Adoption and Redemption

There's a difference between a father and a daddy. I've had both, so I know.

A father describes a biological, and sometimes a legal relationship. It doesn't say much else. But a daddy! A daddy is the guy who's there. He's the kisser of boo-boos, the teacher of lessons, the provider, and the protector.

My daddy and my father are 2 different men. Brothers, but still, two completely different men.

My daddy, the man who came to his baby brother's rescue and adopted his infant daughter is and always will be a legend in my book. He's the man that taught me that kindness, hard work, and a little fight will take you where you need to go. He will always be the best man I've ever known and the first and only (aside from my husband) person to love me without reservation or conditions.

But this story isn't about my daddy. It's about my father, the man who helped create me. A man I spent my childhood resenting because he rejected me. A man I scoffed at because who the hell doesn't take care of his kids?

I heard all the stories about the carefree, womanizer. He was devastatingly handsome, they said, and charming. He loved a good party and was no stranger to a case of beer. At 25, with no job and no prospects, he found himself with 3 children when his lover, a still legally married white woman, died.

He took the help that was offered. Maybe the easy way out. Maybe not. He handed 3 children over to his oldest brother. Two for a year to allow him to get on his feet. He'd go to school, he said, take a trade, then get a job. And the baby, the raven-haired beauty, who he knew for 3 short weeks, that would be for keeps.

That baby was me. And he gave me to his brother to adopt. And I hated his guts for it. I hated myself for it. What was wrong with me? Why didn't he want me? It hurt my soul and no amount of my daddy telling me how he fell in love with me instantly when I grabbed his nose filled that hole.

My blood, my flesh, and blood didn't fight for me. I had 3 children. I'd walk through fire for them. Why did he not walk through fire for me? Why wasn't I worth it?

Then I met him. I was 16. I spent a month in Nova Scotia with my biological family. My father had married a wonderful woman, Erna, and had 3 kids with her and one other right after me.

I remember finding myself conflicted. We didn't exactly connect. He wouldn't look at me. He'd glance. He saw me. But he couldn't meet my eyes. I took that as weakness. I took that as a man who still couldn't face up to the mess he left behind. Me. And I was a mess, mixed race, mixed up, and trying to figure out my place in a late-80s, rapidly changing world.

But he was so cool. He was the exact opposite of his oldest brother, my daddy. He was quiet and easygoing. He was also funny. he had bad taste in hockey teams, but whatever.

And he seemed to love his kids.

That confused me. I loved him. I hated him. What was so great about those kids? After all, I was the one on her way to university with top grades. I was the champion gymnast and track star. What about me?

Years went by. Decades went by. And that's where the lessons kicked in. It wasn't about me. It was about a kid faced with an impossible choice. It was about a kid, filled with grief, faced with officials, a Black kid, in 1971, in a white town, with a dead white girlfriend, and no idea what to do.

He had love. I saw that. I saw it in our subsequent visits. I saw it at my daddy's funeral in 1994 when he hugged me and said he'd be there. I rebuffed him at the time. I was still angry.

I saw it in the life he created for my siblings and my nieces and nephews.

It took time, but he grew up. And he became a loving, present daddy, not just a father, but a daddy. Not to me, exactly, but to my siblings and their children. To them, he was the best daddy and grandfather in the universe. Family was everything to him. I'm glad he was able to give that to them. And I'm glad I got a small taste of it.

That's what Gordon, my birth father, taught me that sometimes you have to let those you love go for their own good. His actions weren't selfish, they were selfless. He couldn't keep the raven-haired baby. The law wouldn't allow it, and his good conscience wouldn't.

I think that haunted him to his dying day. He never did explain. He never did look me in the eye. He never did answer my questions about my mother. It was like he blocked it out, too painful to deal with.

I get it now. And our visits when I was older, in my 40s were more relaxed. There was no need to explain. I knew he loved me as his offspring. And I also knew there were things he just didn't want to discuss.

He also taught me that everyone can change. Everyone can grow. Don't count anyone out. If you give people enough space, enough opportunity, enough unconditional love, and support, they will grow, they will rise to the challenge and they will become everything they were meant to be.

My father did that. I wish I could tell him, but I think he knows. I think he knows the humble lessons he taught me from afar. People can and do change. The person you are at 25 isn't the person you are at 45. Let's not judge each other so harshly.