Copeland's Corner: March 29, 2023
My father passed away two weeks ago, and I’ve been trying to make sense of it all.
“How we face death is at least as important as how we face life.”
If you’re a regular reader of this blog and you’re wondering where I’ve been the last couple of Wednesdays, I’ve been busy pondering. My father passed away two weeks ago, and I’ve been trying to make sense of it all.
My relationship with my father was complicated.
Readers of my books and patrons of my stage shows have heard me talk about Sylvester, the angry, violent absentee father who made my early years a living hell before finally vanishing from my life for good shortly before my sixteenth birthday. I tell the story in detail in my latest solo play, Grandma & Me, currently running at the Marsh theater in San Francisco. What I reveal in that show, and what I tell the world for the first time, is that Sylvester was not my father.
I found out when I was sixteen that I was the product of high school romance and Sylvester had married my mother and adopted me when I was a baby. That revelation explained a lot about his treatment of me. The beatings. The physical and emotional abuse. The abandonment. They all made sense once Grandma hit me with that nugget of information. It was a hard thing for a sixteen-year-old to swallow. To find out that you weren’t who you thought you were. I carried a lot of shame about my paternity for years. The societal stain of being “illegitimate” only deepened the feelings of inadequacy and the lack of self-worth that I already felt as the only African American kid in a white town, school, and society. And let’s not even talk about the identity crisis that comes with teenage hormones. Then, one day, I thought to myself, “What the hell do I have to be ashamed of? What did I do??” It was only when I reached that realization that I was able to put things into perspective.
My mother died when I was 14 and Grandma took on the five of us alone (it’s all in Grandma & Me…please come see it!). Sylvester took off without giving my then 57-year-old grandmother a dime. My biological father knew where I was, that Grandma was raising me and that she was struggling, yet he offered her no financial sustenance either. Despite all that, there is a yearning that comes with not knowing your father.
I finally met him when I was twenty-two. He flew out for a week from Ohio (which is where I hail from) and we had a pleasant enough time drinking, clubbing, and carousing. He was more like an older buddy than a father. At the end of the week, we said our goodbyes and promised to keep in touch. He sent me birthday cards and would act offended if I didn’t call on Father’s Day. Once I got married and had kids of my own, I’d fly him out once or twice a year to hang with his grandchildren. Always on my dime. If I was opening for someone in his neck of the woods (Smokey Robinson, Natalie Cole etc.) I’d arrange for front row seats, backstage passes and an introduction to whichever star I was working with.
When my grandmother died, he called me. I thought it was to offer condolences or to see what he could do. Turns out it was sheer coincidence. He just happened to call for a phone number I had. Here I was, having one of the worst days of my life, and he didn’t even ask how I was? If I needed anything? Or even, how Grandma had passed? He just wanted the phone number. He said “thanks,” and ended the call.
It was at that moment that I really started to take stock of our relationship, as it were. He only visited when I paid for it. He didn’t even have the consideration to ask what happened to the woman who had raised his child and he’d never even made an attempt at some kind of relationship until I was an adult and all of the work had been done. What was I getting out of this? I didn’t speak to him for seven years after that call.
A few years ago, my daughter Carolyn wanted to take a trip to Ohio to meet the distant relatives. She met all the cousins on my mom’s side, and we had lunch with my father and took him to visit the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland. Something told me then that it would be the last time I’d see him. He was not in good health. Soon, he would begin the daily kidney dialysis he’d need for the rest of his life.
Two weeks ago today, I got the call that he was comatose, and his organs were failing. I had them put the phone up to his ear. I told him that everyone was going to be okay and that he could rest. They tell me he died thirty seconds after I hung up the phone. He’d apparently been waiting on me.
As l said, my feelings about my father are complicated. My children said it best when they told me that he was a nice man who just lacked the “dad gene.” I guess that’s as good an explanation as any. It really sums it up. As a father of three, I know that paternity is more than just being a sperm donor. There’s hard work, play, worry, elation, fear, joy and most importantly, responsibility that comes with that title. “Title?” Hell, it’s an honor. When I think of my proudest moments in life, they almost all revolve around my children their milestones and their achievements. Guess I was lucky enough to be born with the “dad gene.”
I repeat that my relationship with my father was “complicated.” It was. I don’t feel great. I’m surprisingly sad, actually. I didn’t expect that. I haven’t cried for him. I’m not angry or upset with him. I just can’t drum up the tears. My kids are right. He was a nice man, but in the end, what I really feel is…cheated.
I guess that’s what I’ve been trying to wrap my head around these last two weeks.