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Letter to My Father

 

Dear Father,

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     I first published this letter when I was thirty-two, but soon realized that what I knew of you was fiction. You are not from Liberia, your last name is not Tweh, and the name attached to the grave I have seen a picture of is not yours, it's an alias. For two years, I moved through life responding to the last name “Tweh” without question or correction from those around me. This name, this identity, I carried it unconsciously until the truth came into focus. Now, at the age of thirty-five, I find myself penning this letter once more, not as your son but as your daughter. I am now a trans woman. I have decided to live my life as a woman. 

 

Most people my age at least know their father’s name. Even in the absence of a face, a photograph, they stumble upon some document bearing that name. Yet here I am, a writer, attempting to fill a void with words, hoping to shape a semblance of connection from fragments of the unknown. I may find myself revisiting and revising this version, too. But with each word, I strive to inch closer to the truth, to you.

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As you read my letters, I ask for your patience. In the letters, I refer to myself as a boy and a man before I made my transition as a woman, and then I refer to myself as a woman after the transition.
     

Like many black children whose fathers were absent during their formative years, I convinced myself that I wasn’t affected by your absence. I took pride in that apathy, associating a longing for my father with weakness. However, I’ve come to understand that honesty requires courage and vulnerability, which can be challenging to admit if you want to appear independent. I’m not angry, but I am puzzled by your choice to remain distant. It’s a familiar narrative that even my younger brother knows, despite having a different father.

 

     At this point in my life, I genuinely want to know more about you. My curiosity is influenced by a desire to learn more about my culture. Images of Africa and the sound of laughter from little black children fill my mind. However, I am also ashamed of the fact that my association with you and Africa is so vague. Like Asia, Africa is a vast continent with many countries, cultures, people of various shades, and different languages and dialects. As I’ve matured and wrestled with my identity, my curiosity about you has grown. There are questions about the world that my mother couldn’t answer alone—questions that children often ask their fathers.

 

     For far too many years, I felt inadequate. At the age of eight, I stood in front of the mirror, and I hated the sound of the voice speaking back to me. The voice was high-pitched, weak, and effeminate. The voice reminded me of why you probably wanted nothing to do with me. Somewhere in the reflection were traces of you, the father whose face I'd never seen but was staring back at me.  I would gaze at the boy with dark skin, short stature, nappy hair, and a large forehead. And I would wonder why my shoes were so big, at least for someone my height. But now, I chuckle as I look at my reflection.  I’ve never been to the vast continent of Africa, but I’ve spent a lifetime looking at photographs. I've spent a lifetime studying images of African people from different cultures in different countries. Like me, some people have dark skin, nappy hair, large foreheads, and bright smiles that glow like the sun.

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​How does one reach the age of thirty-five without knowing anything about their biological father? Yet, this is my reality. I am reminded of the poignant novel “First They Killed My Father” by Loung Ung, a harrowing tale of a young girl who loses her parents in the turmoil of communist Cambodia. My own story is different, yet the sense of loss and searching feels eerily familiar.  When I published the first draft of this letter three years ago, I was fully convinced and had been led to believe that you were from Liberia and that you came to America years ago seeking asylum to evade bullets from a war that was ravaging your country. I was led to believe that you came to America as a targeted individual at risk of being murdered. I was led to believe that after my mother told you about her pregnancy, you moved to Minnesota and remained there until you died in a fatal car accident. But now I am not so sure what the truth is and what is fiction. I've invested a great deal of money in private investigators to learn more about you and your side of my family, and unfortunately, the truth doesn't add up. Now that I'm 35, I am beginning to wonder if I'll ever hear anything from your side of the family.

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       There are a myriad of reasons why children may not know about their biological parents. Sometimes, these circumstances are written in blood and dictated by the passage of time. There are elements of our bloodlines and histories that we cannot control. Years ago, I met a woman in New York through a mutual college friend; she was an Ethiopian documentary filmmaker. Many of the people I met during that time were remarkably skillful and accomplished. Regrettably, I never took the opportunity to inquire about the content of her films.

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Years later, I stumbled upon an intriguing article in a newspaper about Ethiopia's appeal for the return of the remains of a stolen prince who had been taken from them by the British monarchy.  As I read the article and learned more about the prince, I noticed the name of the Ethiopian filmmaker I had met in New York. She had created a documentary about the prince. His name was Prince Alemayehu. I discovered that in 1868, British soldiers invaded Abyssinia, now modern-day Ethiopia, and kidnapped the prince after his father, Emperor Tewodros II, chose to take his own life rather than surrender to the British. The British ransacked Ethiopia's royal treasures and took Prince Alemayehu to Britain, where he would spend the rest of his life under the care of Queen Victoria until his mysterious death from illness at the young age of 18.

