I don’t have the words to write this story.
If I were to explain to you my journey, I would tell you about this crazy road that has taken me from a state in the south to a culture in the north where I stood out like a sore thumb. I can’t though because the words escape me.
If I could dig deep enough, I would thoughtfully and eloquently tell you about growing up as the only black kid in town, about being the one who turned heads and people were seemingly comfortable telling me how different I was.
I would make jokes about how kids can be so cruel. I would make you laugh about being called every name you could think of, because the only way to really survive that sort of thing is to have a sense of humor about it. I can’t though because I don’t know how i would describe it.
If I was good at putting my thoughts on paper, I would tell you about the personal hell I have endured because of ignorance. I would express my anger that as a black man, being considered by white people to be more “white” than “black” was supposed to make me feel better about myself. I can’t though because there isn’t a way for me to write that. I don’t think i even know what that means.
If i was a good enough writer, I would tell you about all the times I would deflect the comments when white people would tell me how smart I was for a black person, how I wasn’t like most black kids… how I wasn’t really black. I would tell you about the many times when I have wondered how a white person would know what it would be like to be black.
I would show you my disdain for the way cultures look down on each other. I would tell you that it doesn’t have to be like that, that we all are just trying to be ourselves in this madness.
If I was able to tell you my story, I would tell you about how I would dream about my biological father. How i invented a story in my head of him being a famous athlete. Somehow that thought soothed my sadness at never knowing him, as if fame and fortune was an acceptable reason for me. I would tell you about my disbelief when finding out that it was not him that abandoned me, that he was never told I existed. I would tell you about the sledgehammer of emotion that hit my heart when I was told that he died before I could ever touch him or talk to him or to ever have him look at me the way a proud father would. I don’t think there is a way for me to quite explain that in a way that would look good in words.
If I was able to, I would tell you that God is good. That in the midst of all of this, he gave me a family. He gave me an unbelievable gift. He gave me another dad and another mom who loved me. I gained a new last name and was adopted by a family with enormous hearts. I can’t express that because words cannot contain that sort of thing.
I would tell you how my life has already come full circle. I would tell you that I have been blessed to have two mothers now who love me unconditionally. Some people aren’t lucky enough to have one.
If I could write a story about my life. This is how I would write it.