Until I Get Married

I know I said today’s post would be football term’s for ladies to apply in their dating life, but I’m postponing that topic because something else is on my mind.

This is hard for me to write about without giving some context, bare with me as I unpack a couple of things before moving forward.

I never write about my dad. My late biological father has been written about at length, so has my pop. The man my mother is married to, I refer to him as my step-dad. In my own head, these men are clearly separated and compartmentalized. To the reader, things are probably a little more jumbled, largely because I don’t write about my life in chronological order. I hop around, jumping from memory to memory.

So when I say my dad, understand I am not talking about the men I mentioned above. I am talking about the man whose last name was given to me after he adopted me as his own. He brought my sister into this world. He and my mom were married, but divorced when I was 5 or 6. From then on, he was more of a weekend dad, seeing us about twice a month.

I’ve had my issues with my dad. They’re not as deep as the issues I had with the absence of my biological father or the troubling and complicated relationship I had with my pop, but issues nonetheless. Most of these bore out of how little we saw him even though he never lived too far away. He never raised us so much as he visited us, and there were times my sister and I both resented him for it. The other issue is, how remarkably different he is from my sister and I.

Our dad is a white man from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania who listens to The Doors, wears Wranglers, votes Repubican, loves Pittsburgh sports, the Steelers especially, and watches Nascar. We could not be more opposite if I was night and he, day, which made the physical distance between us feel much farther than it ever really was.

Thankfully, over the years, my issues with him have subsided. We talk most Sundays on the telephone, the conversations mostly brief check-ins, but I am proud to say, occasionally they run long.

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My original plan was to meet him at Red’s Donut Shop. We went there all the time, when I was a kid. Sometimes picking up donuts to take back home and enjoy as a family, other times, he and I stayed. Two guys with two glasses of milk, and one warm cinnamon roll with melted butter apiece, talking about the world before spending a day at the construction site.

But as it turns out, he doesn’t live in the immediate area anymore. That was news to me, then again, since we only spoke once in 15 years, and hadn’t seen each other in just as long, there’s a lot of room for breaking news.

He and I last spoke earlier this year after I received word his mother passed away. I wrote about this phone call and the anxiety I had leading up to the phone call (read both here and here). Our chat was brief, too brief for me to say there was any real closure. The pain of his mother’s death (still fresh) and my impromptu phone call made for a disjointed conversation. We would have to talk at a later date. Seeing as I am home for the holidays, I figured this was as good a time as any.

Through a tangled web of now distant families, he received word I was trying to get in touch with him. When I picked up the phone, he started to say “This is Pop” but corrected himself quickly and referred to himself by his first name instead. I simply said, “Hi, Pop.” I imagine it was news to him that even after 11 years, I still referred to him as such. When I told him I was in town and I wanted to see him before I made my way back to New York, he half-jokingly said, “As long as you don’t want to go at my head.”

This was odd. All the years he raised me, he made me nervous. There was not one chore I did, not one play I made on the baseball field, where I didn’t hear his voice demanding me to do better. If I didn’t meet his high standards, there were consequences to be paid, some severe, some not. Now, he was the nervous one, worried I was baiting him into some sort of scenario where I would tie him to a chair and make him feel bad for raising me with an iron fist.

That was the last thing I wanted to do.

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Folks, it’s that time of year again.

People in new relationships and some in old relationships are gearing up to visit at least one set of parents for Thanksgiving. Out of all the holidays, Thanksgiving is arguably the most communal, providing the perfect opportunity for many new couples to break bread (literately and figuratively) with the new person in our lives. Some of us will be making this more than just a day trip, spending nights at the parents home for a couple of days.

The sleeping arrangements behind this situation are either a judgement call or an established rule. Some of our parents establish a strict two bed, separate room policy if we’re not married. That’s the rule in my household.

Over the years, I have brought home several women to meet my mom. Since she lives in California and all these relationships began on the East Coast, all the visits involved a few nights stay at Casa De Ms. Rita’s. Under her roof, it is her rules. When it came to sharing a bed, hell, when it came to being in a room with the door closed, Ms. Rita has zero tolerance. I was 27-years-old the last time I brought a woman to my mom’s home, the rule was still in effect.

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So tonight, I leave from my annual holiday visit with my family in California and head back to New York City. For those who follow me on Twitter or see me on Facebook, you can probably tell I had the time of my life. Since I only visit my family once a year, I usually make the trips extended stays. This year was no different, as I’ve been here since December 16.

But now, it’s time to go back to the city I call home. Leaving isn’t bitter sweet. I look forward to going back, being my own man, sleeping in my own apartment, and seeing all my friends, some of whom I also consider family. The other reason I’m leaving with a smile on my face? I have finally lived to see the day when my family is in full bloom.

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It’s not like being around babies was a foreign experience to me prior to meeting my niece. I’ve met plenty of babies, been around them numerous times, but never have I been as hands on with them as I am with my niece.

Ever since I met her, I want to be around my niece every chance I get. Just now my sister came by  the house to drop her off for my mom and I to babysit for the day. When my sister walked in with my niece in the car seat, I hurried over to pick her up, only to see she was still sleeping. I felt like the first kid awake at a sleepover, waiting for his friends to wake up. I couldn’t wait for her eyes to open.

Needless to say, this new experience being around my niece, all pro-baby like never before, has taught me some lessons. In a little less than a week, here are five I have learned.

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The only thing I can write about today is the moment I just experienced meeting my six month old niece for the very first time in person.

When she was born on June 11, I must admit, I didn’t feel too different. I knew I was an Uncle, but I didn’t quite know what that meant, I didn’t know how to act. I was so clueless, I even wrote a post asking all my readers to tell me what makes a good uncle and to share memories they have of their uncles. For me, this was important, because I grew up with some great uncles, and I cared about being the same.

But now, as her and my sister take a nap in their room, I realize being a great uncle to my niece is going to be easy. I know that may sound egotistical, but allow me to explain.

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Anyone who reads this blog knows how important my mother is to me, so when I’m done with today’s post, I’m not reading the comments. And Mom, I know you’re reading this too, so I suggest you avoid reading the comments section as well. I want people to comment freely, but admittedly, this is a sensitive subject. The only reason I’m writing about it is because well, I’d be lying if I were to write about anything else. This is all I’m thinking about.

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So I kind of have been looking forward to this post for a while now. In the past, I have written about the complicated relationships I had with men, but today, the man I want to talk about is a man with whom my relationship is anything but complicated.

Today, for Father’s Day, I want to talk about my stepdad, a man who has taught me more by loving my mother and my sister than anyone else I know.

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Well folks, it’s official, I am now an uncle to a beautiful niece. Her name is Armoni (pronounced like the fashion label), and she came into this world on June 11, at something like 7 pounds, 21 inches.

My sister’s in great shape post-delivery, the father has stayed at the hospital with her every night, and our family couldn’t be happier. I know I couldn’t be happier. With Armoni in my family, my whole life has now changed for the better and now it’s time for Uncle Jozen to do everything he can for his only niece, but just as important, for his only sister too.

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The title of this post is named after my father’s favorite drink.

He, Harry Joe, died one year ago today. I didn’t know much about him, having grown up from the age of three to the age of 18 in California, and him living all those years in between New York and D.C. I saw him once when I was six, got a telephone call from him when I was 10, and then once more when I was 16. When I enrolled at Howard, he was living in D.C. at the time, so of course I initially thought it was an opportunity for us to rekindle our relationship with one another.

I was wrong.

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