Late one night I started thinking about Bernard, my dad — though I haven’t called him “Dad” since I was 9 years old. It dawned on me that I’ve never given Bernard a present for Father’s Day. There are two reasons for that.
He never lived with my family as I grew up. He’s also dead now.
Growing up, I watched two shows which depicted great relationships between a father and son: The Rifleman and The Andy Griffith Show. The Rifleman was easily my favorite. For 168 episodes, Lucas — the dad, a widower — did everything he could to instill morals, graciousness, ethics, and honesty in his young son, Mark, in the New Mexico Territory of the 1880s.
Of all the series I’ve watched, especially westerns, I’ve never seen a father so loving and caring to his son. I’m not ashamed to say that I’ve cried a lot watching multiple episodes of this series.
I stopped watching it in the late 90s, partly because I was an emotional mess, constantly contemplating and even attempting suicide, and also because it reminded me that I never had a real relationship with my dad.
Bernard never lived with us. He worked as a driver for one of the local breweries. He was also an alcoholic. According to my mom, he used to put beer in my baby bottle because he thought “milk was for sissies.” I don’t know if that’s true or not; if it is, I’m unsure why she or any of my other relatives didn’t stop him.
Bernard picked up me and my half-sister every Friday afternoon after school, and we stayed with him until Sunday night. The first thing we did on the weekend was go to his favorite bar and sit there while he drank with his friends. This was the late 60s and early 70s, and it was also the Black community — things were more lax then. I’m not excusing Bernard’s behavior, simply stating the facts.
I was just 10 when I first drank in the bar with Bernard. He was always drunk when I was with him, though he’d be called a “functioning alcoholic” these days. I continued drinking with him every weekend.
One day in fourth grade, for some reason, I mentioned drinking with my dad. My teacher overheard me and said that beer was made from people’s urine. I believed him, because it looked like it. When my dad picked me up that Friday, I told him why I wouldn’t be drinking with him anymore.
My dad didn’t take me with him to the bar that day, and he never said another word to me until my high school graduation — where he showed up drunk. He got escorted from the auditorium for causing a scene.
Fast-forward four years after my graduation . . .
I had graduated from basic training and was on leave from the Army, visiting my family. It was the day after Christmas, and I was in my old bedroom watching television when my mom got a call from my aunt.
“Bernard killed himself last night,” she told me.
I continued watching TV.
“Did you hear what I said?”
I responded, “Yeah.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Are you going to the funeral?”
“No.”
“Yes, you are. He’s your father.” She turned around and shut my door.
The following Saturday, I was watching cartoons in my bedroom; yes, I was 21. Cartoons were my escape from the world. Sometimes you just need to block out things, especially when you don’t have anyone to talk to.
My mom opened my door and asked, “Are you ready?”
“Ready for what?”
“For the funeral.”
“I told you I wasn’t going.”
“Get up, boy! You’re going to this funeral.” She slammed my door and left me.
I showered and got ready for my father’s funeral, which I didn’t want to attend. I got in the car with my mom, and we drove to my aunt’s house to wait for the limousine to take us to the funeral home.
Walking into her house, the first thing I did was turn on the television to watch my cartoons. Everyone else talked in the kitchen about Bernard and what he did, I assume.
“Turn off that TV!” my mom shouted at me.
I know it’s silly, but I sat there pouting like a spoiled brat. A few minutes later, some family showed up with their 4-year-old. She turned on the TV, and I asked my mom, “How come she can watch TV and I can’t?”
I got the evil eye from her. When she turned around, I got up and changed the channel.
A car horn honked outside. “The limo’s here,” someone said from the kitchen.
I said to my mom, “But Spider-Man just came on.” Yes, I’d seen that episode before, but I really didn’t want to go to this funeral.
Once again, my mom raised her voice: “Turn off that TV and get in the limo.”
I pouted all the way there. People were already seated inside the church when my aunt and uncle entered, followed by my mom and me. Not two seconds after my aunt had walked through the doors, she fainted. Almost every woman in the building started hysterically “crying,” as if on cue.
I burst out laughing. My mom pinched me from behind. “Stop,” she said.
“Why?” I said. “They’re just putting on an act. They didn’t even like the man.”
“That might be true, but you don’t have to laugh.”
I heard all this unnecessary wailing throughout the entire service. If you’ve ever seen A Madea Family Funeral, it was basically like that. I laughed the entire time, because I knew it was all fake. Once we left the church, not one of those women was crying anymore, and I said to my mom, “See, I told you they were faking it.”
As we drove to the cemetery, all I could think about were all the cartoons I was missing. Once they buried Bernard, I was so relieved. It was finally over.
I know all of this sounds callous, but keep in mind that I hadn’t seen my dad since he’d shown up drunk at my high school graduation, and then fourth grade before that. I basically had no connection to him.
Fast-forward decades after the funeral . . .
A recent Christmas marked the 40th anniversary of Bernard’s death. Unlike my mom and sisters, I don’t keep track of family members’ or friends’ deaths, because they tend to focus on those dates for a whole week.
The only reason I remember Bernard’s death is because of his Christmas Day suicide.
I told my mom that he purposely killed himself on Christmas so we’d never forget when he died. I used to wallow in depression during the holidays because I couldn’t stop thinking about him, even though we barely had a relationship. I rarely saw or talked to anyone until after New Year’s, year after year for three decades.
I held a 30-year grudge toward the man who taught me how to drink and stopped speaking to me because I wouldn’t do it with him anymore.
I didn’t know it then, but I later realized that he didn’t know how to be a real father. I never saw him sober.
On Christmas Day 2012, I asked God to forgive me for holding this decades-long grudge against Bernard. Though it’s been over a decade since I’ve forgiven him, I’ve never visited his grave — though I’ve also never visited any other loved ones’ gravestones. I know they’re not there.
Many of us were fortunate enough to have loving fathers, or at least someone to look to as a father figure. Then there are people like me who weren’t as blessed.
Sometimes I wonder if I would’ve become more masculine had Bernard been a better father to me. Even if he had, it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have become attracted to men.
In any case, I’m actually happy with the way I turned out. Despite my hardships, I believe I’ve turned out exactly the way God knew I would.
And that it’s all going just as He planned.
And I will be a Father to you, and you shall be sons and daughters to me, says the Lord Almighty.
2 Corinthians 6:18 (ESV)
Do you have a difficult or nonexistent relationship with your father? How do you bear the grief or anger toward him and/or God?
About the Author
Michael. Thank you for sharing your deeply personal, profound thoughts, feelings, and circumstances. Wow, “Father Wounds” are at the heart of so many of our life journeys filled with challenge and struggle. It is helpful to and healing for us all in this beautiful ministry to hear what and how the stories of others can help us understand ourselves better. Opportunities for acceptance and growth. Where forgiveness may be extended and wholeness may be closer and achievable. Lastly, it begs the question, what may have been Bernard’s own Father Wounds. Perhaps, those answers may further allow us to recognize the need to extend grace. Never, ever, can we justify horrendous decisions of our fathers and the negative impacts. However, we can, as Jesus does, reconcile by putting His Divine salve to close our open wounds. We will still bear those scars but those wounds can close up just a little more today and beyond. Michael, I always truly, truly appreciate you bearing your soul in your posts. You cannot even begin to know the positive impact and lasting legacy it will have. Abundant blessings to you, my brother.