Ain't No Way

              The first time I heard that song, I was in tears by the time Aretha Franklin belted the first verse. I could not control myself. My life was so overbearing to the point where I was experiencing a reaction that I could not explain. Everything had to come out of me. I was sweating, crying, and vomiting uncontrollably. If there were just a few changes in the lyrics, this song would be the signature tune of my relationship with my father. My father was not a man blessed with unusual talents. If a model father can tie the perfect knot in a tie, build the perfect engine, offer tips on your science project, help with math homework, put a new bike together, or build the perfect deck, then my father was not a model father. In his own way, my father taught me to love myself unconditionally.
         Everyone told me that I look exactly like my father. His oval face is distracted by this huge mass of hair he calls a moustache. His caramel colored skin has wrinkled and fine lines have appeared on his forehead and cheeks. The whites of his eyes have yellowed around his immense black pupils. My father’s hair was black from seasonal dye jobs because his natural color eventually turned an unpleasant red shade that he referred to as mangy.  Some days I would stare at him just to see what areas I might need to perfect when I am older. My father has never been a fashion-conscious person. A stroll around the men’s department at the local Dollar General would be a good tour of his closet. Actually, he walked in the house every evening shedding clothing until his tattered underwear remained. Sometimes I would swear that there were gunshot wounds present on his body.
         Throughout the day, my father’s mood changed more than anyone I knew. In the morning, his sleep-filled voice rattled like the old-fashioned humidifier that parked in his bedroom. I never needed an alarm clock when I lived there. His gagging routinely awakened me. I did not know how a man so strong could not stand a little toothpaste. We did not speak in the mornings. Usually by the time I was dressed he was already gone. When he returned from the labors of his day, his voice was that of a bulldog--strong from beginning to end.  He would bark all night about how I was just not good enough or why I was not like another one of his neighborhood heroes.
         I remember one fishing trip I shared with my father. We also brought my older cousin along with us. We spent the day sitting around some murky pond in the neighborhood. There was not much conversation, just banter whenever we thought there was a fish caught. I instantly loved fishing because of that Saturday. That feeling turned sour within a week though. I later overheard that the trip was merely suggestion from my grandmother to get my neglected cousin some father/son experiences. I discovered they kept going to the ponds for quite some time.
         I was in charge of mowing the grass during the summers. I rather enjoyed the chore. It was as if I got a high from the vibration of the swinging blades. When I finished, I always felt like I had created a prize-winning lawn. It was never good enough for my father. He would humiliate me in front of everyone around-barking about how I did not get close enough to the edge of the hedges. Once he threatened to make me cut the remaining grass with scissors. After every complaint, he barked at me about being a man. My height would shrink down to the length of a shred of the fresh-cut grass. Do not let me run over anything with the mower. I would endure a severe episode of name-calling for hours among a silent house of stares. My face would feel stiff from the residue of dried tears and mucus.
         At some point in my teen years, I grew insanely rebellious. I hated my father for breaking me down repeatedly. He would point his thick fingers in my face and yell at me about failures. He would include my stubbornness in his testimony at church. Anger grew inside of me filling my stomach with ulcer-like pains. I disrespected him every chance I could. I once caused him to cry. He knew that he had lost me. My father’s comments rolled off me and I would fire back at him. He softened his blows, but there was not a way to mend years of neglect and disparagement. 
         It took a long time for me to feel good about myself. I always appeared to be happy to anyone looking in, but in reality, I was empty inside. I turned to various accessories to fill my voids and turned away from many obligations. Luckily, I came to terms with all of my blockades in life. My father and I barely talk to each other today. I will not say that there is not a way, but I do know that I have found a better way to deal with insecurities and doubts. I blame my father for nothing and forgive him for everything.