Father's Day Sunday, June 18th, 1300 hours. That is 1pm to the rest of the world not used to military time. I grew up with it in a sense and still use it at work. Hell, I have a hard time the rest of the time not using it. Pretty much everything in my house has been set in the twenty-four hour clock…or whatever actually allows me to do that. I guess it is just a sense of security with it. I don’t know.

Today is Father’s Day. The one time of the year that we all celebrate that one person in our life that we grew up, the one we looked up to and always wanted to be like. Or, most times, we wanted to be like him. The relationship with our fathers is supposed to be a special one, but many of us didn’t actually have that opportunity.

I was adopted when I was two months old, ‘rescued’ so to speak from a foster home where the father was drinking by nine am and I had been burnt almost to a crisp from being left outside all day. Of course, anything that was left outside in the desert sun of Arizona pretty much burned. The summer days got so hot that you literally could cook food on out on the sidewalk.

I don’t know much about the father that birthed me. Actually, to be correct, I don’t know anything about him at all. Hell, I barely know who my mother was. The only information that I know is that she was young and on the more promiscuous side of things. There is suspicion that drugs were involved somewhere in her life. About the only thing that I can say is that she had enough wits about her to realize that she would not be able to raise me to high standards and that I needed to be given the chance for life. It must have been hard for her because it is said that I was obviously cared for before I was left on the neighbor’s doorstep, wrapped in a bathrobe and placed in a shoebox. I must have been really small at the time…or it was a really big shoebox. *cue laughter* The baby pictures that I have of me now show me to be a chubby little thing. But with an adorability factor that I have been told that I grew into with no problems.

The father that I grew up with was a good guy. I really can’t complain much. Just never really grew close to him. He met my mother back when they lived in upper New Jersey, married her in front of a judge in Maryland, and escaped with her to Arizona. From there he joined the Air Force and worked as a mechanic for he time in the force. From the information that I know, he left that after his time and went into construction and antiques with my mother. They built houses up in Flagstaff, AZ and mom injured her neck at one of the times he was working another job; something with Purina Pet Foods in their plant. Honestly, I don’t think there is much of a time that I can think of him spending a full amount of time at home…he was always working.

After I had turned seven, it was decided that we were leaving Arizona in an attempt to escape the depression that was hitting the area. Mom flew out to Pennsylvania , leaving me and dad to drive our belongings cross-country in the U-Haul, towing the pickup behind us. He took me to California to Disneyland before leaving, giving me a chance to live like a little kid before being forced to lose my roots. We had a good time on our travels, telling me what state we were traveling through, crashing in the bed of the truck. He stopped off in Michigan to see his brother and his family, introducing me to two of my cousins, one who has now become a published golf instructor. (At least I think he is an instructor….he has recently been on the cover of Golf Magazine.) During that trip we lost our cat Ali to the outdoors; dad thought he was being a good pet owner by cracking the truck window for the cat so he could get some fresh air. Little did he know that the cat could squeeze through the smallest of spaces. Mom was not exactly thrilled with the loss of Ali, but we all coped in Pennsylvania.

New York state saw the first of the two times that I was with my father for a lengthy period of time. Mom had taken a job as the decorating coordinator for a hospital over in Jersey and had to leave home for it. That left me and dad lone for about six months I think. He was working full time and dropping me off at a babysitter’s place for mornings and most afternoons. My eighth birthday saw us trekking to Jersey to visit mom and exploring New York City. Mom finally came back and dad managed to land a job at West Point as a construction inspector/engineer for the barracks and such around the academy. I got to tour the academy, meet some of the cadets, and see the field where the Army football team played and faced off against Navy many times. From West Point he was transferred to help out with Steward Air Base up near Newburgh, NY…about forty-five minutes or so up the river from West Point.

I turned nine in 2000 and the final months of that year saw us move to North Carolina in anticipation of my dad being transferred down to Fort Bragg. My father might not have been in the military officially, but it seemed at times that we lived like a military family. It was disconcerting at times. There was only one problem, though. Dad didn’t get the transfer that he had been told to expect. Nearly seven years would go by before he finally demoted himself to take a position at Bragg. Me and mom were left to fend for ourselves essentially…mom with a religious set of neighbors who did not think it was right for a mother to be living alone, and me to try to make friends in a new area again.

Fourth grade saw me coming in halfway through the school year and being forced to catch up on North Carolina history. Trading school systems became a shock for me and I started to skip my homework, or doing very poorly on it. I never was one for making friends very easily…a remnant defense mechanism of learning I had been adopted and knowing that my sister was out there somewhere across the country. Our move across the US did not see her joining us, but that is a story for a different day.

My rebellious side started coming out in fifth grade, seeing me land detention several times and my mother having clashes with the school principal. I skipped classes or school completely, became bored with my studies as they lacked a challenge for me, and watched me spend more time not paying attention to anything. Then came the second time I spent a long time with my father. I went back to New York with him, enrolling into the elementary school there and living in a studio-style apartment with him. He had been living in his pickup on base, occasionally staying at the five-star on base. Mornings would come early and I would crash a few more hours in the truck while he worked before finally taking me on to school. Afternoons saw me staying the after school program doing my homework or playing on the playground until he was able to come and get me. Dinners were usually hot dogs that got burned in the oven. There wasn’t much that we could do, but we made the best of it. I spent a lot of time on base with dad, learning how to read two lines at a time in a book, running tools to the guys that would come in to fix their cars, playing around in the back lot with the rocks or catching things in the stream. I became friends with the kids whose fathers worked with my dad in the shop. There was just something about being on the base with my dad that seemed right. I was finally around people that didn’t treat me like a kid; they didn’t try to talk down to me or attempt to make me feel stupid. There were kids around that I could play with and not feel like I had to pretend to know something that I didn’t in order to fit in. I could actually be myself.

