conceal don't feel [memoir] [actual thing]

I remember the first time my father shed tears.

My parents had picked me up from school just like it was any other day and took the twenty minute drive from work to home with little chatter. I was usually filled with trivial stories and my parents usually chattered about changes to the Birmingham district.

When we got home, I'm sure I disappeared into my room like usual to read a trashy teen lit novel, my father to the basement to watch sports in the dark and pretend not to fall asleep halfway through, and my mother to their bedroom to read her African-American books, the only kind of books she had.

My mother called me downstairs which I was reluctant to do because I'd just gotten to an emotionally juicy part of my novel and whatever she was interrupting me for could wait (examples include: "there are socks on the floor in your room" and "it's six PM on a Saturday put something else besides pajamas on"). When her call became more insistent, I thundered down the stairs, running my greasy fingers down the mauve walls, nudging the wooden railing with my hip. Childishly making my presence known and that I was obeying her demand, however reluctantly.

I hung a left to the hallway down to my parents' bedroom, smirking at the faceless African dancers hung in time on the wall. They'd confused me as a child - black faces with colorful garb? What were they celebrating? I leaned into the doorway, rolling my eyes at my stern mother who sat at the edge of the bed. "Yeah?"

"Sit down, honey."

"Why, am I in trouble?"

She smiled sadly at me and I instantly felt this strange pain in my chest. My mother wasn't the greatest at showing sympathy. So in this small moment, seeing her show that look filled with pity, fear, and discomfort, I swallowed hard and felt the corners of my eyes stinging. I didn't know what I would be crying for, just that something serious was about to happen.

"Honey, your Daddy had been feeling very sad today. Honey, Daddy's crying in the basement right now." I was twelve years old, very past the point of calling my father "Daddy" anymore, not that she would notice. Confusion, shock, fear. What could possibly make my father so upset? He hadn't cried at his father's funeral, he hadn't cried when Mom had a meltdown and ran away to Virginia, he hadn't cried at anything. My dad was a strong man and he was someone I looked up to: someone who didn't have to show all those expressive emotions when he felt them.

I didn't believe her. I wanted to go downstairs but her grip on my arm was too tight. I was eight inches taller than her but all it took was a look for me to sit back down, ears back and tail between my legs. I finally brought up the courage to ask the question. "Why is Dad crying?"

"Honey, he thinks you won't love him anymore."

"What? Why?" It was such a strange answer to that question. I was generally a good kid: I did was I was supposed to, I rebelled where I could, but I mostly followed whatever they said without questioning. I strqained to remember if I had something that would indicate otherwise to my dad.

I really couldn't think of anything. I'd struggled with the relationship with my mother: we fought often about what I should or shouldn't wear, what was acceptable to do in public, how I needed to act when we went to church. My dad was often the only part of my childhood where I could actually be whoever and be accepted as I was. My dad and I would go out to the golf course on Sundays and those were the days when I realized how much I loved my father. Not just because we had a good time and he was helping me get better at something, but because it was an afternoon away from our nagging glue that held our tiny family together. With the amount of time my father and I spent together and the vast difference of my enjoyment of my time with him over my time with her, I sometimes wondered if she and I were even related.

"..Honey, he thinks you won't love him anymore because..well. We talked about it and we decided that it was the right time to tell you: You're adopted."

I sat still for a moment, still captivated by the image of my father crying. It was hard to imagine his happy round smile turned anywhere but up. The graying hairs of his beard and moustache poking in his lips as he grinned, his belly shaking with laughter were replaced with tears streaming down his face, making ugly what once held a serious passion for his job. The way his eyes lit up when he made a joke, the way he snickered and sometimes started coughing when he said something that was too funny. It was too strange.

"You guys don't have to have anything to worry about." I moved over and put my hand on my mother's shoulder, giving her a half-hug. "You're the ones who raised me, you're my parents as far as I'm concerned." I heard her sniffle and then give me a little push. "Go talk to your father. Make him feel better, okay?"

I stepped out of the bedroom and pulled open the door to the basement. I looked down the stairs and hesitated. Did I want to see my father in that weakened state? Would I ever see him cry again? I was bringing him good news - that would mean he would stop crying, right?

As I crept down the stairs, I wondered if my presence would surprise him. I wondered if they were testing me. A cruel, sick joke to see if I actually loved them and if I would run away, like I always planned to do when things rarely didn't go my way. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I knew it wasn't a test. The two television facing the couch were blank and soundless. The florescent light over the workbench provided a sickly light onto the concrete which made me wonder if he was down there at all. I flicked the light switch by the bottom of the stairs and I felt a jerk in my chest, like an instinctual knee kick from a hit to the patella.

My father sat on the couch, soft unfamiliar noises coming from him as he held his head in his hands. His ashy elbows balanced on his bare knees and I was struck by how old my parents really were. His bald head had little gray hairs growing on the sides, a sign that my mother was going to cut his hair in the basement later that week. I saw the gold band wrapped around the fourth finger on his left hand, contrasting with the dark, strong skin on the back of his hand. Though he was fifty-six at the time, I always thought that his arms and hands didn't show it.

I remember biting my lip, taking in this moment of sadness that I could not understand. It kept going through my mind: why are they so upset? They're my family, I couldn't ever love them less. Why are they crying? I love them more than anything in the world. Years later, I would discover that I could love them less. By separating myself from them biologically, I would come to isolate my feelings and myself away from them.

Finally, I cleared my throat and, sweat beginning to appear on my forehead, I approached him and sat next to him on the couch. We stayed quiet for a moment and then I slowly wrapped my arm over his shoulder. He gave a quiet sob and then began to hastily wipe his eyes, giving a fake smile through blurred vision.

I don't really remember what he told me. I don't really remember what we talked about. I do remember crying with him. I remember staring into his eyes and realizing that he wasn't just a hero, he had flaws and imperfections and fears. I remembered loving him more, having more respect for him. I remember telling him that everything was going to be okay and that I was always going to love him. More than anything else, I remember feeling closer to my father and pledging my eternal devotion to be a Daddy's boy.