My Father Was My Hero

He was scoring points like Michael Jordan and Wilt Chamberlin combined. I remember that day in the park when I was about five years old. My father played basketball with his buddies and I played in the children’s area on the swings - then I moved to the big slide.

It was a really B-I-G slide and I was a little scared to climb all the way up that giant ladder. But, I took the challenge anyway and slowly climbed up - step-by-step - maintaining a tight grip on the guardrail and keeping my eye on my father.

When I reached the apex of the slide I carefully began to move from the ladder side to the slide side. But, that’s all I remember of that scene because when I woke up I was in my father’s arms. He was running down the street to get me home.

It was the late-1950’s. My father was a big man, one of the best athletes around. He was a cop, a policeman. Everybody respected him. The whole neighbor looked up to him. He was a handsome, intelligent, and personable man, good at everything he did and he had an intelligent and pretty wife.

I imagine that after I fell from the top of the slide, my father checked me. He found that I was unconscious. He scooped me up and started taking me home to my mother who was a nurse. He was frightened. I had fallen about 10 to 15 feet from the top of the slide. When I woke up – about half the way home, I was not surprised to be in my father’s arms as he completed the five blocks back to our house.

I will always cherish that memory. Because of that day and the trips to the barbershop where all the men seemed to straighten up when my father walked in, I’ll always remember that in childhood, my father was my hero. He was there for me.

A Date With Divorce

That was a crushing day. It was one that I will never forget and one that I would eventually repeat myself. The pain, anger and helplessness of that moment are etched in my memory to stay. I was eight and my sister was nine.

My mother called us into the living room. She and my father sat far apart. She told us that we were going to move and that my father would not be moving with us.

My father said nothing. My hero was silent. He was there, but not there. I assumed that his inability to move with us had something to do with the fact that he was a police officer and he had important work to do.

We all cried, just as my sons, their mother and I did on that fateful day 33 years later when I had to break the same kind of news to my own two sons.

But on that day, the earth seemed to stand still as the scene was frozen in the minds of those it hurt.

Beforehand, my mother must have anguished over how she would tell us and how we would react. As the ominous day approached she probably reasoned in her own mind - searching for a way to avoid the evitable.

My father might have wondered how he would look to us, if he would lose our love and what it would be like to be single again.

We left that last family meeting somehow. I have no idea what we did next. Did we eat dinner, watch television or go back to play in our rooms? Whatever we did, my life was not the same again. My family was broken. My heart was broken and I would soon begin to reap the consequences of the seeds that were sown that day.

I did everything I could to get time with my father, visit his mother - my grandmother, in the hope that he would come by. I’d call him on the telephone and of course I’d be ready when he was supposed to pick me up on Saturdays. Whatever I tried, my hero always seemed to be just out of my reach, ever so elusive. Never quiet there – even when he was there.

I still loved him, but that never seemed to be enough – especially when I turned nine and he decided to move – from a few blocks away – to Los Angeles - 400 miles away.

That day when my mother told me that my father was moving to a place where I knew I would not see him was more painful than when we were told that my parents were separating. I knew I would miss my father and I would miss my hero even more because he would no longer be there for me.

At the end of the letters that I wrote to him I drew special signs in triangles that meant that I loved him. He followed my lead and did the same in his letters. That’s why I used to look for him in the mailbox because that’s all the communication I had with him except for an extremely rare telephone call. I still remember what his triangle looked like. I thank God that my father kept up communication, but that was no substitute for him being there. When I fell, when I needed to learn how to fight or play third base, I was alone. He was not there to pick me up.

A few years later when he moved back to our neighborhood in Berkeley I experienced a great sense of relief. He was there, where I could find him, see him and talk to him. My hero was back, but still elusive, there, but not there.

On occasion he would help me with my paper route in the wee hours on Sunday morning by driving me around to make deliveries. I thought that was what fathers were supposed to do. But, he was ever so reluctant. In a tense moment he threatened to “knock me into next week” after I gave him too many instructions on where to go and where to turn. With his foot still on the brake, he stretched from behind the steering wheel into the rear seat of the car with his backhand raised in the air. I knew if he hit me that it was really going to hurt. But, I just looked at him looming over me – I hadn’t done anything wrong.

I didn’t need his help after that. I just wanted him to be there with me – but not his anger.

Years later I was surprised when he showed up at my high school graduation. I thought he’d have an excuse. But, he was there. I was excited, my father, my hero, was there for me.

Then he remarried – again – and I had to deal with her. Later in life she and I got to be good friends, especially after my father died – but at that time she was just his wife. With his new family, that meant less time with me. But I persisted because rejection was no fun. I’d take the bus or drive over to see him, watch the ball game, play some dominoes, borrow some money. He was there. But I had to go home afterwards.

When I was twenty-four my father rescued me again. This time, from the drugs, the loneliness, and the despair – all of that. He helped me get straight, get into school, get a car, get back on my feet.

I imagine that after I fell, my father checked me. He saw that I was unconscious. He scooped me up to take me home. He was frightened.

When I woke up – about half the way home, I was not surprised to be in my hero’s car as he completed the drive back to his house. He picked me up. He was there for me.

Eventually he would leave me again, for the third and final time. You know what they say, “three strikes and you’re out!” Cancer, the big C. It struck him down and took him away. My hero lay silent and still, cold and unfeeling, there – but not there. That day, it hurt too. But, I’ll always remember, my father – my hero.

You see, after a divorce or separation, things are never the same. For this eight-year old boy, my life seemed shattered at the time. Trying to recapture the hero image of my father meant having to deal with the pain of growing up without his everyday presence. But while he was not perfect, he was my father and my hero. He didn’t wear a red cape, he wasn’t faster than a speedy bullet and he couldn’t fly – but he could play dominoes, ping pong and cribbage – and he loved me.

Too many families are stuck in the generational curse of divorce that leaves broken family after broken family.

Broken Home?

The term "broken home" is not a misnomer. It is real, because the break in the hearts of those affects - is real. But, as with any broken-heart, it can be repaired. We can all get over it, heal and move on to have happy and productive lives.

Many a hero is made in this situation as fathers rise from the ashes of destroyed marriages and fruitless relationships to actively nurture, train, discipline and love their offspring.

The key is to be there … even if you are not there.

About the Author

Akili Kumasi is the founder of RECONCILED FATHERS, an organization dedicated to helping separated father reconcile with their children. He is the author of three fatherhood books, Fun Meals for Fathers and Sons: Recipes and Activities for Bonding and Mentoring (co-authored with his two sons), On the Outside Looking In: Hope for Separated Fathers Who Want To Be Good Fathers and Bible Word Search, Volume III: Fathers in the Bible. . Akili is the father of four (two young men and two daughters). He lives with his wife and children in Queens, New York. He tells us that:

“Being a father is one of the greatest rewards and one of the most significant challenges a man can face. No father should miss this God-given responsibility and blessing.”

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