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"Happy or unhappy families are all mysterious." Gloria Steinem
"Our first job is to get our own story straight." Natalie Goldberg

you will never amount to anything
While my father pampered and praised, coddled and adored my five sisters I was belittled, berated, ignored and beaten. Yet no beating cut as deep as the venomous battery of words he’d daily hurl at my self-esteem—You’re just lazy! You look just like a Jezebel! You got too much pride! Who do you think you are! Thankfully, I have forgotten many of the insults. There was one verbal assault, however, that owned me. It seeped into my subconscious mind, then ripped wildly through my life producing bad and—surprisingly—some good fruit. “You’ll never amount to anything,” he raged. His words tore at my sense of self, forcing me, unconsciously, to labor for years to prove him wrong. Man has yet to construct the belt that can lacerate human flesh like harsh words can hack away at a child’s self-esteem. My father’s whippings were enraged, out-of-control displays of hate, but few. Time healed my open flesh. My psychic wounds have required considerably more to mend. They’ve demanded time plus spiritual healing work—like fumbling in the dark, falling on my face, pulling myself up, finding my way, losing myself, grieving my losses, practicing forgiveness, crying over what could have been, and trying to love myself through it all.
            When I was fourteen, my father ceased to give me money for transportation to school and lunch. You’re too proud,” he’d bark. “When you learn to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ I’ll give you money for school!” I flat out refused to grovel for what he gave my sisters generously. Besides, wasn’t being provided for my birthright? I let him be right. I would be too proud to beg. What my father meant for harm only operated to make me stronger, more determined to go to school, more committed to succeeding despite the obstacles. I would make it with or without him, my teenage mind decided. “And one day,” I promised myself, “I won’t need you!”
            I pined for my father’s love well into womanhood. I couldn’t help it. I needed him. In the African American community there has been quite a bit of misguided dialogue around the importance of an involved father to a boy’s healthy development. A boy’s chances of maturing into a self-assured, productive man, so the discourse goes, dramatically dwindle when he’s denied a relationship with his father. Absolutely. This is right on point. Then there’s a growing cadre of shortsighted sisters who insist that their child, boy or girl, “don’t need NO father!” These rejected fathers, I might note, are the same men these women felt compelled to bed. This myopia flies in the face of God and common sense. As I see it, if two parties must join together to create life, then wouldn’t it follow that both people are essential to the development of this life? Attempting to dispense with or marginalize one half of this equation—most often the father—dishonors our children, God and us. Personally, I know men (and women) who have grown into adulthood secretly hungering for their absent or abusive fathers. Those not on the road to emotional healing can be so burdened by shame, bitterness and fear that they are emotionally unfit for the delights and demands of intimate love. Convinced that they are intrinsically flawed, intimacy shines too bright a light on their real selves for them to fully participate in a loving partnership. So they hide, evade and run from love even as they hopelessly yearn for it.

a girl needs a father

A loving, involved father is essential to every child’s emotional and spiritual well-being. A father’s unconditional love helps to anchor a girl’s life while it lays the foundation upon which she can build healthy, balanced expectations for future relationships with men. Moreover, a father’s love diminishes the likelihood that a growing girl will attempt to satisfy her need for male adoration and attention by engaging in risky, promiscuous sexual behavior. A father’s love is indispensable. Please don’t discount it.

My father failed to love me. Consequently, I struggled mightily to love myself. My severely compromised self-esteem functioned as a potent magnet for unhealed men, men who unwittingly wrestled with their own ghosts from the past. Meeting men was not the problem, keeping a relationship afloat was. I’d meet men anywhere and everywhere—at work, at school, on the street, in the store, on the bus. As fast as these men came, they left. It confused me. I’d adorn myself with due care, but behind the fastidious clothes and meticulously coiffed hair lurked a woman who thought she was damaged, unwanted goods. It was my needy, wounded girl self who created my circumstances not the woman I wanted the world to think I was.

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