But that time had to come to end and I was sent back to North Carolina to be with mom and continue my schooling. She didn’t like the school system or how they had handled things with me, so she decided to take my education in her own hands and do it the right way. My interests were allowed to be explored, spending time with a vet student exploring the local woods and creeks or ponds to find new animals. Dad attempted to help out from afar, bringing home the economy-sized mayonnaise or pickle jars that the on-base deli had finished with. Those containers became the homes of fish, beetles, grasshoppers, caterpillars and more in the backyard. The times he was home saw him building a tree-house of sorts for me, attempting to teach me how to play football and baseball. I didn’t do bad with those sports, but it was still not enough time spent with him. It was usually once ever three or four months for about a week or two when possible.

As time went by, it saw tensions with me and my mom escalate. My schoolwork was still going well, and I learned speech, journalism, small engines, advanced English for my age, Latin, Spanish, and many other classes that were not due in the normal school systems for a few more years. But it didn’t ease the fact that me and mom were fighting and starting to come to blows. Distrust was created between the two of us and there was no one else around that could distract from it. Dad would come home to visit and a truce would be called, only to start within days of his departure. The few liberties that I had became even more limited, and there wasn’t much that could be done about it.

About the time I turned fourteen it was decided that some manners of protection from my former sister were needed. It was then decided to change my name, something I know had to be a blow to my father. He wouldn’t have the chance to see his name carried on from his own family line. It was up to his neice and nephews to do that job. Age sixteen saw me re-enter the public high school to finish out the last bit of my schooling. Dad had finally been able to come down to North Carolina, but by that time damage had been done. He hadn’t been around during the more important years of my life to help be that positive male role-model. Yes, I was around a few guys that I could look up…the naturalist with the local city parks who allowed me to attend the adult classes and even teach one of the kid classes; the curators at the local science museum who showed an interest in my life, my swim coach’s brother who taught me how to perfect my butterfly while I was on the team. But they weren’t around on that twenty-four/seven thing that many other kids had their parents.

So my dad came down with the intention of being able to fit back into the family…be able to pick up where things had left off years prior. But that was not going to happen in the least bit. I had grown resentful of others, building the walls higher and higher and putting on defensive airs to keep others at bay. I ran away from home several times, staying with friends from work and finally staying in a halfway house for a couple of weeks. Mom didn’t want to deal with me most of the time, but dad came to the house and would take me to school to make sure that my education would continue. He attempted to realize that there was issues going on that he might be able to help with…he just did not know how to be able to broach the subject with me. He took me to the library to complete my projects for school, nearly catching me in the act of talking to people online when I should have been doing research. Oops. That would have been embarrassing to be outted to my father by him seeing me talk to my online boyfriend. “Dad, go away, I am trying to talk to my boyfriend who lives on the coast and is twelve years my senior.”

The tail end of my junior year of high school, which became my last year as I graduated that spring, also saw me visiting the inside of the Wake County Jail, floor 12: Juvenile Ward. The fighting had gotten really bad with my parents and it was decided something needed to be done. Enter misdemeanor assault charges and two years probation. I came home for a brief period after my suspension, only to break the terms of my release and go back. I didn’t want to be at home or around my parents. After my second release and the meeting with the probation office (who I do have to admit was cute), it was decided that I needed to move out. School was over for me as the next step was college. I had money aside in my savings and that would serve to fund my apartment. I didn’t care where I went, just as long as I got out of the house. Mom found the place and dad took me to view it. It wasn’t the best of locations as it was located right down the street from Dorothea Dix Mental Hospital. It was former dorms that had been broken down and converted into minimalistic studio-style apartments…a complex called the State House. I would wake up to gunfire at night or hearing my neighbor fucking some girl in the middle of the day and her screaming in ecstasy over the music. Fortunately I had already started having sex, having been raped by my first boyfriend, so I didn’t think much of it other than I was slightly disgusted by hearing a man and woman have sex. Yeah, at that time, I was definitely an out and proud gay kid coming into his own.

I didn’t get my driver’s license until I was eighteen years old…a late bloomer, so to speak. Dad oversaw most of the lessons…it just was easier with him. Mom and I had been fighting for so long that it was hard to put the animosity aside. Dad was the one to come and check on me at the apartment and make sure that I had food. He was the one to find out that I had been drinking at an early age, although he never found out how old I really was when I started drinking. That information was not being shared with him.

Time went by and I relocated cities. Dad seemed to take my coming out a little bit better than my mom did, although I know that he was not thrilled with it. He asked me how the lifestyles differed between the cites, how the clubs might be different. He was the one to keep the peace within the family. For that I do have to thank him. He has suffered a lot medically in the last eight years, and I know that it has not been easy for him on many levels. But he has been a trooper and pulled through with very few complaints that I am aware of. He lost his father as a child to alcohol and I think that is why he tried his best to do what he could for me. It wasn’t ever much, but he essentially served as the glue to keep the family together.

So, this Father’s Day, I have to thank my dad for all that he has done to try to make life the best for me. I know that there are things he does that are not always agreeable, but he does it out of love for me and he is trying to fill that spot that I have that yearns to know who helped create me.  ¶ 6/18/2006 12:39:00 PM