Having met so many young and older people here, male and female who have been fatherless, I have been asked on several occasions where my passion comes from, and what is it I know about the issue. It is for that reason I have decided to present my own story. Those without fathers are walking around with pain, looking for love, and are struggling to find internal peace. The need for a father, the desire for the love of a father, and the importance of having someone to connect your whole being to cannot be underestimated. So much research, so many books, so many hypothesis’s have been tested to ascertain the psychological impact of his absence, the relationship to crime, and numerous gazes which at times border on being voyeuristic. The following testimony is not aimed at anyone in particular. It is not designed to be fed into any research, or add weight to a policy document. It is whatever it means to the reader. For ease of reading it is presented in a serial format:
Part One - Beginning
I only met Astley Roy Moore, (my natural father), who was a Jamaican, a handful of times. Once when I was eight, when he was introduced as my uncle. Being so young and totally consumed with the excitement of meeting him, I was pacified by his entrance into my life. He then proceeded to buy my affection on a shopping trip that lasted no more than a few hours. I never questioned his absence in my life as I was too busy being with ‘Dad’ (A term I never used with him). I thought I’d arrived now I had my father back in my life. I stuck two fingers up to all those people who made me feel the stigma of having an absent parent. I felt complete. It was a false reality! After a meal, he took me back to the designated rendezvous point, dropped me off, and that was that. It was 24 years later before I would see him again. Most of my formative years were spent thinking that he really cared for me.
When I check it, I never ever had a birthday or Christmas card, heard his voice on the phone, benefited from his wisdom; absolutely nothing at all! I never had any sense the impact his absence would have on me until later in my life. How could I, I was too naïve, and inexperienced? I bought the lie, as the pain was too difficult to comprehend. Deep down I was dying inside. A feeling that has stayed with me. It’s a feeling you never quite come to terms with, and suppress in order to survive. As the years rolled on I hoped and prayed I would meet him again, go on an adventure, and act like nothing had happened. I was totally blind and deaf. I didn’t listen to my inner voice and conveniently ignored my mother’s hurt. I needed a scapegoat. Something that I have since rectified, but I know my anger opened up a wound within her, which only healed during her battle with cancer as I made my way back.
The Prodigal son comes to mind. Only is my case it was my mother not my father who welcomed me back home after I had gone out into the world and lived a turbulent life. I know that mum is at peace, which has aided my journey into my own healing. Jill Roberts, a white woman from Wales, who in 1955 Great Britain fell in love with this handsome Jamaican. A brave and courageous gesture way back then. To have me, lose the man she loved, and still manage to make a life for herself, was truly remarkable. She never gave me up for adoption (A common occurrence during the 50’s). Weaker women would have crumbled, but my mother demonstrated the kind of courage I am only now discovering. When I met my father many years later, I had to cope with yet another major blow; he had had a stroke as well as being married to a woman who didn’t know I existed. His illness restricted the things I so desperately needed to say to him, causing me more anxiety. During our brief moments together we shared some important times, but the opportunity to offload my hurt never arose. How I wanted to shout, scream, and curse, but I respected his illness and went with the flow. If he had good health I may not have been as tolerant, as I had an extremely bad temper, which I couldn’t control. One of the major benefits to come out of our meetings was the introduction to my Jamaican family (Who I am still in touch with).
It was at this point my road to recovery took off. My disjointed identity started to piece together. During my first week on my Jamaican sojourn where I was to be re-united with my new family, my father passed away (in London on NOV 4th 1989). I had so many mixed emotions, anger, vexation, confusion, and betrayal. I was too distraught to focus. I’d been robbed! Things were made worse when I had to deal with the aftermath of meeting and losing him in such a short space of time, with no counselling whatsoever. I was a real mess. Like a desert mirage all those years of searching had disappeared in front of my eyes. His wife made it doubly difficult by refusing to let me see my father’s ashes on my return. A sort of payback for his deceit about the child she never knew he had. They’d been married for 16 years.
Even when he found love he lived a lie. Although I never really got a chance to know my father, I developed a real strength of character during his absent years, which made me fiercely independent. My formative years were spent with my natural white mother and bigoted white stepfather, Ted Glynn. This led to major confusions about my identity and sense of where I fitted in. As a person from a so called ‘mixed race’ background I felt lost, alone, vulnerable, and disaffected. My stepfather and I were not close. Despite never being there for me emotionally, he was actually the only man I ever knew in the capacity as a father figure at that time. He did his best, but at the time I never knew that, and certainly didn’t appreciate it. Not having had a real grounding with an adult man, who I felt loved me enough to teach me about life crushed my self-esteem. I became locked in adolescence well into my late twenties and early thirties. At school I refused to accept my real father was flawed, despite the level of abuse and name calling my so-called friends would give me for not having him around. At school I was too Black for the White kids, not Black enough for the Black kids. I hated being called Half-caste by everyone. I wanted to be like my father, a Black man.
Growing up in a white family without any black input got worse as I craved the love of my black family who were in Jamaica, and didn’t know I existed. It was at this time I discovered a way of covering the pain. I became a clown. Happy on the outside ...sad on the inside, always the life 'n' soul of the party. Keeping my absent father’s memory alive was pure charade, which worked at first, as I never really needed to call upon my emotions to survive. As I hit my late teens it started to affect me the first of many depressions. My inability to talk to about my pain, and the continuing pressure of racism in the home caused me to withdraw and hold my mother responsible for everything. I was in complete denial, brought on by confusion about my identity. I became violent, uncontrollable, and carried hate around like a weapon. I projected my anger at anyone who made me feel vulnerable. I was out of control. Not only did I hate the world at large, but also I couldn’t stand myself. I was determined everyone was going to pay for my predicament.
I remember vividly how submerging myself in work, politics, relationships, and other pursuits cushioned me, enough to falsely convince my mind that everything was fine. I had to wait until my late thirties before the bubble finally burst. One day I had written a full length screenplay and needed a crucial bit of information about my mother and father’s relationship. I asked mum how my father had left her. When she told me I was devastated and broke down. I was no longer able to hide, run scared, or cover things up. I wept endlessly and finally had to come to terms with his act of betrayal in my life. My father was no longer a hero, the person on a pedestal. Instead he had become the man who left me, my mother, and more importantly his responsibility in favour of finding a new life for himself.
Peace
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