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The article, written in 2023, informed readers that the British monarchy had kindly returned a lock of the prince’s hair to Ethiopia. However, they declined the request from the prince’s family to return all of his remains, claiming they wanted to "preserve the dignity" of the remains buried in the catacombs of St George’s Chapel in Windsor Castle.

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As a child, I was captivated by the British royal family. Born in 1990, I was well aware of Princess Diana’s impact on American culture, largely due to my mother’s admiration for her. Diana was known as a benevolent woman. I vividly remember being six years old and watching my mother and aunt sit behind the TV, shocked by the news of Princess Diana’s death. It was clear how much of an impact Diana had on the world. At the time, I admired the Royal family and felt terribly sorry about their loss. However, when I read the article about the British royal family returning a mere lock of the prince's hair to Ethiopia, my perspective shifted. I found it alarming that anyone could be so cruel and coldhearted. The lock of hair seemed intentional.

 

Sometimes, for reasons written in blood and dictated by time, children do not know about their biological parents.

 

Occasionally, I wonder, Father, if you are of royal descent. Were you a prince or a nobleman? I am not fully aware of the circumstances under which you met my mother. All I know is that, for whatever reason, your identity has been hidden from me. I don't even know if you are from Ethiopia. Africa is a vast continent with many countries. 

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   I’ve never seen your face or heard your voice, never felt the warmth of your grip or smelled the scent of your favorite cologne. Your image exists solely in the periphery of my imagination, a shadow that looms larger whenever I’m reminded that I bear some of your physical traits. As I journey through life, growing older and wiser, I come to an inevitable realization: no matter how diligently I strive to carve out my own identity, fragments of you remain within me. Even in your absence, your essence lingers.​

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​​​​​​    Throughout my life, I have questioned my deep affinity for books, my fascination with foreign cultures, and my profound love for African people—their beauty, and their blackness, a blackness I often imagine immersing myself in. Black. A rich, dark canvas that reflects the brilliance of white stars. Black. Both feared and fervently desired at the same time.

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Slavery and Memory

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 In an effort to learn more about your heritage, I read books by Africans about Africa. One of those books was “A Long Walk to Freedom” by Nelson Mandela, the late president of South Africa. In the first chapter of the book, Nelson Mandela focuses on the importance of having a strong connection to your ancestry and history. He talks about his father and his family. He discusses lineage and names. As I read his novel, I gained a sense of how powerful it was just to know your name, your last name. Names carry power and weight. Perhaps one of the greatest tragedies during the period of transatlantic slavery was the plundering of names. When Africans were taken as captives, their names were stolen from them. That does something to a group of people when you deprive them of their history and identity.

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Slavery is a peculiar institution. For nearly 250 years in North America, many people believed they were entitled to own other people as property. They needed slaves in order to survive. In fact, there are still people in the United States today who thrive off of human bondage and slavery; it’s called human trafficking. What goes on in the hearts of men who believe that they are entitled to own other people as property? There has to be a level of detachment; in some way, these men must see themselves as better than their captives, or perhaps they view their captives as subhuman in order to justify their behavior. People who own slaves do not have a guilty conscience when it comes to oppressing others, and that is a central part of America’s history: the legacy of slavery in our nation. 

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There is no escaping the cultural memory of slavery in America. The shadow of slavery looms over our present existence in America, whether we decide to acknowledge it or not. For 250 years, most black people were considered property in this nation. Of the 4.4 million black people who lived in the United States before the Civil War, almost 4 million were captives as slaves. This means 89% of black people in the U.S. were considered property. In spite of this uncomfortable truth, our nation and its people have not truly reconciled the impact of slavery on our society. In most cases, people do not want to have conversations about slavery, including children. I became aware of this phenomenon during my years working as a middle school teacher. One year, I had to teach my predominantly black literature classes a book about runaway slaves, and most of the students did not want to read the materials or engage with the topic. There was something about slavery that made the students unsettled; many of the students searched for every reason under the sun to avoid the topic of slavery. As an instructor, I was disappointed because I invested a great deal of time into trying to have my students understand the gravity of slavery and its impact on our culture. But there was only so much I could do.

