My upbringing was odd, at best. I lived in seven states by the age of ten. My dad had been diagnosed with lupus before I was five. My parents got divorced when I was twelve. My dad had his first stroke when I was fifteen. We moved states away from my dad when I was sixteen. My dad got divorced from my stepmother the following year. By seventeen, I had turned into the parent; my dad, the kid.
My parents barely communicated after the divorce, but my sister and I were expected to be at his house, an hour away from home, every weekend.
When my mom told my dad she wanted to move us to a better environment, my dad basically said, "fine. Move 'em. Just don't expect any kind of support." I was sixteen, and began to support myself, including paying some rent at my mom's. I didn't really have a choice, as my dad made it clear we weren't welcome to live with him.
Despite it all, every time my dad had a stroke (about six major ones, five alarming ones, and countless mini-strokes [we'd be on the phone, and he'd just cut out]), I jumped-to and, within hours, no matter where I was in the world (even when I was living in Oz), made my way to him to take care of business.
All of this was undercut by religion, racism, homophobia, and crappy influences. I remember, when Jackie Hill asked me to homecoming when I was a sophomore, my dad asked to see his picture in the yearbook. I happily complied, thinking, "he's so handsome! I can't wait to show him to daddy!" when my dad looked at me in the eyes and said, "you are not going anywhere with this boy." I don't know why I knew, but I knew immediately why I wouldn't be allowed to go out with Jackie Hill. It was because he was black, and my mom let me go to the dance anyway.
I actually have a lot more to say about all that and more, but it's probably not in my best interest. My upbringing was what it was, and it was pretty awful for the most part. For years, I've been striving for forward motion, and dwelling, for me, doesn't help. I do think everyone's stories are great, though
My parents barely communicated after the divorce, but my sister and I were expected to be at his house, an hour away from home, every weekend.
When my mom told my dad she wanted to move us to a better environment, my dad basically said, "fine. Move 'em. Just don't expect any kind of support." I was sixteen, and began to support myself, including paying some rent at my mom's. I didn't really have a choice, as my dad made it clear we weren't welcome to live with him.
Despite it all, every time my dad had a stroke (about six major ones, five alarming ones, and countless mini-strokes [we'd be on the phone, and he'd just cut out]), I jumped-to and, within hours, no matter where I was in the world (even when I was living in Oz), made my way to him to take care of business.
All of this was undercut by religion, racism, homophobia, and crappy influences. I remember, when Jackie Hill asked me to homecoming when I was a sophomore, my dad asked to see his picture in the yearbook. I happily complied, thinking, "he's so handsome! I can't wait to show him to daddy!" when my dad looked at me in the eyes and said, "you are not going anywhere with this boy." I don't know why I knew, but I knew immediately why I wouldn't be allowed to go out with Jackie Hill. It was because he was black, and my mom let me go to the dance anyway.
I actually have a lot more to say about all that and more, but it's probably not in my best interest. My upbringing was what it was, and it was pretty awful for the most part. For years, I've been striving for forward motion, and dwelling, for me, doesn't help. I do think everyone's stories are great, though
