Cracked Roots & Roses 3: June

My name tattooed on a boy’s chest was NOT on my bingo card for 1991. I asked, “Why did you do it?” He said, because he loved me and one day we would get married. This was surreal. I wanted to acknowledge the gesture, so I had my friend Tammy put his name on my forearm. After this, we seemingly got closer. We would do things together on the weekends when he had time. He gave me a thick gold herringbone necklace with his name on it, a lambskin leather bomber with a fur collar, and several pairs of shoes. I was being loved, and I no longer cared what my mother or anyone had to say. I was FULLY prepared to run away from home to live with his family and never return.

Around this time, my father’s health started taking a nosedive. He was throwing up blood more and more often and had started doing drugs on top of drinking. I knew this because I would see the paraphernalia in his bedroom. Also, crack has a distinct smell; I can still remember it. He moved into a separate bedroom a couple of years before because he and my mom just couldn’t get along. I had no attachment to my family, unfortunately. We all seemed to be thrown together, trying to survive what happened to my father years ago.

One night, the ambulance was called for my father. I am still not clear what led up to this. They came upstairs, checked him, decided he should go, so they strapped him to a gurney and took him. I can still see them lifting him into the back of the ambulance. Him being in the hospital for weeks was a bit of a reprieve for me. I didn’t hear anything, so I assumed he was fine and would be out soon. After all, this was normal; he was in and out of the hospital all the time.

One weekend, I stayed home to sit with my brother because my mom was at the hospital with my sister in labor. My friend Tammy came to sleep over with me. It was early August 1991, and still kind of nice outside. While eating popcorn and plain M&Ms, watching videos on BET, there was a knock at the door. It startled both of us because we weren’t expecting company. So, we both ran to the door laughing. My aunt, who lived downstairs, was standing there holding her Harlequin Romance novel, looking sullen. She looked at me flatly and said, “Your father is dead.” The smile left my face. It was like a punch in the chest. I stood there waiting for her to say something else or to explain what happened. She did none of those things. No consolation, no explanation, and no hug. She turned and walked back down the stairs like she hadn’t just changed my life.

Tammy closed the door behind her because I was stuck to the floor. I felt like if I don’t move this won’t be true. She then grabbed me and forced a hug. I didn’t want to hug; I wanted to disappear. I was somehow embarrassed by his death and the emotions I didn’t know I had. I sat on the couch and tried to be normal. I tried to hold back my tears but couldn’t. Chaka Khan’s video Through the Fire played in the background, I still can’t hear that song in its entirety to this day. Tammy held my hand and assured me it was okay to cry. So, I allowed myself to cry for my tormentor.

There was a slight sense of relief. I don’t know if I was crying for him or that this chapter was over. I didn’t sleep at all for days. I would suddenly remember the good times. They were few and far between, but nonetheless, they existed. After all, he was my father, and I look just like him. I remembered walking with him to the liquor store in a snowstorm and how he kept doing splits in the snow to make me laugh. I remembered when a boy named Corey hit me with a crab apple and how my father picked him up by his collar to threaten him. I remembered how funny he was when he was sober. I remembered how he would play a jaw harp at times, and I remembered the piggyback rides when I was much younger and he was happier. How did this happen? He was only 36 years old. I didn’t know how to process this. I was in the thin space between relief and grief. I never told him I loved him, and he never told me, but I somehow knew that he did. I wished I could go back and say something when they were wheeling him out. I wished I knew what hospital he was in or that someone would’ve taken me to visit him. It was too late now. Regret is never felt until it’s too late.

I stayed home while funeral arrangements were being made. I didn’t tell Gino what was going on because I didn’t want him to try to come and see me in this state. I dreaded the day of the funeral. I didn’t want anyone’s pity or sage advice. I didn’t want to go to the cemetery; I didn’t want to sit at the repast and hear about all the fond memories while eating cold, unseasoned catered chicken. I had to ride in the funeral car with my mother and brother, and I hated that even more. I would’ve much rather ridden with my cousin and just been normal for a while. The funeral car was dark and somber, filled with my mother’s sniffles. I couldn’t escape the heaviness of grief, even in the car on that sunny day. My sister sadly gave birth the same day that my father died. My mother decided not to tell her he died until she got home from the hospital. She had a high-risk pregnancy and had to stay in the hospital for a couple of days. I didn’t agree with this, but who was I? My opinion never mattered. Still to this day, my sister hates that she didn’t know or have a chance to say goodbye or go to the funeral. She should’ve been there.

I sat on the front row in the funeral home with my mother and brother. We didn’t have a church, of course, so the funeral was in a small funeral home at the corner. Every time I passed it from that day forward, I was nauseated. People got up and told wonderful stories about my father. I didn’t know the man they spoke so highly of, but it was still cool hearing these accounts. What I really wanted was someone to tell me why we had to call him June and not Dad. I wanted to know why he was so mean. I had questions that nobody had ever answered, but I pushed them all down to get through my imitation of life, and I still push them down. There my father lay in his only gray suit in a felt gray casket, looking like he was just taking a nap while my life took a left turn. The man who made my childhood a living hell, the man who shaped my view of men, was no more.