 

We as a people find it challenging to have productive discussions about slavery and race, and yet slavery informs our existence in America. You cannot say that you are a proud, tried-and-true American who has not benefited from the institution of slavery. Perhaps that’s why the topic of slavery makes Americans uncomfortable. When we have discussions about slavery, we are forced to look at our faces in the mirror. It is one thing to acknowledge the fact that American soil was stolen. This land was once owned by Native Americans, many of whom, unfortunately, were murdered due to genocide. It’s another difficult task that requires a great deal of accountability and integrity to acknowledge the fact that on this stolen soil, millions of black bodies were taken from their home country and held captive as slaves for generations.

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And so, slavery still lingers in our social dynamics and in how we, as Americans, associate with one another. Father, you are African. I am half African and half African American, and I can say from experience and without hesitation that we, as a people in the United States of America—Black people, that is—find it challenging to love one another. We are quick to kill each other, harm each other, and tear each other down with our words. There is a great deal of self-loathing and dissension within the African American community in America. This is the crisis of 250 years of slavery; this is the crisis of 400 years of being conditioned to hate ourselves and strive for whiteness and white approval. It's a burning truth examined by James Baldwin, Frantz Fanon, Toni Morrison, and other Black scholars. The true battle for Black people in America is for us to be kind and patient with each other, but most importantly, to love one another relentlessly in the face of the 400 dark years of slavery, segregation, discrimination, and violence.

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Slavery is a peculiar institution that still lingers in our social dynamics and in how we, as Americans, associate with one another. You have to realize that for 250 years, a white man, with white privilege, white status, white power, white lust, and white desire, could walk onto any plantation in America and do whatever he wanted to do with a black body. Whatever his heart desired. The men then were the same as men now. Some were "normal" as in straight, some were gay, some were pedophiles, some were sadists, some were serial killers. Whatever the case, when that white man walked on a slave plantation and saw a black body he desired, he was free to do whatever he wanted with the black body, even if he was already married with children. Black people were considered subhuman, less than the status of a dog. Consequently, for a white man, engaging in sexual relations or assaulting a Black person was not seen as an act of infidelity.

 

There is a powerful film that explores this interesting dynamic between white men and black bodies. White men, their white wives, and the black bodies on the receiving end of racial terror, violence, and destruction. That film is 12 Years a Slave (2013), based on the 1853 memoir of the same title written by Solomon Northup. Solomon was a free, educated, and gifted African American who lived in the North and worked professionally as a violinist. There is a chance that if Solomon were alive today, many people would categorize him as an "Oreo." In 1841, he was captured by white men and sold into slavery. For twelve years, Solomon would remain captive as a slave, detached from his wife and children, traveling to different plantations throughout the South. It’s a miraculous film that depicts the horrors of slavery through the eyes of an artist. You see, Solomon is an accomplished violinist. He has no choice but to view the world through the lens of music. Violins and music serve as motifs throughout the film. Poignant music with violins is often played while the viewer is forced to endure the terrors of slavery on the black bodies that are destroyed in the narrative. 

 

One of the horrors the viewer is forced to endure is the complicated relationship between a slave girl, Patsey, played by Lupita Nyong'o, and her slave master, Epps, played by Michael Fassbender. Much to his wife’s displeasure, Epps is infatuated with Patsey. It’s an odd dynamic that at first appears to be a semblance of love, but in reality, it is savage and brutal. Epps often beats and rapes Patsey ruthlessly. And to make matters worse, his envious wife, played by Sarah Paulson, unleashes the full brunt of her rage and jealousy on Patsey, abusing her throughout the film. It's a challenging film to watch, but a necessary one when it comes to understanding certain dynamics in the United States of America: white men and black bodies, white men, white women, and black bodies in America.

 

As I watched the film 12 Years a Slave, I was enraptured by Lupita Nyong'o’s performance. The actress delivers a body-and-soul performance as the viewer is forced to bear the destruction of Patsey’s body in the film. I felt helpless as I watched the movie, knowing that I, like Solomon, could do nothing to prevent this woman from enduring the inevitable.  As a transwoman, I could only imagine the amount of psychological and physical turmoil this dynamic would have on a black woman, to know that she is only an object to be used by her white male oppressor. And that is the burning truth of the institution of slavery: 250 years of human subjugation in our nation that continues to inform us today. For 250 years, a black body was considered less than that of a dog. During those years, we were regarded as "niggers." And "niggers" were considered less than a dog.  In our nation, white men have privilege and power over black bodies. And in many cases, their privilege and power go unchallenged, especially when it comes to lust and desire.

