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One Pair of Shoes

The long process of letting go.

By Nikao FaithPublished 7 years ago 4 min read
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My most significant memories of childhood center around contributions made by a protective mother and the lack thereof from an absentee dad. My Mother is a head strong island woman. My dad on the other hand is one who, from the time I met him, wondered aimlessly through life for much of his life without any specific positive direction. In retrospect, I believe I owe my determination to survive to my mother and my ability to walk away from situations at the drop of a hat is thanks to my dad. Nevertheless, I remember vividly how Mother would bend over backwards to provide and protect me and my brothers. There were times in my childhood I felt like I would choke from Mother’s protection. She did not give me what I wanted and there were times, we had confrontations about what I thought I was entitled to have. My necessities always prevailed because she always won those battles. I grew up feeling unappreciative for what Mother did for me, at least, until as a single parent I struggled with my own children’s educational, medical and other expenses. From childhood until college age, my accepted norm for family life was having my Mother provide for me and my siblings. To this, there was one exception to the rule, one pair of shoes.

As a child I lived with my Mother and a few times of the year, I traveled to another island where my Dad was living. He was never in a position to accommodate me staying with him as his living conditions were all but ideal. I recall the unusual moments in time when he would pick me up from my aunt to spend a few hours. There was one day I went with him that he took me on an extraordinary trip. He decided he would visit a second-hand store somewhere in an acquaintance’s home. It was there that he decided to purchase for me one pair of (used) shoes. Needless to say, for me, this was monumental. Following this, little did I know that from childhood and for about 30 more years, I carried resentment, indirectly, over that same one pair of shoes. The shoes served as my backdrop to emphasize everything else important that was missing from a Dad: provision, quality time, encouraging words, protection, and guidance.

Later in life, the resentment became clear when I realized that I had totally obliterated him from my life for a period. My Dad and I rarely communicated. The situation was exacerbated when, on rare occasions, he telephoned me, already an adult, looking for financial assistance. The fact that he did not attend one graduation, pre-school, high school college or otherwise, was absent from my wedding (marriage later dissolved), my children’s baptisms and anything else I might have thought was important was not really key anymore. What was key was the audacity that someone whose contribution to their child was summed up in one used pair of shoes was personally unacceptable? Might it have been better if he had given me absolutely nothing? Perhaps I might have leveled out sooner emotionally if this was the case. This is conjecture because I do not know. At some point, my disgust and resentment morphed with rejection, even rejection of the sound of Dad's voice. It took me decades to realize that what was built up in me needed to be deconstructed and carted away, not for him but for his release. What was strange was that I did not even know these feelings were latent.

Literally one day, I had an epiphany that while the resentment was not openly expressed, it lingered. Somewhere deep in the recesses of my heart, I was savoring some bitterness. Getting to the root took acknowledging the pain over one pair of shoes and all the feelings it conjured up. Practically speaking, after the sore was exposed, then it was time to heal by reaching out to him. I became what he was not to me, a provider of sorts. Now a month can barely go by that I check on his needs and what I can possibly assist with. Forgiveness over what all was not given in the past was key to the process. Forgiveness to him was not ever expressed; it was freely released to him in the way my actions gradually unfolded.

Hence somewhere between 7 and 40 years of age, time has been written off on not addressing myself forthwith emotionally in this situation. I now regard myself as older and wiser for it and a lot more grateful for life and what I have been given, including that one pair of (used) shoes.

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