Daddy Dearest: Love, Loss, and the Art of Fatherhood

Father’s Day. How do we formulate this day, this national mandate to venerate the men who beget us, the men who shape us, the men who lay the groundwork for the rest of our lives? Is it an occasion to perform gratitude for our husbands, partners, and predecessors for showing up as providers, protectors, and mentors? Is it a moment to take inventory of how our own fathers, in years long gone, set us up to flourish or flounder, and make peace with the ghosts of the past? Or is it a call to action, an occasion for today’s fathers to distill the toxins, codify the constructive, and clarify the inheritance they want to bequeath to their own children? It depends on who you ask.

For most of my life, this day, the third Sunday of every June, has had little function, other than to highlight the fact that I grew up without a father. As a child, I largely ignored this day; it felt and looked like any other. There was no one to celebrate, no one to emulate, and even after his death, there was nothing of valor I could hold up to commemorate.

My father was known to be “a piece of work,” “touched in the head,” and “a fun drunk to be around.” He was loud, abrasive, and offensive at a time when Black men were systematically required to be restrained, agreeable, and submissive. He came from a family of fighters, heir to generations of institutionalized racism and socially sanctioned terrorism, forcing them to flee the South and migrate North in search of opportunity, dignity, and liberty. Children were to be seen, not heard, and parents had to be tough. A coddled child would languish, even perish, if unprepared for an unapologetically hostile world.

Wooed by my father’s magnetism and intellect, but ultimately horrified by his predilection for manipulation and abuse, my mother disappeared into obscurity, with me, her newly fatherless newborn in tow. She never looked back, never relented, and never coupled again for the rest of her life. And although I always knew that I hadn’t been abandoned, my life has been indelibly defined by his absence. I was a happy child, an untamed child, a resolute child, but without the steady hand of a father’s guidance, I often found myself tripping over my own lapses in judgement and philosophy. As a teen and young adult, boys and men were foreign to me; I hid behind crushes on gay men, ghosted suitors who showed too much interest, and violated girl code in the hopes of satiating an interminable void. I was awkward, I was unbounded, but thankfully, I was also determined to get it right.

Ironically, I’ve always been drawn to friends with sizable, close-knit families, largely functional organisms who have long stood as my greatest examples. They are never perfect, in fact, they are always flawed, but what sets them apart is their respect for one another and their commitment to maintaining their bonds for the long haul. As fathers go, my best friend’s Papa, as she called him, was the pinnacle. He was a raconteur, a gentle warrior, and a steadfast man of faith who was brave enough to push beyond cultural norms and expectations. He encouraged all five of his children, both explicitly and by example, to do the same. Ever the optimist, he taught them to work hard, dream big, and prioritize family. He had an uncanny ability to meet life’s challenges with grace and guts, and shared his authentic self with everyone he met.

Sundays were reserved for watching sports together, and my friend relished in the opportunity to spend extra time with her beloved daddy. He passed on his love of sports to his children, stealthily imparting them with the concepts of teamwork, tenacity, focus, and dedication. He himself was a champion in the boxing ring and on the golf course, but most notably, he triumphed in the face of cancer, living twenty-eight years past his initial diagnosis. Although we finally lost him last year, we continue to win from having known him. Not only was he an example to his own children and grandchildren, but the light he ignited in my friend was passed on to me in the form of chosen sisterhood, and with her guidance, that light was bright enough to help me find my way.

After a series of failed relationships and false starts, I finally learned how to recognize and appreciate a good man. The greatest gift I have ever given to my children is choosing a man of virtue to be their father. He’s been all in from day one. From the delivery room to the Little League field, it is clear that my husband has found his calling. What makes him a truly awe-worthy father, the stuff of Rockwellian portraiture, is that he throws his whole being into the art of fatherhood. And yes, it is an art. He makes it so. He has his own innate style, characterized by an aptitude to quell chaos, an imagination to ignite curiosity, and an ease in expressing affection and praise while still demarcating clear boundaries and demanding respect. On a daily basis, I see how his devotion, integrity, and constant presence impacts their little lives for the greater good.

When prodded, my kids will tell you that their favorite things about their daddy include playing sports in the backyard, beating him at Go Fish, being silly, and giving him boundless hugs and kisses. He shows up for them in ways that matter, ways that will live on with them for a lifetime. His own father, a gregarious people person who always had a joke at the ready, was a loyal husband, an industrious businessman, and a well-loved friend, brother, and grandfather. It’s been more than three years since he left this plane, but it is undeniable that the legacy of honor and fidelity that he left to my husband is bestowed unto our kids every single day.

Let’s face it, even with the best of intentions, parenthood is a crapshoot. We do our best to raise children who are compassionate, successful, and competent, and as my husband’s best friend puts it, you want your kid to be the one that other parents invite back to their house. We all hope to do a little better than our parents did, by having more patience, creating a space for them to be vulnerable, nurturing their talents, and not to f*cking them up so much that they never forgive us. The imprint of a father, for better or worse, has lifelong implications for how we imagine and interact with the world we inhabit. So here’s to grace and guts, clarity and commitment, and a lot of authenticity, humor, and optimism along the way. And yes, because my father’s absence has made me fond of what I now have, we will be celebrating Father’s Day this year and every year to come, with full regalia.