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As I read Nelson Mandela’s "Long Walk to Freedom," I was invested in knowing more about my history and roots. I wanted to experience a semblance of what Nelson had when he talked about his relationship with his father. I have to confess, Dad, that as I read the novel, I was disturbed by the fact that I knew nothing of you at the time. So, as much as I longed for a connection with the African part of my heritage, I was forced to tolerate being labeled an “Oreo” because I was not seen as “black enough”  by my black peers. And without knowledge of your name and my actual heritage, I was not “African enough” to fit in with my African friends who were aware of their ethnicity, and so, I was an “Oreo.”

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At the time, I believed my peers' taunts because I did not know who I was. I believed that I was not "black enough" and I was an "Oreo" because I was not aware of history and my roots. That is the tragedy of slavery and the legacy of depriving people of their names and history. When you rob someone of their name and history, that person becomes a vulnerable target for labels. One of those labels is Oreo, a term deeply rooted in slavery, racism, self-loathing, and a limited understanding of the immense possibilities for blackness. Slavery is a peculiar institution that informs language and the words we use to describe others.

 

My love for this nation does not dismiss the fact that the United States of America has a very complicated history. In spite of this, reconciliation is not impossible. Other nations have achieved this task. South Africa comes to mind. In spite of apartheid, when Nelson Mandela was elected as the first black president of South Africa, he sanctioned the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. The TRC was a court-like body initiated in South Africa in 1996, in an effort to mitigate the impact of racism and violence on a divided nation. We have not achieved this in the United States of America yet. The topic of slavery is taboo, and there have been very few efforts to initiate a nationwide restorative justice assembly focused on the impact of slavery. 

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Nelson Mandela was a captivating and wise leader who demonstrated the importance of knowing your identity. As I reflect on his example, I often question the intentions of fathers who choose to avoid the profound responsibility of raising a child. I’m not referring to those fathers who are unjustly constrained by circumstances—those behind bars, those taken from us too soon, or those who fight tirelessly against the odds to be present in their children’s lives despite obstacles. No, my thoughts dwell on the fathers who possess the freedom to choose, yet opt for absence. I wonder what justifications echo in their minds. No measure of fear or anger can absolve one from the sacred duty of raising a child. Life, as we know, is fraught with challenges for everyone. As a black transwoman, I am intimately familiar with the barriers constructed before us as black people. Yet, these struggles do not diminish one’s responsibility. No one compelled you to become a father. It is not the mother’s fault for choosing to nurture her child and keep them in the world. It is not her fault that society is unjust towards black men and women. And it certainly isn’t the child’s fault. Raising a child amidst these difficulties may seem daunting, an impossible task. But, like all seemingly insurmountable challenges, there is always a way forward.

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Over the past twelve years, alongside my passion for music and acting, I have dedicated myself to working for nonprofit charitable organizations. I even founded a motivational Christian ministry eight years ago. My mission is to empower young adults to find and use their voices in a world that often overlooks them. I strive to instill confidence in others, encouraging them to step fearlessly into the world. Reflecting on the challenges of my own childhood, I am genuinely amazed at the journey that has brought me here. 

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​     I was born in San Bernardino, California, a sprawling industrial town nestled in the desert of the Inland Empire. When I was born, my mother was involved with a man named Harold, who agreed to sign my birth certificate, fully aware that I wasn’t his biological child. He promised to raise me, and for a brief time, the dream of a stable family seemed within reach. I have a few memories of Harold. He didn’t have a job, but he loved listening to music, primarily house music, which was very popular during the early 90s. While my mother worked long hours, Harold and I often spent our days basking in the sun at the local park or window shopping at the community mall. Harold did not have enough money to buy anything, so we would spend our time walking through the mall and looking at the latest fashions. I couldn’t help but be curious about him, as he seemed to have an abundance of free time compared to the other adults in my life.

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     During this period, my mother, who was my pillar of strength and support, found herself in a vulnerable position. I was only around three years old, too young to understand or change the situation. I share this with you, father, because in your absence, other men stepped in to fill the void, teaching me in their own ways what it means to have a father. Yet, fatherhood wasn’t Harold’s true calling. His gaze was fixed on other horizons, perhaps understandably so, as he had taken on the care of a child who was not his own. His relationship with my mother felt more like a struggle to maintain a facade of normalcy.

 

     One afternoon, my mother and I returned home to find our apartment had been ransacked. Harold had stolen some of her valuables, and that was the last I saw of him for nearly two decades. With Harold gone, it was just my mother and me. Despite his departure, she thrived, securing a well-paying marketing job that allowed us to live in Orange County, California.

