Jeremy Nedd | Parris
Day after the election my father calls to what I first thought to be a long lost hello. Who knows…perhaps he was one of the many men basking in an effervescent glow inspired by the surmounted success of a man just like him. A black man. President. Yea, that makes me want to call the 30-year-old daughter that I have virtually no relationship with. Shall I get started?
Now, I’m always open to a phone call from pops but I’m wise enough now to know that every call has its agenda. That day it happened to be for the sole purpose of indirectly checking on my mother and brother, whom both he refuses to call directly. I take the ex Marine’s orders and give him the low down on how crazy things have been. I know he can hear the stress in my voice hinting at the need for answers. Like…anyday you can step up and play real dad now. I continue to discuss how his son is going to hell in a hand basket and taking my mother to the grave with him. Stealing her life away by the second on some wreckless ish. What does this idiot do? Starts bitching about something between him and my mom and the divorce that happened fifteen years ago. I couldn’t believe my ears – but then again I could because I’d heard it all before.
There I was listening to something I had nothing to do with nor care about at this point in my life. It was almost as if he were trying to fling excuses as to why he abandoned his son. Me, I turned out a little psychotic, but still a good hearted and loving functioning member of public society. 
My brother on the other hand, no. His birth was my dad’s pride and joy. And while my parents remained together, the two were inseparable. But, when my parents divorced my father made a huge mistake. He divorced a three-year-old little boy that had nothing but women around him to show him how life should be. Even now I find myself giving my little brother man-up talks, playing the role of this clown that won’t step up and be what he should. Instead, he calls and takes no pity on the fact that his son is going to become another statistic and fast. Every day my brother is being sucked deeper, so deep that he doesn’t even look at me the same. His eyes are different, he’s someplace else. Hope you can follow me.
I’m here, stuck with the burden of all this. When something happens, I’m the first one they call. When my brother does another phuked up deed I have to listen to my mother cry. In turn I cry and carry the burden of all of that and this guy. A man whose granddaughters don’t even know or recognize by face has the nerve to call me on some slickness. At that moment, as the poison seeped through my ears and into my heart, I shook my head slowly and felt the cry coming.
Sitting there at my desk, staring at a computer screen flooded with unread emails, I felt my ears getting hotter. I blinked an overflow of tears and wiped my face quickly before someone came by. All of it was too much and I was so disheartened and disgusted by my father’s behavior and attitude in all of this. And what’s sad is that I don’t even think he realizes how much he’s impacted the life of the son he’d left behind. How his neglience has attributed to the decisions that my brother has made, and God forbid he make a son thus continuing the destructive cycle. After a few minutes of the nonsense I ultimately concluded that I didn’t have to listen to his illegitimate gripes and asked, “So, are you going to do anything to help? Can you at least call him?”
“Maybe, I mean what do you want me to do about it?” He replied to the question not realizing he’d just finished the conversation.
Put him on hold…and never went back.
-black girl.
