my memoir

Kyle Northrup
Creative Writing

As my father was slowly escorted into the black and white vehicle I tried to grasp what was happening. Maybe it could have been my age, but I simply could not understand what had happened. I had always looked up to my father, so I never questioned his actions. I never questioned why my mother was crying because I was being punished.
My greatest fear was for the longest time that I would never see him again. But as I became older my fear changed, I am now apprehensive to face him again. Every night I fret over what I would say to him, if I even wanted to talk to him, what he would be like etc… But I know to this day that he is thinking the same thing.
When I was six, I received mail. In the white envelope was a letter so eloquent that it took at least a year to write and revise. Being only six I didn’t notice this, but I knew that my dad was different. The amount of pain, sorrow and bitter remorse in his words could deeply effect even a six year old. I imagined my dad sitting in his jail block with a plethora of crumpled up papers scattered on the ground while he is in a cold metal crying. My dad, the six five body building giant, gently sobbing while writing this letter.
It is a terrifying world for a little kid who grows up without the support of a real father. When you look at the stands and among the roaring crowd of over-anxious family members screaming at the top of their lungs, and not seeing one dedicated solely for rooting at their own blood. Reminiscing on times that you want to remember, not the times that have made people who they are. Going to the park and playing pass never seemed to be the one thing in life I would hang on to, but looking back I realized that those times would stick with me the rest of my life.
One day I looked around my video collection and stumbled upon a video. Without a name or label, the mysterious tape eluded me. I popped it in the VCR and stared at the T.V. with amazement. My mother and father stood there together, smiling and cheering as I paraded around in my little electric dump truck that I got for my third birthday. I drove it around without regard to what was around me. Running into walls and driving off curbs. But my dad was always there to pick me up and put me back in line the way I needed to go. I only wish that he could have done that in my life. Help me get back in line when I steer off blindly, instead of me having to find my own path.
I put the tape back into its sleeve and carry on. I head up to my sisters old room to sit on her cold bed. She is off to college, leaving my mom and I to fret on our own. The bitter realization of this creates a frigid chill that runs down my spine.
But I had some hope. In times that this loneliness hits me, I know I have my uncles. Uncle Jack and Lawnie are my father’s younger brothers who live in Oletha. They are wonderful people who would do anything to see our family be happy. During a visit to the dusty corn field town, I met with my big bellied Uncle Jack. He knew instantly what I was feeling. He put his giant hand on my shoulder and talked to me about it. We talked about my dad and my family and how I was handling it. Even his younger brother knew that something was mentally unstable and unfamiliar with his sibling. But what he didn’t know was why. He knew my dad loves me with all of his heart, but nothing could explain his malicious actions. I have never seen a man as big in my life well up with tears, but this event was deep enough to make a well strung, calm and god like man to give in to the emotion felt within.
My other uncle, Lawnie was always the type of man to crack the most wonderful jokes to enlighten your soul, and for a long time I was not allowed to see him because he still talked to my dad. But this commotion was too powerful to be disintegrated by a nice sarcastic joke. This was as well his brother and he too knew something was wrong with him. Lawnie had tried many times to get his brother to see the light and try to fix some of the mistakes in his life, but his attempts were in vein. Lawnie once again told me that he loved me with all of his heart, hoping to heal some of the scars left by his own family. I could see by loosing a father I had gained two more benevolent ones that lived only a couple miles away.
I went back home, passing corn fields and looking the whole time out the window. I didn’t notice anything I had been looking at. I would stare at the river next to us and never realize its beauty, only looking at it without any sentiment or demeanor. My apathy showed that I was fragile but at the same strong enough to get passed everything and grasping the morals and values left by this battle.
What confuses me about my own self, is that I never share this history or any knowledge of this with my friends. It might seem like I am blocking them out of my personal matters, but I think I am not proud to admit my father is a screw-up. I want to just say that he died sometimes because I do not want to deal with the humiliation of saying that he went to jail and now has a restraining order against him. In someway I think people will think I am going to head down the same road. I have tried to prove myself better than my predecessor and become a near perfect person by not committing the same vulgar acts as he once did and is currently doing. I have dealt with responsibilities and I am ready to be handed new ones every day of my life. Maybe someone will see that I have the ability to overcome multiple obstacles and relate to it in some way.
I still do not have a clue if I would ever speak to my father, and what I would say if I could. It is a daunting realization to know that when I turn 18 that I will most definitely be contacted by the man that has caused so many traumas but yet made me a stronger person. Somewhere within the hallowed shell of this horrid person is the man I once loved. Whatever makes me choose to talk to him or not is not controlled by me, fate will decide. The one who still shows he loves me back and wants to make things right. Or maybe that is just me being optimistic.
Although I have lacked the male connection with my mom, I have been graced with an entire town of people who care, friends who will do anything for you, and an angel of a mother to lookout for me. Some things have been given to our family due to the events that had happened, but a plethora of them have been earned by my mom, my sister, and me. Writing this now is not easy, but it is a way to tell my story that has been bottled up inside for so long. And I do not tell this story to hardly anyone so it is not easy. I also want to thank every person who helped me through this, friends, family, teachers, even people I don’t even know, they have all paved the way of my life, Given me hope, and good morals. But I know deep in my heart that one day I will have to face my father, and when that day comes I will be prepared.