Don't Cry for Me

by Daniel Black

To Ernest J. Gaines, who started the public healing of black fathers and sons years ago

When, in 2013, my father was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, I knew what it meant—he’d soon forget what he’d done or said to me over the years. In fact, he’d need my sympathy, perhaps my financial assistance, as his memory faded away. For a long time, I had wanted us to hash things out, to speak honestly about how we had hurt or disappointed one another over the years. But Daddy’s mind left like a dream at dawn. And now the encounter could happen only in my imagination.

In some ways, he envied the life he had provided for his children. He, too, had wanted knowledge, travel, enlightenment, but such was laughable for a dark black boy in the 1940s. So he hoped for me. Yet my freedom angered him.

But perhaps with what I’m about to say, you will know why I did what I did. Whether you forgive me or not will be up to you.

Let me start with this: love wasn’t a requirement of men in my day. It wasn’t a man’s achievement. In the sixties, when you were born, love was a woman’s passion, a mother’s hope. Fathers had far different obsessions: food, shelter, clothing, protection. My job was to assure you had these things, and I did that.

Truth is, the world changed faster than I could.

Slavery did a number on black people. We haven’t survived it yet. The institution is over, but its aftereffects still linger. We try not to think about it, our time in bondage, but it shapes who we are.

Everything we did, whether we were aware or not, we did with white people in mind. Our life’s aim was to make them believe we had value and worth, so we spent our nights trying to figure out what they liked, then spent our days trying to do it. We still haven’t pleased them, and truth is, we never will.

I told Death, “Just give me a minute. I’m writing something important to my son.”

We even buried one another without tombstones. No need remembering one whose only achievement was a decent spring crop or a house full of hungry children. Save that money and repair the roof.

That ended our talking, but Esau rubbed my head until I went to sleep. The older we got, the less he did it, and the day he stopped altogether, my joy disappeared.

We were taught what to think—not how. There is a difference, you know. It never crossed our minds that we were destroying someone’s life.

The day Esau died, a part of me died with him. If church folks are right, I’ll see him soon and I’ll be happy again. If they’re wrong, I’ll have no peace in eternity. No peace at all.

Granddaddy saw my affection and said, “Bout time, boy! Shit!”

When she chuckled, I saw the prettiest, deepest-set dimples I’d ever seen. I grabbed my thighs to keep my hands still.

“Aw shit, Miss Agnes!” when he heard the news, meaning he was happy for me. I laughed at his affirmation because, finally, we were men together, and I’d waited a long time for that.

These were the kinds of things I wanted to share with you. Man things. Things a father ought to tell his son. But you weren’t interested. Even as a little boy, you thought I was cold and mean. Perhaps I was. But I was a man. I was a man the way I’d been taught to be a man. People respected that. I stayed on the same job forty years because of it. I supported you and your mother because of it. I own a house because of it. You have an inheritance because of it. Never did I think I’d have to apologize for being a man. But, like I said, the world changed faster than I could.

She said the poem was about Jesus, but I knew better. She read it to me every time I saw her. That’s how I memorized it. When we divorced, I wrote it down since I’d never hear her say it again.

A man’s history is all he has. It says more than his mouth ever will.

I got the call, three weeks after the wedding, that Granddaddy had died. Someone found him facedown in the pea patch. I’d wondered how I’d react on that day, if I’d cry or shiver with grief, but I did neither. I laughed instead. This might sound strange, but it’s what I felt. He died doing precisely what he liked. He died on the land. It was like him to have his way, to make Death come for him in the middle of the field. That’s why I laughed, because Granddaddy had the last word—as usual.

I nodded approval and shook his hand as if greeting him formally, and that’s when sorrow overwhelmed me—when I clutched his limp right hand. Granddaddy hated nothing more than a man’s weak handshake, so I knew he was gone.

Tears came, but I restrained them. I wanted to collapse upon his body and thank him for taking Esau and me when no one else would. I wanted to assure him I knew how to work and that it had saved my life. I wanted to boast that I had a son coming, a boy of my own—I hoped you’d be a boy, I wanted you to be a boy—and that his name would be Isaac. Instead, I held my peace and bowed my head.

There are no do-overs in this life. Either you get it right or you wish you had.

I find it funny that, at funerals, all dead people go to Heaven, regardless of how they lived. Perhaps this is black people’s way of rewarding themselves simply for having been black and survived—even for a while.

I spent hours wondering what kind of boy you’d be, who you’d look like, what you’d laugh about, what you might one day die for. I hoped you’d look like your uncle Esau. But more, I hoped you’d love me just because I was your father.

We named you Isaac because it means “laughter,” which Rachel and I hoped you’d always have.

The day you were born was the happiest day of my life.

