This Is Personal

I’m sitting here in the heart of Downtown Oakland somewhat giggling on the inside. I’m staring at my father wondering where exactly did he come from and how we ever managed to get to where we are today. I’m treating him to dinner for his birthday; the ultimate symbol of acquired adulthood. I’ve had time to reflect on our relationship over the years. I was once a self-proclaimed daddy’s girl only to become someone who only recognized her father as just that and nothing more. I learned at an early age that he was human and humans made big mistakes. The type of slip-ups that would change the scope of their lives forever.
It was dark. It was cold. I was walking fast. We always thought about running away from our parents when they managed to reach the elliptical of pissing us off. Me, I could always close my eyes and feel the satisfaction in closing the door behind me and leaving my mom and dad’s to burry themselves in shock and regret. A deep sensation that would come with a serene exhale of relief. This was not quite what I imagined. But something ironic had come over me. At first it seemed to be the palm of my fathers hand over my eye. But no, it was just that and something much more. I walked faster. I was accustomed to walking fast these days. It was Oakland and Berkeley. I always walked that fast. That’s what originally made him mad. Or maybe it was my attitude towards him attempting to ruin my life once more. I didn’t want to fill out those papers to go to Athenian. The school of non-cultural geniuses way out in the boonies of, I didn’t even know where it was. “He’s trying to send me boarding school to make himself look better.” We left the little Berkeley library across from the basketball courts. I remember we used to go there a lot when I was little, before my little sister was born, before the divorce, back when I was amazed at his intelligence and was determined to be the same. At that point he couldn’t possibly look dumb. I was walking fast. He told me to slow down and walk by his side. “What for?” I kept walking.
I got in the car or what was left of one. My dad was driving my grandparents fifty year old and beat up burgundy Mercedes with no working seat belts, embarrassing upholstery, and no locks on the doors. Oh but it had electric windows. What the hell? Only he would find the beauty in such pieces of crap. I waited for him to get in the car with my little sister, so clueless as to what our life was really about. I was prepared for his smart-ass remarks. I had obviously learned from the best. By this time I was fifteen, on my own mentally, a complete wreck, no longer pure, and he knew it. I had nothing more to loose. He was pissed. Oh I loved it. He went on to yell as we drove down Martin Luther King Way. We made a song about this street when I was little: “Martin Luther King Jr. Way all the way hey!” I tuned him out. He was saying something about me having no respect and having a bitchy attitude. Just like my older sister. “ Martin Luther King got on his knees so he could pray every day hey!” I just dipped in and out of his rant as I gazed out the window no longer worried about that might see me in the atrocious burgundy machine. Then it happened. “You think it’s funny huh!” My head flew back. My neck wasn’t strong enough to fight the thrust of his masculine hand. My eye wasn’t strong enough to not feel the pain he left. My baby sister was scared. I didn’t cry but she sure did cry for me. He didn’t mean to hit me that hard. I felt his body language. Tears somehow managed to escape my thick and prideful lids. I wanted to hop out the car right the and there. But I wouldn’t get far and I decided it wasn’t smart. My chest was burning and my eye felt heavy. He was quiet.
We pulled into the Walgreens just above MLK to get my little sister some cough medicine. We were on our way to go to bed at my Grandparents house in East Oakland; where we spent our visitations because he was too cheap to get his own place. “Lets go.” I followed him and my little sister into the store. He was walking fast. She was dragging behind him still shaken up. As I reached the entrance of the store I glanced at the dark medium built security guard. He looked at me awkwardly as if he had a million questions. My eye was still watering and barely open. I watched my dad as he turned the corner towards the medicine aisle. “Fuck that.” I turned around and walked out the entrance of the store. I sped walked to the burgandy beast that was no doubt unlocked, grabbed my bag and began walking away.
I didn’t want to go to my mother’s house, but at that moment I had no choice. It was late, it was dark, and I had nowhere else to go. I figured I would walk down the side streets of North Oakland all the way through Berkeley. If I didn’t he would find me. I crossed the first big street towards the numbered streets that I planed to zigg-zagg through. I was in a zone. I barely noticed the station wagon until they turned in front of me. “Nigger!” It was a car full of White guys with nothing better to do but call a young depressed black girl a nigger. If I hadn’t been so distraught I would have made some gesture, or even registered what had just happened to me. I just kept walking. What is the likelihood now and days that a girl from Oakland would be chased down by a group of hicks in Oakland just after her father had hit her? I managed to reach a neighborhood that was offset from the busier streets in that area, a street my father would definitely not think to travel. Another car pulled up. This time it was a nice car full of Negroes. “Hey!” I didn’t look in their direction. “Hey let me talk to you for a minute.” I wanted them to go away. I was definitely in no mood for horny bastards. “I’m not in the mod right now.” I still had tears leaking from my eye which was on the same side they decided was cute enough for their standards. “Aww I can make you feel better lil’ mamma come here.” For a brief second I thought about getting in the car. It would be the ultimate rebellious act. I would feel justified, but fear and integrity led me to keep walking and shaking my head no until they got tired of harassing me and drove away. I was walking faster.
Once I got to Berkeley I knew my dad had discovered that I was missing. That brought about a sense of gross gratification. He wouldn’t find me. I knew exactly where I was and where I was going; I possessed an inherited keen sense of direction from him of course. I decided not to walk to my mom’s house because he would definitely be circling that neighborhood in attempt to resolve his embarrassment. I walked down Stuart Street until I got to McGee Avenue Baptist Church. This is my great grandmother’s church. I heard loud speaking so in search of a deep, spiritual, and personal meaning to my circumstance, I went inside. I sat in the back of the pulpit and observed the minister who was loud, over excited, and just wasn’t reaching me in any way. But I was in the lord’s house so peace came upon me. At the time I didn’t have my cell phone because my mom had took it, the ultimate punishment. I found a pay phone in one of the side rooms and began making collect calls. Something I never had to do before.
My mom sent my usually drunk uncle inside to come get me. She sat outside in her dark blue car looking as normal as she possibly could. I was never happier to see her, but I knew that the drama would definitely not end there. At home she made the decision to call the Berkeley Police department. Two police officers came into our little one bedroom shack, asked a bunch of questions and took a bunch of pictures of my eye. I was in a strangely incoherent and nonchalant mood, something that soon became common for me. “Do you wish to press charges against your father?” He was my dad. I still loved him; I didn’t want him to go to jail. I just let them take down my statement and left it at that. My mom was unusually supportive. Made sense to me because her and my father had been going at one another’s throat for the past four years. I imagined her fulfillment was tremendous compared to mine. I went to sleep that night peacefully.
I went months without seeing my father. For Christmas he sent me presents, we spoke on the phone briefly and that was that. Eventually following my mother’s guerilla war attacks in the courtroom, the court ordered my dad and I to awful counseling sessions with a woman who barely spoke English and my dad to have visitation with me for a few hours a week only. The first day he came to get me I felt so out of place. I wanted to stay upset but my daddy hugged me so hard. I knew he loved me but I also kept my guard up. I had gotten sick after the night he hit me so he couldn’t stop commenting on how much weight I had lost. We went to a little restaurant in Oakland that sold crepes; figured. I didn’t have much to say I just answered all of his questions. Then he said something that completely dismayed me. “You know you owe me an apology right? What made you do that?” He laughed. I simply replied, “This isn’t the time right now I just want to eat.” There was no denying my strength. I would never let any man get away with physically abusing me. We never spoke about it again.