I was thinking about my wife’s response to the man who thought he caused our daughter’s death. She told him, “All that’s left is love.“
This made me think about my stepfather. I’ve written several times about how terrible it was to live with him. But I never wrote about any of the good things.
To honor my wife’s legacy, I thought I should take her words to heart.
My stepfather was a part of my family from when I was 8 years old (3rd grade) until I was 17 years old (11th grade).
He spent nearly 10 years raising me and helping support our family.
Some of the things that follow I loved in the moment. Others, I only came to realize in hindsight.
This one’s for you Allen.
He always treated us like we were his “real kids”. My stepfather had plenty of “real kids” – many of whom lived with us at times. But despite the fact that my sister and I were as white as Irish immigrants could be and my stepfather was dark brown with an afro, he considered us his “babies.” I’d go as far to say he loved us more than his other kids because he spent more time raising us (and we were pretty good kids).
He could build anything. He joked that he was a jack-of-all-trades and a master of none. But with just a a few hand tools, a saw and a drill he did amazing work. He installed hardwood floors in our kitchen (made from scrap wood we found in the basement). When I needed a bookshelf for my growing collection he spent all weekend with me creating a 10 ft high, custom built freestanding bookshelf that I used for the next 20 years. My sister’s bedroom had no closet so he built her a custom walk-in closet large enough that I could sleep in it. He installed a drop ceiling, refinished our hardwood floors and restored our victorian woodwork all by hand. (Mom helped with a lot of labor on these projects, too).
He was a fabulous storyteller. After dinner, we’d sit around the table or on the stoop outside and talk for hours. He’d light up a Benson & Hedges and tell us stories about singing with the Drifters, running a radio station in Antigua, growing up in the projects, and raising kids. He had a deep, powerful voice that was matched by a rich laugh and an uncanny ability to do impersonations and voices.
He was smart, engaged and engaging. Although he never went to college, he worked hard to educate himself. Eventually he worked his way up to be a radio newsman. He wrote his own copy, scanned the AP for source materials and read the newspaper everyday. I remember night after night talking about my schoolwork, astronomy, space exploration, solar power, dinosaurs, genetics and much, much more. He spoke to me as if I was a man, not a child.
He was handsome. In his own way, he was handsome. He had a great smile and eyes that would light the room when he laughed.
He loved me. I remember sitting on his lap as a kid and feeling his scratchy whiskers at the end of the day. The only other people I remember holding me like this were my grandma and my Aunt Essie, so he’s in rare company here.
He showed up. For ten years he worked nearly everyday to help put food on the table, keep us clothed and pay our rent (along with mom doing the same). We weren’t his “real” kids but it didn’t matter. He was there for parent teacher conferences, graduations, guy talk, and the not so fun stuff like paying bills.
He was strong and fearless. I never worried about someone breaking in or someone hurting the family. When we had been burglarized a few times, he setup his own sting and caught a neighbor breaking in. When we lived in the ghetto, there was never a question that he’d protect us. He was the only black man in two of our all white, racist neighborhoods. But that never stopped him from waving to the neighbors, sitting on porch or acting like he was welcomed in the neighborhood. (Trust me, the neighbors let me know he wasn’t but they never said anything to him).
He rose out of the projects. This one I realized when thinking about this post. He was an uneducated black kid raised by a drunken father and drunken stepmother who never made it out of the projects. Yet somehow, he managed to educate himself and work his way out of the projects and into the middle class.
I only saw my stepfather one time after my mother left him for good.
I was at Eat’n’Park with my mom and she said, “There’s Allen at the counter drinking coffee.”
The blood rushed from my head and I felt numb. To me, was still the monster we had escaped from year earlier. I said, “I don’t want him to recognize me.” I ducked my head and we snuck past him out the door.
But then, once I was in the parking lot, I knew I had to go back in.
By that time I had been with Ellen for 5 years and was helping to raise her two kids. I struggled in my attempts to be a good father. There were “not my real Dad” issues since their real Dad remained active and present in their lives.
I also had dropped out of college and was trying to work my way up to a respectable job and eventually return to college. At the time I was working in a warehouse and delivering newspapers at night trying to bring in a few extra dollars.
I asked my mom to wait outside. I took a deep breath and went back in. I sat down and said hello. I told him I wanted him to know that I knew he did his absolute best to raise me as his son. I told him he was the only father I ever knew for those ten years and that now as a stepfather myself, I can appreciate what he did. I told him a little about Ellen, the kids and my own career stumblings.
He hugged me and said, “I love you son and I’m proud of you. Everything is going to work out and you’re going to be just fine.”
He was right.
I never saw him again.
Thank you Allen, wherever you are.
All that’s left is love.