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         This chapter of my life taught me resilience, and from these early experiences, I learned to navigate the world's complexities.

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     At least at that time, Orange County was a predominantly white, white-Hispanic region with a significant presence of first- and second-generation Asian Americans. The black population was existent but small, and in many of my classes, I was the only black child. My early school years were spent at a private Lutheran school, memories of which remain vivid.

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     Each day, I’d start neatly dressed in my freshly laundered white and navy uniform, only to return home after school with dirt-stained clothes and a cloud of dust trailing behind me. I was a rambunctious child, outspoken and precocious, occasionally venturing into being offensive and haughty. Though not the largest boy, I used my quick wit and sharp tongue to keep me from being bullied. My candid humor and disregard for convention made me popular among my peers. I embraced diversity and inclusivity because I was genuinely fascinated by people from different backgrounds. Communication barriers with friends who didn’t speak English didn’t deter us; we found ways to connect through drawing, music, and sharing our cultural foods.

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Attending a Lutheran school meant attending church services was mandatory. From what I can remember, as a child, Lutheran services were very long and somewhat dry. It was difficult to keep focus or stay awake. However, once a month, I was chosen to serve as an acolyte. It was my job to walk through the church while wearing a long robe and light all the candles at the beginning of the service. I enjoyed these services because I felt like I was a part of something important. It was reassuring to know that I was responsible for adding light to the church.​

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     Good behavior, however, was a challenge for me. Weekly visits to the principal’s office were almost routine, often prompted by my habit of challenging teachers or mocking students for their discriminatory remarks. A fire burned within me to be seen and heard, and as a class clown, I took every opportunity to lighten the monotony of the classroom. Yet, beneath my antics was a heartfelt desire to bring joy to those around me. Witnessing someone else’s suffering was hard for me to bear.

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Outside of school, I relished performing for my mother and whoever else was around. This wasn’t always acceptable behavior, and I often deserved the consequences I faced. My assertive tongue wasn’t always an asset; I needed to learn the value of respecting elders and the virtue of restraint.

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     Weekly meetings with my teachers and the principal became a norm for my mother. One particular episode stands out from my formative years. My first-grade teacher suggested to my mother that I be enrolled in an alternative school, labeling me as autistic and deeming me too distracting for my peers. My mother, unwavering and resolute, rejected this notion, insisting he find a way to accommodate my learning needs. He eventually placed a timer on my desk, which helped me focus and improve my learning over time.

 

   ​   In the tapestry of my childhood, issues of race were rare threads, seldom discussed but occasionally surfacing in unexpected moments. One such memory stands out from recess, during a typical childhood game of “Knights and Dragons” with two of my white female friends. An argument erupted over who would play the noble prince. To my surprise, one of my friends declared that I could never be a prince because I had black skin and suggested I “should go back to Africa,” portraying Africa as a desolate land devoid of history or royalty. At that young age, my understanding of America’s complex history wasn’t developed enough to suggest that she return to Europe, because this was not her land. I was also unaware of the significance of my own name, Ryan—a Celtic name meaning “little prince or little king.” It took me years to appreciate the importance of knowing one’s name and identity. The world is full of people who might try to impose identities that aren’t ours. But when you’re grounded in who you are, the possibilities are limitless, as long as it’s aligned with the will of God. Had I known then what I know now, I might have stood my ground and claimed the role of the prince. Instead, I conceded, accepting the role of the beastly dragon—a decision I regret in hindsight. There were other moments in my early years when I was reminded of my differences. Occasionally, a peer would comment on how un-American I looked. Yet, these microaggressions were infrequent enough that they rarely overshadowed the joy of my childhood.

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     My mother, God bless her, bore the brunt of my stubbornness and unfiltered thoughts. I wasn’t shy about expressing my opinions, especially regarding her choices, like the men she dated—even if they were present. Remarkably, this boldness emerged when I was only five or six years old. Perhaps our closeness in age—I was born when she was just twenty-three—led me to see her not only as my mother but also as my sister, brother, and father. In your absence, I projected all these roles onto her. Despite our frequent verbal sparring, it was clear to everyone, including my mother, that I was a mama’s boy. I held deep love and admiration for her.​ When she was away for work, I often spent my time with my aunt Diana, who felt more like an older sister. Her presence was a source of fun and comfort, a balance to the strong bond I shared with my mother.

