Note to self #616: Your experiences in life are lessons to be learned, stories to be told and sparks of inspiration.
My father is my hero.
And more.
He’s my advisor, my voice of reason, my personal black history teacher, my off-beat dance instructor, my favorite pot-bellied mechanic, and, most of all, one of my best friends. My father is definitely a character, and at times can be quite the pill to swallow, but he’s still amazing to me. He’s the oldest of twenty-one children, a father figure to more than just his own kids, a hardworking man with deeply rooted values, a loving husband, an inspiring parent, and, most of all, a big ass kid who is well into his fifties.
If I had to describe my dad in one word, I’d find myself struggling. To me, my father is more than just one word. One adjective. My old man is one hell of a guy, and I’m almost certain there is no one else like him. Unless you’re one of his kids. I’ve dubbed him as “The Most Interesting Man” because that is exactly who he is. My father is interestingly himself with zero fucks given.
Robert Cornick, Jr., was the first man I have ever loved unconditionally. Flaws and all. He’s never pushed me into some idea of who I should be. Yet, he never hesitated to let me know if I was going in the wrong direction. Regardless whether I agreed with him or not, Robert found a way to voice his thoughts. Even though the matter of sharing his opinion is usually odd, the message is always definitely there. He pushes me to understand the lesson behind a lot of things in life. Not just mistakes.
“What are you mad for? ... What’s the lesson? ... What did you learn from this?”
Yet, despite my dad being this great provider and father in general, one department he does lack in is showcasing his feelings. My father tends to be a rock at times. A vast rocky wall that’s impenetrable to feelings. I didn’t hear “I love you” too often from my father until I got to college. We rarely shared hugs or kisses, but it was okay to me. My dad showed me there’s other ways of affection. Activities like fishing, golfing, running weekend errands with him, watching a documentary while hearing his commentary on “unsaid facts,” or binge watching one of his favorite shows together and getting a pop culture lesson at the same time was his version of showing he cared. My father taught me to value moments, big or small, with the people you love. Moments are more memorable and valuable than any material thing.
One of the most memorable moments I have with my father was when I returned from Doomsday. I remember avoiding him and what felt like were his 1,001 questions that I was certain were to come. In my mind, accepting a loss and retelling the story to my mom was one thing. She always comforted me and would give encouraging words. It was nothing for her to kiss my wounds and console me for as long as I needed. That’s what moms do! However, telling my father scared the living shit out of me. I wasn't ready to see the disappointment etched across his features or hear the dispiritedness in his voice. Low key, my dad’s opinion of me mattered...a little too damn much. Regardless of how I pictured my father receiving the latest news that his daughter was fired from her “dream” job in less than a month, nothing prepared me for the moment we shared that day.
I remember it was sunny. I was annoyed about how beautiful it was outside despite it being winter. Yet, I still smiled. Fuming on the inside, still churning the past few weeks in my mind over and over. Secretly still processing, but still putting up a brave front. But somehow my dad saw straight through it. The instant I walked in the house, I tried making a beeline for my brother’s bedroom. But my father had already called my name. He was sitting on the couch and simply patted the seat beside him, tilted his balding head back, closed his eyes and hummed.
I thought my mom had already given me up and retold the events that occurred a few weeks back. The possible conversation in which she dropped the dime on me played in my mind. My mother quickly went from being my security blanket to a certified snitch that could no longer be trusted.
Sorry, ma.
My mind was racing with all possible comments he’d make, as well as every response I could give him. While my mind screamed, “ABORT MISSION!” my feet knew better. So I was still enroute to him on the couch. I sat down slowly and kept to myself, feeling so small beside a man who always seemed so confident in his choices in life.
And then he embraced me.
“It’s okay. I’m still proud.”
My emotions betrayed me in that instant. Before I knew it, I was crying uncontrollably, asking unknown forces, “Why?” and stating how it just wasn’t fair. He didn't say much, or at least I couldn’t hear him over my own noise. He just rubbed my back and continuously reminded me that everything was okay.
“I know you’re upset to be back home, but this is best Christmas gift I could’ve gotten.”
If crying harder was possible, then I think I may have reached a new level. Here I was, so obsessed with the possibility of getting cussed out ( or worse), that the “nicer” options didn’t even cross my mind. I couldn't believe my father was much more sympathetic and warm-hearted than I thought. I gave this rocky wall of a man very little credit in the feelings department. I felt bad and foolish.
My father, alongside my mother, has quietly rooted me on for most of my life. However, I just didn’t see him...until now. Even though I saw Doomsday as a total loss, my father gave me hope to see it as a win. What happened happened, and there was nothing I could do to change that. He made me realize that what followed suit was really what mattered.
Sink or swim.
Fight or flight.
As a result of that moment, thanks to The Most Interesting Man, I began the process of A Black Girl’s Narrative.