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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, teaching children at various institutions, responding to the name “Mr. Tweh” without question or correction from those around me. This name, this identity, I carried it unwittingly until the truth came into focus, stark and unrelenting. Now, at the age of thirty-four, I find myself penning this letter once more, grappling with the void of not knowing the father I have never seen. There is an underlying shame in this acknowledgment—most men 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 the 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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     Like many black men 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 for a man to admit if he wants 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 laughter of 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 reconciled my identity, my curiosity about you has grown. There are questions about the world that my mother couldn’t answer alone—questions that sons 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 my voice speaking back to me. The voice was high-pitched, weak, and effeminate. The voice reminded me why you probably wanted nothing to do with me. Somewhere in the reflection were aspects of you, the man whose face I'd never seen but was staring back at me.  I would gaze at the boy with dark skin, short stature, 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 made a lifetime of looking at photographs. Images of different cultures from different countries. Like me, some people have dark skin, large foreheads, and bright smiles that glow like the sun.

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SUN/ the warmth of an only son

 

      How does one reach the age of thirty-four 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 you came to America years ago seeking asylum in order 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 is truth and what is fiction. I've invested a great deal of money on private investigators in an effort to learn more about you and your side of my family, and unfortunately, the truth is not adding up. 

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     In the quiet moments of reflection, I find myself pondering the void left by a father I’ve never known. 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 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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         For years, I questioned my deep affinity for books, my fascination with the foreign, and my profound love for African people—their beauty, their blackness, a richness I often imagine immersing myself in. The sable body, a canvas reflecting the brilliance of white stars, a blackness unjustly maligned yet fervently desired.

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​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​      In these musings, I gradually recognize a connection to you, an African man absent from his son’s life. These pieces of me, this identity I’ve nurtured, are undeniably tied to you. I often ponder the thoughts 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. For I believe that no measure of fear or anger can absolve one from the sacred duty of raising a child, nurturing another man. Life, as we know, is fraught with challenges for everyone. As a black man, I am intimately familiar with the barriers constructed before us. 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 son and keep him in the world. It is not her fault that society is unjust towards black men. 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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     At thirty-four years old, I am proud to have worked professionally as an eighth-grade teacher, writer, and artist. Over the past ten years, alongside my passion for music and acting, I have dedicated myself to teaching and working for nonprofit charitable organizations. My mission is to empower black and brown youth, helping them find and use their voices in a world that often overlooks them. I strive to instill confidence in these children, 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. In my teaching journey, I’ve encountered a myriad of students, but the ones who resonate most deeply with me are the boys growing up with an absent father. I’ve observed how they navigate this void—searching for guidance among peers, emulating the portrayals of masculinity they see in music and television, or sometimes seeking refuge in the dangerous embrace of gangs and violence. Seldom do these boys find their role models within the safety of their homes. Instead, manhood becomes a solitary journey, a destination they must reach on their own. Each day, I strive to guide them, hoping to be a beacon of support as they carve out their own paths.

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​     My journey began 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 had a love for house music. 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. 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 be a man. 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 the 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 managed to thrive, securing a well-paying job in marketing that allowed us to live comfortably 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 complexities of the world around me.

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     At least at that time, Orange County was a predominantly white and 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, my quick wit and sharp tongue kept 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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     Good behavior, however, was a challenge for me. Weekly visits to the principal’s office were almost routine, often prompted by my tendency to challenge teachers or mock 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.

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 improved my learning over time.

 

     As an educator now, I carry those lessons with me, striving to employ diverse approaches for students with different learning and social abilities. In your absence, these experiences and the strength of my mother taught me resilience and adaptability, shaping the educator and person I’ve become today.

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     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 it 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 retort with a suggestion 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 Dinah, 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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     Aunt Dinah 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 actress. 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. Despite the costumes and play, I never desired to be a girl. 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.

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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 the drama fit for any Almodóvar film. I disliked choosing sides, finding such notions mundane. 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 many times overhearing 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, steadfast 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.” It seemed easy for them to overlook the actions of other boys—those who hurled insults, used coarse language, and engaged in questionable activities. Yet, what consumed them 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, 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.” They 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 age of five, that was my understanding of the word “gay.” As I grew older, I would come to see it as a much more nuanced and 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 inappropriate behavior 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 the game.

 

     Karate, on the other hand, was a thrill. I imagined myself as a ninja from the kung fu films I loved. 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 a 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,” 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 would use when referring to me in our large family where everyone had different nicknames and 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 movies starring Steven Seagal, Wesley Snipes, or Jean Claude Van Damme. My mother hated watching these films because she said they were "B" films. I didn't know what a “B” film was, and I didn't care because I thought the films were awesome. She 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. 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.

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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 fodder 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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