May 1, 2001: She sent the picture

I didn’t think she’d send it—a black and white, the father I didn’t know. Now I’ve seen it—maybe not knowing was best. I looked at his fingers to see if they were mine, the hairline, the smile, the ears, eyes and nose—I have my mother’s features, not his. Have I grown into his shoes? Mentally? Yes… Physically? No… I too have traveled with the world of hidden desires. Did he dream everyday? To be addicted to gambling and drinking takes away from ones passion to dream—the only one he probably held was an attempt to make it rich and feel good about doing so. Was I, their honest mistake? My brother was perfect in Kenny’s eyes—they wanted a daughter and a girl I never became.


The only place I’ll ever gain access to a conversation is in my death—I’m truly bothered by his lack of wanting to get to know who we were. He died in 1977—I was fifteen. He ran from our family when I was three—that gave him twelve years to make some sort of contact. Am I who I am due to this mans life? No! I am the creator of my own path.

Since childhood, I’ve wondered what life would’ve been like if we had been as perfect as anyone living around us? We didn’t have the nicest house, the prettiest lawn and my bedroom was unpainted and the carpet was stained. I pretended to be someone I wasn’t. I settled on radio because it challenged me to hear someone say, “You won’t make it.” Before my first performance, I drew pictures, created games and built toy model skyscrapers and malls. I played my three stringed auction purchased guitar and wrote lyrics to songs still sung today. Just as unfinished as that bedroom is the adult I’ve grown into.

I’ve often blamed my unwillingness to conform on Kenneth—I did all I could not to become him, only to learn, I was my birth father. But why blame him? I didn’t know him! I created myself. I formed this foundation on the assumption of what he was or wasn’t. I didn’t grow up wanting to be a womanizer! I grew up never wanting to be alone. I accepted every chance to not feel that hollow emptiness. Therefore, I became addicted to making people feel incredible. I’m not an alcoholic or drug abuser! Most importantly, I don’t hate my real father. I don’t love him either. He’s a face on a postcard—a man standing next to a woman who just happens to be my mother.

The unspoken conversation:

Me:I’ve heard a lot of shit about you.
Ken:Not as much as I’ve heard about you.
Me:I can’t figure out if I should blame you.
Ken:You might as well, everyone else has.
Me:You hurt my mom!
Ken:Let me show you the list of pain you brought on to others
Me:Hey, it was nice seeing you.
Ken:No it wasn’t….