Funny thing is my father is not my Daddy

My biological father pretty much disowned me before the ink was dry on the divorce papers filed by my mother. I was only thirteen at the time but was told because of my mother’s choice to leave him and my choice to live with her that I was pretty much on my own and in his words “don’t ask me for shit”.

And to my recollection, I never asked the man who I now refer to as Beelzebob, for a daggone thing. But because my mother for all intents and purposes raised me right, I performed the role of the dutiful daughter well. I sent him birthday and Christmas cards when I could, but even when I couldn’t, I always called.

And for many years, my efforts were reciprocated. I can’t recall when I stopped hearing from my father, but I do know what happened the last time I tried to talk to the man.

Ironically because I didn’t have a father figure around when I was an adolescent, I became a teenaged mother and any aspirations I had for going to college were put on hold for a substantial period of time.

I was thirty-six years old when I received my baccalaureate of English from Rutgers University. Since I received my G.E.D. in the mail, it would be the first time I would walk across anybody’s stage for any kind of academic achievement.

Of course I wanted my family to be there. I had already reserved a ticket for my Mom, so I happily called Beelzebob. Knowing the man had caller ID and that he didn’t recognize the number for the new mobile plan I just signed up for I was forced to leave him a message.

I explained he’d have to call me back before the end of the week so I could snatch him up a ticket.

When he didn’t call back that evening, I didn’t think anything of it. But after the next night, I got concerned. So while I was on the train headed to one of the remaining evening classes I had to go to, I dialed his number again.

This time I didn’t receive his answering machine. What I did hear however was a dial tone with a pre-recorded message that said:

The person you have dialed is not accepting calls at this time.

I frowned and looked at the phone, shut it, then put it in the front pocket of my book bag. I rationalized that I was on the train, after all, maybe the signal was bad.

I would wait until I was officially above ground to make the call again. Not only did I make the call, but I made the call three times and each time I received the same recorded message.

I’m not sure what made me look down at the console of my car, but when I did I saw the change I used to get closer parking at the train station in the morning. I grabbed a handful of quarters and walked back into the train station. I made a beeline for a pay phone, but before I put the coins in the slot, I dialed Beelzebob’s phone number one last time from my mobile:

The person you have dialed is not accepting calls at this time.

Then I put a couple of coins in the pay phone because I had anticipated some sort of dialogue when I did reach the man.

“Helluh” Beelzebob answered as if he were confused and out of breath.

“Dad?” I asked just as confused.

I swear the man dropped the phone or threw it against the wall because it sounded like someone tossed the phone into a ceiling fan and the cord wrapped around a blade with the receiver swinging at hitting random walls and other blades.

Then the ominous dial tone.

I mean I could have went to the next pay phone and called the man back, but what was the point.

Instead I drove to my sister in law’s house.

My sister in law and I became close instantly and stayed close long after my divorce. We’re so close that we dropped the “in law” in our titles and just call each other sisters. By default her parents became my parents. And although I love both of my Sis’s parents dearly, Daddy was there at just the right time. Tears were already streaming down my face by the time I parked the car and walked up to my sister’s door and rung the bell. When Daddy answered it his eyes got all wide; and I honestly don’t remember what I said,how it came out, or if it was even audible. All I know, is at the end of the conversation, even though he was goin anyway because my sister managed to bag enough credits to graduate with me, he made sure to tell me that he was going to see me graduate and that he’d be there for me always.

And he has been. I especially appreciate our monthly jaunts to the dispensary. He always plays my favorite R&B music while telling me colorful anecdotes about his daily errands to descriptive verbal masterpieces taken from the time in his youth when “it wasn’t on him, but in him”.

Some of the stories are so fascinating, I swear he embellishes a little bit. However when, I call my Sis on it and she says, “unt -uh Daddy ain’t ever gon lie to ya nah”.

And that’s comforting to have that constant like Daddy’s cup of coffee & car ride conversations.