I’m not really a cat person. I mean, I don’t hate them by any means…they just aren’t my thing. Now, I’ve played nice with them in order to win the affection of a woman or two, but you can bet your bottom dollar that I’m not buying catnip and litter boxes for any stray cat looking to seek refuge in my apartment. With that being said, I have a profound respect for their hunting skills and independence.
I once lived at a place in Rhode Island that seemed to be overrun by possums and rodents. A friend brought in a cat named “Smokey,” a grayish British shorthair. Smokey had one eye missing and plenty of battle scars from his time on the street. No one knew the origin of Smokey’s missing eye, but I’d like to think that it was gangsta enough, and heartbreaking enough, to make Smokey my type of cat.
Smokey waged all-out war against the rodent and possum problem. Battle cries were heard all throughout the night. One morning while drinking coffee and staring out of the window, I watched Smokey walk through the yard with a rat so large that it hung from both sides of his mouth. Smokey suddenly stopped and looked up at the window where I stood. We locked eyes for a few seconds…then he continued on his path.
Legend has it that Smokey had a huge burial ground out in the woods. I’m a city boy, so this was all new to me. A few of the neighbors made him out to be Hannibal Lecter, or the feline version of “Leatherface” from “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.” I didn’t care, because he kept the law and order that we sought. I made sure that Smokey ate well, and had his own shelter right near the house.
Upon returning from New York one night, we found Smokey sprawled out in the yard dead. A few feet from him, laid a huge possum, also dead.
Smokey put that work in…and he died in the line of duty.
On my commute to work, I pass by a window where I see a cat pressed up against the glass looking out at the view. It watches the squirrels and birds go about their business. I don’t know this cat’s history, but I’d like to think that he was once a wild cat who’s been domesticated. He no longer needs the thrill of the streets. He’s content being indoors–something that I can relate to.
Many years ago, in the streets of Brooklyn, I was once that wild and reckless young man. My poor choices led me to engage in everything from drug dealing to gun violence. I tell my story to hopefully prevent others from walking the path that I once walked. Here I am, decades later, finally locked in on the lessons that I was once taught by my parents, which I had strayed away from. And almost 18 months removed from federal incarceration, I’m walking the path from prison to prosperity. What a ride it’s been. I’m building a relationship with my daughter who was born during my time away. Also spending time with her brothers, who I affectionately consider my sons. I’ve also made the most of every positive opportunity that came my way.
When men with similar backgrounds reach a certain age and level of maturity, we have to leave our pasts behind, and embrace all of the pro-social qualities that we’d want to see in our children. Leading by example and sacrifice is part of that growth. But even more so, it’s one of the many spokes of fatherhood.
I reflect back to my childhood when my dad, a working man and Vietnam veteran, would stare out of the window of our apartment. My mother would observe him sometimes and say, “Fred, if you want to go outside and hang out with your friends for a while, go ahead.”My dad in response would decline. He preferred to stay in the house, watch television, bond with the kids, and prepare for work the next day. I’m so glad that he made that choice.
Those formative years stuck with me. That feeling of security was important. This was before he got laid off from work and picked up a heroin habit. This was before my mother was stricken with diabetes, and before one of my brothers and I turned to the streets to compensate for our decline in lifestyle. I was happy with his choice. And oh so many years later, I understood it. Even throughout my father’s valleys and peaks in life, he worked, provided, shared, and never laid a violent hand on my mother.
Dad put that work in…
If my parents could see me now, I know they’d be happy at what I’ve finally become. They’d have a blast laughing at how their granddaughter runs circles around me. This 7-year-old girl has me watching YouTubers and “Peppa Pig.” Let that sink in for a moment people. Me…watching an animated show about a family of damn pigs!
But I’m fine with it. I’m fine with the remnants of her slime mixture still stained on my floor. I’m fine with her sarcasm and asking me if I were 100 years old. (She’s responsible for the gray hairs on my chin.) These are moments that I’ve dreamt about for years. I love spending time with her. Some of these words and conversations have been in my mind since I found out that her mother was pregnant with her. I still cry when I watch her sleep.
My fatherhood experience is both grueling and beautiful. It’s both a learning and teaching experience. It’s pain and love. My deepest fears and insecurities arise as I look at our vulnerability in what can be an ugly society at times. This isn’t 1950 Mississippi, but we are a family of color in New Hampshire. Although Manchester is pretty diverse, I would still feel out of place venturing into territories that may have hostility towards us. My family also includes her brothers. One is 15 and nearly my height. The other is a college grad just entering the workforce in his early 20s. I’d put my life on the line for them, and it’d be worth it. I’ve put my life in harm’s way for much less…countless times. But this is “the good fight.”
My personal evolution has come in the form of patience, tolerance and nurturing. I never understood unconditional love until this little girl came into my life. It’s a very delicate thing, trying to raise a young girl into a woman. I don’t want her to ever lose her voice. I give her all of the support and attention that she needs. I make sure that she knows that I will always be there for her and that she’s the most important thing in my life.
That’s me…putting in work. Not molding my peers for battle, but molding young minds to be successful in life and society.
If I wind up being a fraction of what my father was, that’s a win for me.
R.I.P., Dad. Thank you.
Time is one of the most important things that you can give to a person, and I’m locked in. I’m working on getting better hours at work so my schedule somewhat mirrors hers. When she’s getting out of school, I’m on my way to work. It’s grueling, but it allows me to do things for her. It allows me to never even consider my former life as a viable option. That life is over. I’m fine with being domesticated. That’s my growth, sacrifice and walking that prosocial path. And to be absolutely blunt, I love being the complete square that I am these days. I’m a father. Indoors mostly, domesticated if you will.
There is so much knowledge that I want to give her. I constantly remind myself that this isn’t a race, it’s a journey. I’m enjoying this young girl, and I plan to be around for a long time.
I steal a kiss from her when I can, much to her over-dramatic protests. I steal a kiss from her when I buckle her in her booster seat, I steal one from her when she reads words that are bigger than her. I can’t help myself.
There are times when I hold her hand as we walk through parking lots, on route to local supermarkets and stores. I keep holding her hand, even when we are far away from any potential harm by way of moving vehicles. She’s on to my trick, though, and smiles at me as she realizes that I’m still holding her hand. Sometimes she laughs and snatches her hand away, and sometimes she lets me have those moments.
R.I.P. Smokey.
