Sometimes Being a Mother Means Getting to Know Your Father
by Jeannine Cook

“You aren’t my father, you’re more like a sperm donor,” I remember blurting out at my dad one Father’s Day. He stood with his arms still raised ready for a hug as I turned around and walked away. Smiling to myself, I felt a sense of pride at finally repaying him for a lifetime of sporadic visits and pain. The relationship ended that day–-no more surface conversations about extracurricular school activities or faked happiness at a card in the mail. I was glad that he knew that I had wanted him gone-–or so I thought.

The years without him really weren’t all that bad. Milestones got achieved, fun was had, growth happened. I didn’t think about him much until that thick jelly. One day as I lay on a hospital bed with a nurse rubbing chilled thick jelly onto my six-month-pregnant belly, I realized that something highly important was missing from my unborn child’s life. Immediately, I shook the thought off and tried to replace it with excitement about finding out the sex of my new baby. The nurse turned the lights down and started going over the thick jelly with some type of monitor. Brain, arms, spine, etc. Yes, all of that was very important in an "I-hope-this-baby-is-healthy" kind of way, but the real goose bumps were from the question of hangy-thingy or no hangy-thingy.

She whispered the answer to my husband, who then whispered the answer to me. Actually, I had known it all along–-“It’s a boy.” A miniature man was living in my belly, stomping on my bladder, knocking on my uterus and pulling from my nutrients. And that’s when the nagging thought of what was missing came back to the forefront of my mind. How was I going to have a manchild and still hate the man that I’d come from? Something had to change.

There is no lack of information about the statistics of single-mother households (10 million living with children under 18 years old, up from 3 million in 1970). In fact, missing fathers even have there own nickname: dead-beat dads. Sadly, it has become something of a norm for woman to raise their children with little or no help. To me it sounds like a hold-over from slavery when fathers weren’t really fathers, just sperm providers for the fattening of some master’s crop. As the distinguished historian Orlando Patterson argued, “slavery prevented a black man from being either a father or a husband; he could offer to the mother and the child no security, no status, no name, no identity. The male slave was placed in an impossible situation, one bound to reduce him to a state of chronic jealousy and insecurity about women. And even if he managed somehow to overcome these legal barriers, he often had to live apart from the mother of his child (http://www.thepublicinterest.com).”

Understandings like this and the growing bundle in my belly helped me to reevaluate my attitude towards men–-black men in particular. Is there some type of plan to make everyone hate or fear black men? And if so what was I going to do about it? I called my dad. Actually, I got no answer, which may have been for the best since I was only calling with a bunch of jumbled thoughts and questions after years without conversation. Later that evening, I sat down and wrote three letters.

The first one was to my unborn son. In it I promised to love him without turning him into a weak man. I also had to ask his forgiveness for carrying anger in the same body where he had to live. And I let him know that there are some harsh stereotypes about his future gender, but I also knew that he had the power to expel and/or overcome all of them. The next letter was to myself. Once again I had to ask forgiveness for living a life full of bitterness, furthermore I made a promise to let it go and move forward with an adult understanding–-acknowledging that whatever happened, happened, remaining thankful that I am here now. Lastly, I wrote a letter to my father.

It has been a long time since then. Though our relationship just started with us reintroducing ourselves, we eventually built a strong bond (not to mention the friendship that my father shares with my son and my husband). In a society where so many outside forces influence decisions, it is often very important that we listen to that inner voice of direction. Now when I talk to my son, my husband, my father, or even the guys on the street, I do it with a sense of respect. A sense of respect for myself and my fellow brothers.

Jeannine Cook is a freelance writer based in Pennsylvania.