,” but itap a start. We talk football every now and then. I offered to buy him some new cleats this season.
That won’t make up for the heartache of not having the man who looks like him around. It won’t answer why me, a perfect stranger, chose to care more. But itap yet another indication of my love, and lets him know he can depend on me.
Justin Tate is an editorial assistant at The Denver Post.
