Through All Those Rebellious Years

"I found these at a flee market," I told Sandra.

She opened the little cardboard box to find the traditionally made little stones inside. Three of them, like the Aztecs used to wear. The guy said his family passed the tradition down from those Aztecs.

"They're, uh, traditional." I said.

I didn't know how else to apologize, really. Every father loves his daughter, but I knew damned well she had got those holes in her lip because of Razor.

Yes. Razor was his name and he was every father's worst nightmare.

See, I love my kid, and I'd be totally cool with this Razor person if he didn't sound like a villain in the comic books I used to read when I was a kid in the 80's and didn't have this pre-packaged, MTV bullshit disrespect for me.

I'm all for being a Rebellious Tattooed Person. Go ahead! I got blown up and shot at so you could do that! Go to! Get one for me!

Razor, however, got dumb tattoos that don't mean anything and says things like "Whatever, maaaaan." to everything I say. Everything.

I could be talking about the goddamned weather, and he'd stifle a "Weather? Whatever, maaaaan." and I'd have to bite my tongue because my only daughter thinks he's the cat's pajamas.

I usually pinch the bridge of my nose and relax my brow, which feels heavier now as Sandy gets ready for college.

. . .

Razor was actually the first fight we ever had. Fourteen years we never had a fight. Oh, sure you disagree with your kid, you have arguments.

But fights?

I still can't recall what set her off.

When her mother was alive, one thing I did-with mostly success-was never say "Well, you feel that way because your hormones are off, you feel that way because of something unrelated," because something unrelated triggered it. That's not so.

I did it, and I accept it. 

People are a lot like countries. You just think something's unrelated, but really there's a domino thing going on. One country does one thing, it reminds another country of something bad that happened a while ago, they get pissed off, they invade or something.

So when you're angry, it's kinda like you're ready to invade.

Sandra got in a fight at school because her boyfriend-yes Razor again-is white, and she, while not as dark as me, is clearly not Caucasian.

I don't know too many of the details, but I was actually somewhat happy that her "You are different" moment didn't happen until she was fourteen.

I tried to console myself with that progress.

I do know that it was Paul Jackson's stuck up little princess of a daughter that started the whole mess.

He had asked me where was I moving when I got out of the Army and I was going to flat out lie to his face and say somewhere in Florida when someone said "He already bought a house in Columbia."

Goddammit, guys.

Jackson was a show boat soldier. Always kissing ass and always making mistakes. He only had to kiss ass because he made so many mistakes. It was that simple. I hated him because he wouldn't share any knowledge with anyone and then berate them when the didn't know anything.

Apparently, when it came to his kid, he did for once in his life share some knowledge.

She had said something like "My daddy raised me right, so I don't date white boys." I guess that kinda blew my mind, because the whole platoon knew he cheated on his wife and had a baby momma in Korea.

Sandra had come home and said I was terrible father.

I didn't raise up, I stayed in my chair but I couldn't quite keep my voice down when I told her terrible fathers leave. That wasn't true, either. Missing black dads is fucking myth like the tooth fairy. 

I stuck around and did the best with what I had, which was damned good thank you very much 'cause I had planned ahead goddammit, and I married your mother before I even thought it would be good idea to have a kid. I'd almost called Jackson's house and told his wife to ask her man who Donna was.

I was that close.

Jackson barely planned for anything, and I'd planned for everything.

Almost everything.

I heard Sandy start to cry at her mother's funeral, not even six months old. My mother was holding her. There was a moment, you know that kind of moment, where you gotta choose.

I told one of my buddies from the army to carry that weight for me and found my baby girl and held her.

And I cried.

Because that day I'd earned it. She'd worked so hard to just be my anchor through all kinds of tours, all kinds of wars. And he was gone.

I went reserve.

Then I finished my degree, paid off the the house, cooked healthy meals, helped with homework, band-aided skinned knees, explained the History outside the books, and did just fine Sergeant Jackson, no thanks to you teaching your kid to get at other girls for no reason.

But I'm a bad father. But at least I don't have "Razor" on my driver's license. Seriously. It's there. I checked.

I took a deep breath.

"Sandy, don't take her seriously. I knew her dad in the Army... and... he wasn't the best soldier." I said finally.

"For real?" Sandy asked.

"I'm sorry, there was no reason to go all into history like I did."

"No reason, really." Sandy said.

Damn. She is her mother's child, though.

"Listen, just... don't take her seriously. You date who you wanna date, okay?" Fuck. Do I hate Razor. Goddamn.

"You know what? Let's do Sunday dinner, okay? Have him bring his folks. We'll all talk."

"Dad, his parents are super racist."

OH C'MON!

"Like... how racist...?"

"There's a scale?"

"Well they are already at least at a five or so because they named their son 'Razor.'" I said.

"So 'Blade' would have been okay?!" And she was so mad and she was just... grasping at straws. And she knew it. So she gave a half smile.

"Heh, yeah..yeah Blade would have been totally fine..." I busted out laughing. Sandra did, too. We both kinda sunk down laughing hysterically, eventually crying and laughing.

I sighed. "So, I really want to do this if you want to do this."

"I do." Sandra said.

"Okay, ask them what they want to eat."