My father and mother crossed paths during the winter of 1976. Remarkable images illustrate their youthful and carefree spirits, reminiscent of any typical high school couple on a Friday night rendezvous. At that time, they were not yet laden with the responsibilities and demands of parenthood, and the smiles on their faces radiated sheer happiness. The photograph captured my father standing behind my mother, who serenely sat on a stool with her head nestled into his chest.
Coincidentally, it was my father’s cousin, Larry, who introduced my parents. Larry possessed an affable persona and a charming smile. Both my mother and Larry attended J.O. Johnson High School in Huntsville, Alabama. Although Larry was two years older, my mother became intrigued by his enigmatic personality. While she initially dated Larry, their connection fizzled after their second outing. In an attempt to let him down gently, my mother introduced him to her friend, Wanda. Larry, in turn, suggested that my mother meet his cousin, Esau, who attended Gurley High School in a rural area.
On their first date, my mother was captivated by my father’s tenderness. Though he ultimately revealed his outgoing and humorous side, that evening he exuded an air of shyness and courtesy. They spent the evening at a drive-in movie theater. In the front seat, Larry and Wanda appeared to be hitting it off. Larry playfully encouraged Esau to lean in and kiss his date, saying, “Go ahead, cousin, lean in and give her a kiss.”
My father, however, refused, stating, “I just met the girl. I ain’t kissing nothing.”
Following their date, my mother praised my father for being “the perfect gentleman.” Little did she know that his tenderness stemmed from a deep-seated grief that often seeped into his attempts at humor and charm. After a few more dates, my father displayed a remarkable vulnerability by confessing, “My father passed away a few months ago. Right before his death, he declared my brother Barney and I were no good. I thought you deserved fair warning.”
Believing she had the power to mend what was broken, my mother was hooked. Even now, despite knowing that this man would eventually succumb to drug addiction and subject her and her children to abuse, she remains uncertain about whether she should have heeded the warning. After all, their relationship bore the fruits of four children, who bestowed immense joy upon her.
At six feet tall with an athletic build from his basketball-playing days, my dad possessed a slightly lighter brown complexion than the ebony shade that I inherited from our ancestors. Though his clothes may not have been the most expensive, they were always pristine and well-pressed. This affinity for cleanliness endured until his passing in 2017. According to my mother, in his younger years, he was “as fine as the day is long,” enchanting all the girls who caught a glimpse of him.
After dating for a few weeks, my father proudly brought his new love home to meet his mother, Wavon, and his grandmother, Sophia. Sophia instantly assessed my mother, stating definitively, “That is a very good woman right there. You don’t deserve her, Esau.” Turning her attention to my mother, she continued, “Laurie Ann, you seem like a nice girl. You should run. He’ll ruin your life, just like his daddy ruined ours.” Unfazed by such barbs, my father refrained from defending himself. A wide smile tightened on his face, and he lowered his gaze. My mother, overwhelmed by the weight of Sophia’s words, struggled to comprehend their significance.
They were just kids, and their courtship was fleeting. By the spring of 1977, during my mother’s junior year, she found herself pregnant with my sister Latasha. In the summer of 1979, six months prior to my birth, they exchanged vows and married. Though my mother’s pregnancy did not become apparent in their wedding photographs, I was conceived at that point, quietly growing within her womb when they sealed their love with a first kiss as husband and wife.
Unanimously, everyone agreed that my dad possessed a remarkable sense of humor. He possessed an uncanny ability to assign nicknames to family members, friends, and neighbors. When faced with new acquaintances, he would swiftly assess their character and determine whether they were worthy of being dubbed an Onion Head, a Potato Head, or, on rare occasions, a Banana Head. Once he settled on a designation, that became their name. This peculiar habit of renaming individuals was one of his idiosyncrasies that I adopted as an adult.
A few years after their wedding, my father secured a job as a truck driver. He would often return to this profession whenever the conditions of his parole permitted travel out of state. Perhaps he was drawn to the occupation due to its inherent sense of freedom and escape. On the road, he could transcend the demands of family life and the limitations associated with being impoverished, African American, and undereducated. He could mold his identity to suit the truckers he engaged with over the CB radio. Days would pass, and upon his return, he would bask in the glory of his heroic tales and an ample sum of money in his pocket.
During such moments, he regaled us with his jokes, and we would eagerly anticipate his arrival. Whenever he departed again, I would beseech him to take me along, yearning to be his co-pilot, to embark on thrilling adventures by his side. He promised that one day he would fulfill my wish.
When I reached the ripe age of 8 or 9 and acquired the tenacity to insist, he finally relented.
Ecstatic, I leaped and rushed over to my mother. “Did you hear? Did you hear? Dad and I are embarking on a road trip.” A smile illuminated my mother’s face, her joy radiating from within.
I packed my belongings into a small bag—carefully selecting a few outfits, my Optimus Prime Transformer toy, and my cherished Bible. My mother entered the room to guarantee I had all the essential items—an inhaler for my asthma, a toothbrush, and an adequate supply of socks and underwear. As I prepared everything, my dad engaged in conversation with Latasha in the living room. Though she lacked interest in joining us on the journey, she relished the idea of having a couple of days without her pesky little brother.
Until that moment, I had never ventured beyond the confines of my hometown. Nor had I ever spent an extended period alone with my father, save for the brief moments when my mom snatched a quick nap or dashed off to the store. Yet, I summoned my courage, desperate to appear mature enough to undertake this journey.
But just as I was preparing to step outside, my father halted me. “Son, I need to run to the store and pick up some snacks for our trip. I’ll be back to get you.”
“Of course, Dad,” I replied.
While he ventured to the store, I meticulously reviewed the contents of my suitcase to ensure I had everything necessary. Then, I headed outside to wait for him. However, what should have been a brief 15-minute errand began to morph into an uncomfortably prolonged absence. Cars, delivery trucks, and the occasional SUV whizzed past our home, but no sign of an 18-wheeler.
After an hour had elapsed, my mother stepped outside. Speaking softly, she called me by my middle name, recognizing that my given name, Esau, evoked deep pain. “I don’t think he’s coming back, Daniel.” Gently wiping away my tears, she continued, “I know he’ll come for you, but I don’t think he’s returning today.”
Defiantly, I insisted through brimming eyes, “I know he’ll come. I just know it.” I persevered until daylight dimmed, finally wheeling my suitcase back indoors. Months passed before we laid eyes on him again. He neither called nor checked in during his absence. One day, he simply reappeared as though nothing had transpired. I never asked to accompany him on another journey.
There was no gradual descent into a state of turmoil. My father’s addiction arrived in my life fully formed, dividing the man into two distinct entities. One embodiment was the kind and humorous individual I adored, while the other manifested as something far more intimidating. My mother reveals to me that while he was on the road, my father transitioned from marijuana to harder substances. “His trucking buddies introduced him to crack,” she disclosed, “and he was never the same.” Drugs transformed my father into something cold, monstrous, and a threat to my siblings, my mother, and myself.
Occasionally, he would storm out of the house and return engulfed in a fury. The force of the slamming door and the torrent of profanities portended an arduous evening ahead. Invariably, he would discover fault with something my mother or one of us children had done. “Why is this house…”
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