Little black girls who never met their biological black fathers is a sludge puddle to always step in when you are a thirty four year old black woman who has never met her biological father.
As I see all the pictures of black women who know their fathers, it is bittersweet. I am happy for black women who know their fathers—especially the black daughters who have great relationships with their fathers. However, I am one of those black women that story goes into I never met my father. I am one of those black women whose mother despised my father and took her pain out on me because he wasn’t there to bear it. I am one of those black women who is reminded with the question: Father, why didn’t you try harder to meet me?
My backstory is that my father did come around to visit everyone else in Cochran. I found this out from a custodian working at MGC when I was in my second year. She told me that she knew who I was and knew who my dad was. She encouraged me to go and see him. Yet, I didn’t have any interest because I didn’t know what I would say to my father. All I know is that he is the imaginary father. What is ironic is that he was physically absent in my life but was presently there through the negative stories my mother told about him. When my mom would get angry, upset, or frustrated at me, she would always project her feelings of hatred on me because I look like my father. Now, you ask, “Wow, Sophia, I am surprised that you function as well as you.”
I function as well as I do because I have come to some understandings about myself. Yes, if my dad wanted it, a relationship with my father would have been phenomenal in the fact that it would have helped me with some of the life challenges that I had to face as a youngster. However, that Catch-22 is always there, right? If I had a relationship with my father, it might not have been a positive one and could have caused further damage to me. There are men out there who have made children, but they are not father material. They aren’t parent material. I am not saying that my father is incapable of being a good father. However, my mother had hostile feelings towards him. When he did return and ask her to marry him, she turned him down. To be fair to my mom, it might not have been solely the hurt he caused her (She approached his car to tell him she was pregnant with me, and he rolled up the window in her face before she spotted him with another woman in his car). She could have turn him down so he wouldn’t hurt her farther. Whatever her reasons where, her decisions transpired and had to grow up with my father being the bad guy. If he was the bad guy, then, there was a part of me that was bad, right, because he gave me 23 of his chromosomes, correct?
However, there are historical implications to this. A lot of us black women who have never met our black fathers feel a deep lost because American slavery broke a part black families. Black family members would be sold off for profit, or some American white slaver owners would sell off slave family members as punishment if that slave member went against the order of the slave owners’ rules. How can black men in the later generations be fathers—and be presently there for their daughters, when they come from black family lineages where their families were broken up during that time in history? Then, this matter is more complicated as well when white male slave owners raped black female slaves, and they birth children of color that was enslaved. Usually, your mother did not tell you who your father was because of the shame and guilt that resulted from the slave owner being able to rape you whenever he wanted, and you bore his children resulting from that trauma. Many black children did not have a chance to have relationships with their biological fathers. If their fathers were white, they were white slave owners who raped their mothers. If their fathers were black, their black fathers were sold off to another plantation. Or their black fathers died from being killed white masters when they escaped. Of course, when slaves were free, if you had a black father during Jim Crow and he died, he was lynched. If you had a black father during the Civil Rights Movement, he was slaughtered. If you had a father during the 1990s, you lost him because he murdered your mother.
Of course, there are many black fathers who abandoned their daughters or who were forced to not see their daughters for whatever reasons…and those daughter went through all kinds of hell. The hell of not knowing what does twenty-three chromosomes are like. Not knowing the other side of your family. Not knowing which characteristics you have inherited. I am a mystery, you all. I’ve discovered some pieces of the puzzles, and I have been able to fit them into the appropriate places in the puzzle. Yet, there are other pieces I am missing. The pieces that I have are good. I mean because I know how the overall puzzle looks. However, the puzzle would look much more rich…much more detailed…and most of all, I could completely analyze my entire identity and say…hey, that’s is where I get that quality from.
For little black girls like me when we were younger, it was hell because you are searching from who you look like in the mirror. Who you are starts off with your people. I’ve always been amazed by white friends and family who have taken advantage of their family lineage. They can trace back their family history and understand why they are who they are. However, many I’ve known…shrug their shoulders and don’t think it is a big deal. Why shouldn’t it? It is a privilege that they have. It is always there at their disposable when they question why they are who they are…they don’t even go to the answers that are right under their noses. Everything they possibly need to know is in that family lineage.
You know why Black folks make a HUGE FUCKING DEAL about their roots? We make a huge deal about our roots because there are pieces of us that are missing that we would like to know to have a much richer identity. Our family lines have been broken by white supremacist, white privilege, and Whiteness. Some of us are scrambling like I am. I am scrambling and scraping to find out MORE ABOUT WHO I AM. Don’t get it twisted. I am proud of who I am. What I do know about myself and the experiences I’ve been through have made me who I am today. Yet, black folks who find those pieces of their family history that makes them identify with their characteristics that drive them to make choices to strengthen who they are…they are appreciative of it because it was never a luxury for us. It is a birth right that has been STOLEN from us. Your family history is not a privilege it is a right. It is a right to know who you are and where you come from. That was taken from us. My people and I…some of us try so hard to find those pieces.
I can’t say Happy Father’s Day to my father because I don’t know him. I am one of those black girls who have never met him.