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     Auntie Diana possessed an innate flair for creativity, sharing my passion for performance and art. Even now, I jest with her, insisting she missed her true calling as an award-winning actress. She is skilled at making even the simplest tasks feel appropriate for a short film. Our afternoons were filled with laughter as we watched soap operas together, and the walls of our home bore the evidence of our artistic endeavors, adorned with crayon drawings. We indulged in the playful chaos of dress-up, with me donning various clothes, high heels, and towels tied around my head as makeshift wigs. Blankets transformed into capes as I imagined myself a superhero, speaking in accents as if from distant lands. All these antics were carried out without my mother’s knowledge. It was during these moments that I questioned whether I could live as a girl, as a woman. It was complicated. I admired girls, had schoolboy crushes, but I reveled in being a boy. The freedom to get dirty, save the world, and speak my mind without judgment made boyhood exhilarating. I admired the red Power Ranger’s strength as much as I appreciated Pocahontas’s grace and beauty. It was all part of the fun. But there was also that part of me that enjoyed watching Disney movies and fantasized about being swept off my feet by a dashing, beautiful, brave, and noble prince. I mean the men! The men in the Disney films were so handsome, and I wanted to be a princess so I could get with one of them. I wanted to wear a gorgeous dress and tiara and attend an elaborate ball and run into a dashing prince who would offer me a life of romance, royalty, and beauty. Lastly, the Disney princesses always sang the best numbers in the films, and I wanted to sing their songs. 

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     Childhood stretches time, where minutes feel like hours, and hours, days. As an only child, I learned to entertain myself, living lifetimes within hours, imagining grand adventures in far-off lands or alternate universes. These fantasies were filled with action, suspense, and melodrama. I disliked choosing sides, finding such notions mundane. Why did I have to be a boy or a girl? Who made up such rules? My days were spontaneous, shifting seamlessly from roughhousing with neighborhood boys to baking mud pies with the girls. It all felt natural, and I never questioned my preferences or inclinations. I was simply happy. My curious mind followed its instincts, unbound by convention. I did what felt right, not because it was prescribed but because it was true to me. Most importantly, my curiosity about others remained alive, shaping my understanding of the world and my place within it.

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         Growing up, my cousins and I often noticed how adults had a knack for complicating things. I remember overhearing many conversations between my uncles and my mother in the next room. My uncles would express concerns to my mother, suggesting that I “just may, in fact, be gay,” and cautioning her to eliminate any chance of “odd behavior” taking root before it was too late. They’d draw parallels to her cousin Warren, who never married and was labeled as “funny.” My mother, resistant and protective, would reason with them, asserting that I was far too young for anyone to make such assumptions. “Some boys are sensitive when they’re young,” she’d say. “Besides, you know his father isn’t around. Why don’t you all spend time with him and help him out?” This exchange became a routine whenever the men were present.

 

        At seven or eight years old, I couldn’t grasp why the adults, particularly the men, were so fixated on this behavior they labeled as “gay.” As if being gay was a crime. It seemed easy for them to overlook the actions of "normal" boys—those who hurled insults, used coarse language, and engaged in questionable activities, sometimes with each other. Yet, what consumed the adults was the prospect that your son “just may, in fact, be gay.” What’s more intriguing is how your absence was often cited as the root cause. The adult men, including those my mother dated, would remark, “He needs his father around to teach him how to be a man.” Your absence was an excuse for their concerns, a convenient explanation for their discomfort with what they couldn’t understand.

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      As a child, I formed my understanding of masculinity through the lens of fatherhood. I believed that boys with fathers who spent time with men were “normal,” while those without fathers or disapproving fathers, like myself, who spent too much time with their mothers and aunts, were labeled “gay.” Gayness, as I learned—or rather, was told—was defined by behavior: being too sensitive, spending time with girls, and speaking in a certain way. Ordinary boys didn’t use delicate, flowery words or words with too many syllables, like “grandiloquent.” Ordinary boys played sports, spoke in a lower register, and never cried in public.

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      Of course, I soon realized these notions were false. But at the tender ages of five, six, and seven, that was my understanding of the word “gay.” As I grew older, I came to see it as a more nuanced, complex concept. My carefree evenings of baking mud pies with the girls quickly disappeared once my mother filled my schedule with sports, as my uncles had suggested. Over time, I learned to distinguish between what was deemed appropriate and what was deemed inappropriate for boys.

