Fathers Day

Yea! What a low-key day it always is. In Jamaica, anyway. No wide-scale ratings of the men from whose loins we came.

So, I went to church and even had the honour of reading a lesson.

And as the service came to a close, the Steel Band and the darlings from the Sunday School performed for all the Dads present. So the fathers were asked to stand.

Lo and behold, a few women got to their feet as well. I could not fathom why.

One woman standing behind me said she did because she was mother and father to her children. Wow, what a feat she managed! Mother and father, both, at the same time too. That’s incomprehensible.

For, I had the profound pleasure of raising a child myself. I was separated when my son was six (6) months old, was divorced by the time he was four (4) years old. My son has no connection with or to his father.

I was a single woman (and still am) for almost all his life. But I was NOT a “single parent”. My son was raised by myself, his grandmother, his grandaunt, his aunts and cousins. The extended family and friend all chipped in when they were needed. And he had a church community where he felt completely at home.

I raise my hat everyday to all the “single mothers”. These women who single-handedly and without any help whatsoever, raise their children. My question though is: Do they really exist?

But I digress...

While raising my SON, I recognized the lack of a ‘male figure’ in his life, and for that I felt helpless and and at one stage, I was sorry for him. Yes. Because I did not know how to be a male figure, how to do ‘fatherly’ things. I was never a sports enthusiast; have no interest in outdoor activities (except parties); cannot fish; don’t know where the engine of a car is (although my son was born seeing me around a steering wheel) and I have no clue how to put a condom on a penis.

So I leveled with my child from an early age: This is all you’ve got; I will be the best mother I can, but I cannot be a father neither can I provide you with one.

As my son went through puberty, he talked to me constantly about marrying again and having more children. Well, that did not materialize.

So, I indulged my son with music – from classical to dancehall; taught him the fine art of dining – from jerk chicken a street-side to formal restaurants; ingrained in him a sense of humour; taught him to be aware at all times of his surroundings; begged him to be sensitive of people’s feelings; taught him to ride a bicycle (although I have no sense of balance and cannot ride myself), and threatened to kill him when he breached the code of conduct.

All I wanted was for him to be a ‘decent’ human being. It mattered not to me that he could do ‘masculine’ things or was rough and tumble.

So far so good. He’s a pretty decent human being at the age of 21. I am proud of him.

And that – without me trying hard to be what I could not (a man/ his father); and without standing on Father’s Day to accept praise for someone I am not.

Edith Clarke sure fooled us with her book title: My Mother Who Fathered Me.

A mother, Mothers.

© SABa
June 21, 2007