She said we looked alike, but I thought you looked like Esau. I used to kiss you on the forehead every day.

Now I see why you and your mother read so much. It makes you think, makes you see things you can’t see, and that was my problem. I had all kinds of opinions, but I couldn’t see a damn thing.

“That boy might play in Carnegie Hall one day.” “He might,” I said, “but I’ll be satisfied if he just plays right here at home.”

I eased down the hall, next to the room where your mother had moved the piano, and I relaxed against the wall. You didn’t know I was there. As I listened, your playing healed me. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to remember that song, but I never could.

You had a gift far greater than anything I understood.

One day she murmured, “Women aren’t slaves, you know.” It was a casual statement, like one announcing the day’s weather. I could tell she’d been drinking. “Nobody’s a slave,” I said, confused. “Yes, somebody is,” she returned sadly. Her remark startled me, but I didn’t entertain it. Years later, I thought about it and cried.

I thought that perhaps this little book was planting seeds of rebellion in her head, so I warned her against it. She laughed as if I were stupid. Then, days later, I asked her to stop reading it altogether. “It’s ruining our marriage,” I said, “and making you hard to live with.” Her eyes narrowed. “I gave up everything for you, Jacob Swinton. Everything. And now you want my mind, too?” I

Just to tease you a bit, I got up and started dancing around. You laughed and laughed, and that inspired me to act sillier, so I did. You even got up and danced along, and together we had a lotta fun. You didn’t know I could dance, and I hadn’t heard your laughter in a long while. We made our own invisible soul train line and each of us danced until we got tired. We went to bed happy with each other that night.

“The American government started an experiment back in the ’30s down in Tuskegee, Alabama, where they gave black men syphilis to see how it acts over time. The problem was that they didn’t tell the men themselves. Nor did they provide medical treatment once the men found out. They coulda just gave ’em penicillin and cured ’em, but they didn’t. They let ’em die.”

Charlie looked at the sky and screeched, finally, “Muthafucka, is you crazy?”

Speak, king

“How bout we talk again after you start readin some shit! Just don’t say nothin else to me, man, until you spend some time with some knowledge!” “I read all the time!” Fats declared, clearly offended. Charlie shook his head violently. “No you don’t! Ain’t no damn way! You too stupid to read all the time. Ain’t no way that’s true!”

Charlie's saying what I've always wanted to say to folks. King shit.

I was drowning in ignorance and afraid of knowledge. No good to a living soul.

“You don’t get it, woman, ’cause you ain’t no man!” “No, I’m not a man,” she declared, “but I know one when I see one.”

Of course, you were already outside my reach. I was your father—am your father—and you were a stranger to me. Certainly I was selfish. I never asked how you felt about your performance, if you were proud of yourself, if you thought you sang well. I didn’t want to know.

Ouch

Pain settled into your eyes. I can still see it. That should’ve been enough to cool my rage, but it wasn’t.

“Don’t say a word, baby. Never answer another man’s disrespect.”

So I grabbed your collar and yanked you to your feet. “You will answer me when I ask you a question, boy, do you understand?” You nodded once or twice, but still didn’t speak. Your mother had turned, and, in a flash, held a butcher knife to my throat. She was clear, calm, and resolved. “Let. Him. Go,” she whispered. Your body hung limp from my fist. I relaxed it and you collapsed to the floor like a corpse. Rachel and I never broke our gaze. She instructed you to go to the bathroom to clean your face—all while staring at me. I fully believed that, had I moved or opened my mouth, she would’ve stabbed me. I had no doubt of that.

Queen shit

You rarely lifted your head during those days. I didn’t think much about it then. I think about it all the time now.

I committed, within myself, to seeing you every evening after work. My new place was only ten or fifteen minutes away, so that wasn’t a problem. And I kept that promise pretty well. Do you remember this? All those evenings I watched you do homework. I wasn’t much help because I wasn’t an academic, but I was there. Sometimes, when there was no homework, we’d watch TV or sit around talking. But I was there.

You were freer in your spirit than me, which, of course, I resented. Everything moved your heart, and I mean everything.

I was proud of the comparison, proud you remembered. You said you wanted to trace our family tree and I told you I’d help. You asked if I would take you to Arkansas. I said of course. So we went.

I imagined you as a man. The thought frightened me. You might recall that I dropped your wrist suddenly and moved away. You scowled, but I acted oblivious. I was so insecure! What father can’t touch his own son?

Guilt and grief consumed me. I stared at the grave and apologized silently. I think I wiped my eyes a few times, if I recall. You reached for my hand, but I didn’t surrender it. I just stood there. I wanted to hold your hand, needed to hold your hand, but I couldn’t. You cried, although I didn’t understand why. Years later, I realized it was for me.