 

      My diverse group of friends often raised suspicions among adults. “Ryan, make friends with normal boys,” they’d say. “Boys who play sports, talk about girls, and are tough. Stop hanging around with kids who are different. They’re a bad influence, and you’ll become like one of them.” Taking their advice to heart, I dove into various sports: basketball, baseball, football, and karate, to name a few. I enjoyed them all, except for basketball. Most of my teammates were taller, and I feared getting hit by the ball. Inevitably, I’d drop it or bruise my hand trying to catch it. It wasn’t until adulthood that I truly began to appreciate watching the game.

 

     Karate, on the other hand, was a thrill. I imagined myself as a ninja from the kung fu films I loved. Or one of the female characters from the fighting video games I enjoyed, like Kitana or Sonya Blade from Mortal Kombat or Chun Li from Street Fighter. I quickly learned that pressing different buttons on a game controller made fighting look much easier than actually participating in a martial arts class.  Yet, I struggled to memorize the correct techniques and forms as quickly as my peers. My mind often drifted to imaginary worlds far more exciting than the gymnasium we trained in. Through these experiences, I learned to balance the expectations of masculinity imposed by society with my own developing sense of self, a journey that continued well into my adult years.

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     During those formative years, countless hours were spent in front of the mirror, wrestling with my understanding of masculinity. I was determined to become “normal,” whatever that meant. Even the act of speaking required vigilance. Adults, including some teachers, would point out any perceived flaws, like a limp hand gesture or a particular lilt in my voice. They scrutinized every subtlety in my speech. While my passion for writing remained unfettered, my willingness to speak publicly was stifled. I began to trip over my words, holding my breath in fear of criticism. The fervor I once had to be seen gradually transformed into a desperate need to be unseen. I aimed to be “good”—to blend in seamlessly, to look like everyone else who was “normal,” and to avoid attracting unwanted attention.

 

     I became adept at mirroring my surroundings, pleasing those around me to avoid stepping on toes. Ensuring the comfort of others became paramount, especially if it meant convincing one more person that I wasn’t indeed a “faggot.”

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     Everyone is a master performer in private; just ask someone to sing their favorite song—they likely do it alone at home. Despite my hours of rehearsing masculinity in solitude, those efforts often crumbled at school. By fourth grade, boys find it cool to use words like “faggot,” “sissy,” "fairy," "bitch" and “queer.” It wasn’t just the adults scrutinizing me anymore; it was my peers. The challenge escalated when friends began questioning my behavior. “Why do you act like a girl?” they’d ask. “Why do you talk like that?” Questions that left me without quantifiable answers.

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     I was somewhat accustomed to hearing older male cousins and neighborhood kids call me “faggot.” Faggot was the primary word my uncles and cousins used to refer to me in our large family, where everyone had different nicknames. I didn't mind because it was a practice I could compartmentalize at home. But once that word permeated the school walls, it became an inescapable reality, echoing relentlessly in my mind. That word, faggot,  played a significant role in shaping my childhood, overshadowing even the word “Oreo,” which I’ll delve into later.

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Father, you should know that I spent a lifetime trying to distance myself from those words, seeking refuge from the labels that clung to me so persistently.

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                 2

SOUTHERN Hospitality

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     At the age of eight, my mother committed to a man she had been dating for quite some time. His name was Eugene, and we all got along well. Eugene was different than all the other men that my mother dated. He had a great sense of humor, and something about him was super cool. I usually would spend the day at a friend's house when they were out on a date. But my mother, Eugene, and l had a great time together on the few occasions I spent with them. We usually watched action movies starring Steven Seagal, Wesley Snipes, or Jean Claude Van Damme. My mother hated watching these films because she said they were "B" films with "B" acting skills. I didn't know what a “B” film was, and I didn't care because I thought the films were awesome and the men were hot. But I kept the last part to myself. My mother usually fell asleep while Eugene and I observed the movies carefully, late into the twilight hours. 

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     Visiting Eugene’s place felt like stepping into a creative studio. Although an engineer by trade, Eugene was also a musician and videographer, making his apartment a treasure trove of electric guitars, video cameras, and intriguing tech gadgets. When we weren’t engrossed in films, Eugene would share music he had recently recorded, sparking my interest in funk and rock and roll. I quickly grew to admire him, secretly hoping that he and my mother would stay together.

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     When I was nine, Eugene proposed to my mother, and they were engaged. After years of being the only male in our household, the prospect of having a father figure was exciting. Eugene’s job soon required us to relocate from the breezy coastal views of Anaheim, California, to Decatur, Alabama, a small rural town in the heart of the Dixie South.

