April 24, 2001: Are you my father

While staring into the bathroom mirror, I questioned, “Do I look like him?” “Are my eyes the shape of his? My hairs long and dark, my legs ache in the middle of the night, my voice…does it sound like him?” Why at thirty-eight do I continue to question? Only to notice how rough my face looks. “Is it his? No one taught me how to shave.” Silent is my chosen journey as long as it’s within the origin believing that one day I’ll be free.

Note: My sperm-donating father was killed in 1977—I knew of him, but nothing about him, he left when I was three. As a way of protecting my mother, I never asked to see pictures nor did I question her. Suddenly, at thirty-eight…I wanted to know my daddy—someone forgot to play baseball with me and someone totally ignored my years of growing up. I saw it as being a possible lead as to why I couldn’t love my own. I’m sorry, I can’t fake love—you’ll see thru me.