“Tell your mom to shut the fuck up.” I glanced back at my son, who looked back at
me, wide-eyed and quiet. Confused as to why his father would tell him to say a
bad word to me. “Tell her! Say, ‘Shut
the fuck up, Mommie.’”
“Tell your father goodbye,” I told my son as I reached for
the phone.
“Bye,” my son mumbled, clearly saddened as he pressed the
button to end the call.
“Are you okay, honey?” I asked him.
“He told me to say a bad word.”
“I know, baby. But we don’t say bad words to each other,
right?”
“It’s not nice,” he said, shaking his little curly head,
still confused.
After my son’s father and I had fallen out, I still felt it
was important that he and my son maintain a relationship. He, however, made it clear that he didn’t
share that same sentiment. He would call
at times and never even ask to speak to my son, choosing to pick arguments
about whom I was dating or how I “betrayed” him instead.
Initially, he communicated mostly through emails. But after
continued threats of how he couldn’t wait to “beat ur ass again so u remember
who the fuck I am,” I blocked his emails.
He then had other men he was incarcerated with email me with the same
threats - “u know he itchin to beat ur ass” - and one he sent himself from
someone else’s account that ended, “Fuck you and that lil nigga.” in reference
to my son and that shut the emails down altogether.
Phone calls quickly became his new avenue for
harassment. He’d call months apart in
spurts that would last a few days and then stop calling again. When he did call, he’d call back-to-back dozens
of times until I’d answer, “Why the fuck you ain’t answering the phone?! You
wit’ a nigga?! You got my son around anotha’ nigga, bitch?!” “My son is in school,” I responded,
completely ignoring his invitation to argue.
“You can call back around 2:30 if you’d like to speak to him.” And I
hung up. He called back several more
times and would finally stop, only to call back again at 2:30PM, on the
dot. I passed the phone directly to my
son to avoid the yelling and name-calling, but not even two minutes would pass
and he’d be getting off the phone with my son, asking to speak to me.
I once tried to establish some boundaries for the
calls. “You and I don’t have to speak to
each other. If I don’t answer, that
means I’m not with my son.” I explained
to him my work schedule and my son’s school schedule but he still continued to
call at times he knew I wasn’t with my son and I’d literally have to turn my
phone off to stop him from calling a million miles an hour.
He’d comply with the calling schedule we had set after he
got tired of being ignored, I guess. But
he’d still take advantage of the time he was supposed to be speaking to my son
to tell me how I “went against the grain” and that he never would’ve thought
I’d “betray” him by leaving him. I owed him,
he’d say. The times he did speak to my
son, he’d complain about how “lame” my son was/sounded. “I can’t wait to get my
fuckin son, man. Got him talkin like
you, all proper and shit. Lil’ nigga
sound like he ain’t seen shit. I want my
kids to know the streets. They can go to
school but if they want to be dope boys then I’mma teach ‘em how to be the
fuckin’ man then.”
Eventually, I just became exhausted by the
conversations. We couldn’t even have a
decent conversation, let alone come to an agreement on appropriate parenting –
what was and wasn’t okay to teach/say to my child. Tired of the reckless threats, I explained to
my son’s father that if he continued to call and threaten me, his calls would
be blocked, just as the emails were.
“How the fuck I’m ‘posed to talk to my son?!” he snapped at me. “You
should think about that when you call,” I told him. “We don’t have to speak to each other. He’s old enough that you can ask him what’s
going on. This is a privilege and if you
continue to abuse it, you’ll have to write him letters. He’s learning to read, maybe that’ll be good
for him.” “I don’t have time to write no
fucking letters,” he’d say.
My son’s father felt like it was my responsibility to
maintain the relationship between him and my son. “If you need me to call my son, then write me
and tell me to fuckin call.” I have
always felt and stated that my only obligation is to provide access for him to
contact my son if he feels he would like to be a part of his life. In accordance, he has an address and a phone
number, the latter of which he abused.
I always think back to when I was in prison and I couldn’t
wait to be able to call my sister to speak to my son. He was just an infant but I’d still sit on
the phone and just listen to him breathe and I’d cry and wonder if he still
smelled the same. I remember how painful
it was being away from him. I try to be empathetic toward a lot of things but I
will never understand a parent lacking the desire or willingness to know their
child.
I pray for my son’s father constantly. Many people have told me that he changed for
the better and with hopes that he had, I continued to try to work with him,
answer calls and communicate with him but was unsuccessful. I blocked the phone calls after the continued
threats and disrespect. I am a single
mother, raising a young black male in America.
My son doesn’t have a large group of male role models. I refuse to raise him with a man that finds
it okay to verbally and physically abuse me.
“What’s going to happen if he listens to what you say to me and raises
his hand at me?” I asked him once. “You
probably gon say some smart shit to deserve it,” he said and that reminded me
of the way I had hear him speak to his own mother at times he had been
angry. No filter. Zero respect. Like a dog in the street.
At whatever point my son’s father does have a change of
heart, he has an address that he can write my son, when he feels mending that
relationship is worth his time.
“Mommie, who’s my real Daddy? Where is he?” Brian asked me
the other day. He asks questions like
these ever so often and it always catches me off guard, always makes me cry. “He’s away becoming better,” I said. “Sometimes, people need time to themselves to
be a better person. But your father
loves you, baby. I know that much. Sometimes people don’t know how to show love
but maybe one day you can show him how.”
“By kissing and hugging and spending time, right?” he asked
crawling under me.
“Right.”
