The summer of 1999, my mother asked me to drive my father to his court date. I ignored my father for three hundred and eighty-seven days. I went through the rest of the day feeling excited and proud but distracted, my father’s absence a sharp, jagged hangnail that snagged every moment of celebration. My mother, my sisters, my aunt, my cousins, and my uncle-my father’s brother. I saw my Jama first, her wheelchair a great marker for finding everyone else. When my name was called, I walked across the stage and strained my eyes beyond the seats to find my family. That morning, I sat up front in the first two rows of graduates, a sea of purple caps with gold tassels. My father didn’t attend my high school graduation and as far as I was concerned, he could fuck off forever. June 10, 1998, I decided my father had abandoned me for the last time. This was originally published at The Rumpus on November 17, 2020.
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