Glory

Meeting My Biological Father for the First Time, at a Funeral

There’s glory in resilience. Throughout my life I practiced all the things I wanted to say to him in the mirror. Emotions I needed to get off my chest. A large portion of those feelings involve anger, bitterness and judgment. Words like coward and asshole are some of the kinder labels I would use to describe him. I thought the long drive over from New Jersey would grant me ample time to draft the perfect speech. No matter how many times you visualize something in your mind, things hardly ever play out exactly how you imagined.

It’s been 25 years since I’ve seen him. Back in 1998, I was an energetic three-year-old who was warm and bubbly with everyone, according to my mom. This makes sense since all my pictures from the 1900’s feature a wide bright smile. Or a gummy one. Even the few photos that I have with him are seemingly happy as can be. I don’t remember those days, nor much of anything about him at all. Theoretically, I’ll be shaking his hand for the first time tonight.

I park my Wrangler by the corner in front of a bodega at the intersection of 189th and Boston Road. The Bronx has a gritty reputation, but in the calm moments of fog and silence it can be quite charming at night. A ghastly cloud departed just moments ago, leaving behind a path of crisp rain droplets along the sidewalk. My inky leather shoes kick up water from a few subtle puddles as I anxiously strut toward the palatial front doors of the funeral home.

I walk in with my sweaty palms tucked deep into the pockets of my long Black trench coat. The place is enormous and packed with bodies from front to back. The smell of freshly vacuumed carpet would’ve dominated had it not been for the multitude of perfumes being worn. Scents of citrus, flowers and musk all battle for the demand of your nostrils.

Most people chat amongst each other while others sit solemnly and listen to the gospel music being amplified through the speakers. The first person I see is my uncle Jason who’s standing tall at 6 '4 about 30 meters down the hall next to a man I don’t recognize. Him and I make eye contact, then he makes a waving gesture with his hand encouraging me to go greet him. As I step forward, all eyes set on me. My legs begin to feel like noodles out of nervousness. Regardless, I place one foot in front of the other, doing my best to hide my true emotions.

I don’t recognize any of the faces staring at me. Some of them lend a heartfelt smile, to which I return the sentiment. Others gaze with curiosity, wondering who this 6’2 stranger is. Uncle Jason holds out his arms and we tightly hug. He wears that cologne that OG’s from back in the day typically wear. The kind that smells like smoked bourbon and tuscan leather. It’s been almost a year since I’ve seen him.

“Nephew! What’s goin’ on? How you livin’?” He asks.

“I’m cool Unc. Blessed. How you doin, how you holdin’ up?” I ask him, with his sister in mind. “Sorry for your loss by the way. I wish I got the chance to meet her.”

“Nephew, it’s all good. Just know that she happy you here. Believe that. She woulda loved to meet you. She’d always mention ya. Thank you for comin’,” he says with reassurance.

“Of course, Unc. You already know,” I say solemnly.

“You know your father’s here, right?” He nods his head toward the lounge area where a larger group of people stand and chat. “Right over there. You want me to bring you over?” He asks with concern.

I thought about that script I’d been rehearsing in my mind during my drive here. I thought about the multitude of harsh words I promised myself I’d use the moment he greets me, in my finest attempt to make him feel the pain I felt for most of my life. Make him regret his greatest mistake of abandoning me.

“Nah Unc. I got this.”

I trek forward, each step symbolizing the leaps I’ve made without him. As he stands against the wall, I recognize him immediately. I knew we look alike due to pictures, but I didn’t expect to be his clone when it came to all our features. A much better-looking clone, of course. The crowd of people that was standing around him moments ago, now form a lane for me to pass through. My frantic heart is about to leap from my chest and burst through my Black turtleneck sweater. We made eye contact, and for the first time in my life, I feel sorry for him. I can see the pain in his eyes. I recognize it from the nights when I was younger and cried myself to sleep wondering why. I immediately spot the embarrassment and regret. I can hear the crowd that surrounds us whispering “Oh my God, that’s his son. That’s his son.”

“Wow. Wow. Is that my son?” He asks. His bottom lip trembles.

Those sentiments of revenge I felt for so long died instantly, evaporating into the bleak atmosphere of the funeral home. I realized his expression of surprise meant that I won. Me being the man that I am, leading the life I’ve led, walking in here graciously with my head high unashamed, told him everything he needed to know. My existence is the victory I’ve been searching for my entire life, which means that I conquered this war a long ago.

I extend my hand out to him, firm and powerful.

“I’m Isaiah. Nice to meet you.”

He extends his, and we shake. His eyes turn watery, forming a lake of sorrow around dim pupils. A tear falls down his left cheek. He makes no attempt to wipe it away.

There’s glory in resilience.