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​​​​​As we settled into our new home, my mother was pregnant with my younger brother, Evan. The news thrilled me. Throughout my childhood, I’d dreamed of having a sibling. While I enjoyed being an only child, I envied my friends who had siblings to share their lives with. From the age of three, I would beg my mother for another sibling, but she would always joke, saying that raising a child was not as simple as buying a toy at the store. Raising a child required patience, work, and a present father. Perhaps this is why I was so critical of the men my mother dated. I hoped one would become my younger sibling’s father and my stepfather, someone who would care for my mother and embrace his role as a father.

 

     Evan’s birth was fraught with challenges. Born prematurely, he had to stay in the hospital for weeks before coming home. The care and caution surrounding his birth were palpable, and I instinctively took on the role of his protector. It’s amusing now, given that Evan grew into a large, athletic young man, excelling in basketball and football, earning the playful nickname “Beast” among his peers. Nonetheless, during our childhood, I did my best to look out for him, cherishing my newfound role as an older brother.

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​​​​​​​​​      Unavoidable differences marked the transition from California to Alabama. The most striking contrast was the pace of life and the way people spoke. In Alabama, there seemed to be more time for leisurely conversations with strangers, and I noticed the simple gestures of kindness, like holding the door open for others. This was a part of what the adults called “southern hospitality.” Children were taught to address adults as ma’am or sir, a custom that intrigued me, coming from California. There were aspects of this hospitality that I enjoyed; in the South, no one truly felt like a stranger. However, this sense of community came with its own challenges. I began to witness these challenges through the experiences of my mother and Eugene. At my baseball practices, the parents sat divided by race, this was a subtle but clear separation. Over dinner, I would hear Eugene discussing difficulties he faced at work due to race, making racism a frequent topic of conversation in our home.

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     One evening, Eugene came home in a rage, having faced an incident at work fueled by race. As composed as Eugene typically was, it didn’t take much to rile him. A veteran of Desert Storm, he was not one to hold his tongue when defending himself. From what I gathered, he was laid off from his engineering job after a disagreement about how roles were assigned, a dispute rooted in racial tensions.

 

     After losing his job, Eugene underwent a drastic change. He turned to alcohol, becoming verbally abusive toward my mother. The tailored suits he once wore to work were replaced with a more disheveled appearance as he drifted between hard labor jobs. Much of his time was spent at home, drinking from sunrise to sunset. Occasionally, he would return to his music, pulling out an electric guitar or keyboard to record a new song, but something in him had shifted after the layoff. Around the same time, my mother received a diagnosis of a rare autoimmune disease that would later necessitate heart surgery. With her illness, our family’s sense of stability unraveled, and we moved frequently. I attended four different schools during my eighth-grade year. It was tiresome having to put on a new act and wear a mask each time I attended a new school. It seemed as if I were walking on a tightrope. I knew within due time my peers would figure me out. Despite her health, my mother remained the primary breadwinner, and arguments with Eugene often centered on her pleas for him to contribute financially. These confrontations would escalate, with Eugene resorting to insults and curses.

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     During those tumultuous times, I often wondered about your absence, questioning what kind of father would leave his son’s mother to endure such abuse. In your absence, I felt compelled to assume the role of a father, stepping in where you could not, trying to protect and support my family as best as I could. Yet still, parts of me questioned if I was meant to be a boy.

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     I tried to shield my mother and brother from Eugene’s wrath. Our friendship was over, and now replaced by a tense dynamic where I often intervened in their arguments, shouting at Eugene for cursing at my mother. I resented his authority, feeling he hadn’t earned the right to be called a father. Our disagreements escalated to the point that I ran away from home twice, unable to comprehend why my mother had chosen this man, even if he was my brother’s father. Eugene allowed the loss of his engineering job to derail his dreams, and watching someone I once admired give up was disheartening. No amount of persuasion could relight the fire that had been extinguished. As a child witnessing these events, I didn’t grasp the irreversible impact racism could have on a person’s life.

 

     Given the circumstances, role-playing became a means of survival. I was angry at home but placating at school, and my voice was loud at home but silent at school. Our move to a predominantly black neighborhood outside Atlanta, Georgia, filled my imagination with scenes of black friends I could relate to and talk with. ​At last, the days of being the lone black child, unofficially elected as the spokesperson for my race, were finally behind me. Those experiences became a source of inspiration for comedic tales shared with my new black friends. I had high hopes for the academic journey ahead, but what unfolded was beyond anything I could have anticipated.

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Until next time,

your daughter

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