M had moved to Cali from DC looking for a new start. She left behind A’s father who was now in prison, another case of Good Girl Falls for Bad Boy. M was a square bear. Didn’t drink or smoke. Wouldn’t even cuss. I liked that she was a grown woman. She wore business suits and had her own place, my sugar mamma. Paid for our meals. Broke me off when she cashed her checks. But what made me stay was how she made me feel. She’d tell me about her absent father, past asshole exes, how her grandfather had molested her. When I’d hear about the failings of men—this seemed an inescapable part of life—somehow I’d feel responsible, as if I shared in the blame, as if these men were me. By listening to M and comforting her, it was like I had found a way to redeem myself.
I began to consider the possibility that I might raise A as my own daughter, if things kept going the way they were. I was getting used to the provider role within my family. On top of the buser job, I was also a tutor at City. I was working fifty, sometimes sixty hours a week to pay the rent, also giving my mom money for our groceries. I was the man of the house, but I wasn’t good at playing daddy. I’d weasel out of doing anything with A that a dad might do. Never took her to the park or pushed her on a swing. Wouldn’t even take her to the movies. I was full of excuses: I had a paper to write. I was behind in my readings. My homie’s going through a bad breakup. Next week.
I’d stall until A went back to DC. She’d stay there for months at a time, cared for by M’s mom, some arrangement they had. M would get on me about my lack of interest in doing anything public with her daughter. Maybe it had to do with her skin color.
A was several shades lighter than M, and when people would see the three of us together, some would think, at least at first glance, that A might be my daughter. Women would smile at me as if I’d done something noble for racial harmony. Or maybe it was the rare sight of a teenage dad handling his business. The thought of this made me feel like a fraud. I wasn’t up for fatherhood. My biggest fear in life was turning out like my old man, a cold-hearted and unloved father. The only sure way to avoid that—don’t become a dad.
Yet, I kept getting M pregnant. Abortion. Miscarriage. Abortion.
She told me about the first abortion at Wendy’s. I was in the middle of eating a cheeseburger. “I wasn’t planning on telling you,” she said, “but now that it’s done, I thought you should know.”
I put the burger down. I had ketchup on my fingers. We were sitting in a nook, empty except for us. “You don’t keep something like that secret.”
“That’s why I’m telling you.”
“I should’ve had a say.”
“I knew what you would’ve said.”
“That’s not the point.”
“I was trying to be discreet.”
“Then you should’ve kept it to yourself.”
The next time she did. I visited her in the ER. She made up some excuse for why she was there. I wouldn’t discover for another year that she’d had a miscarriage. I acted mad that she’d hidden another pregnancy, but truth be told, I was relieved I’d dodged another bullet.
The third pregnancy, she was upfront, asked me what I wanted to do. I was getting As at City, setting myself up to transfer to a university. I wasn’t trying to tie myself down. Plus, what the hell did I
know about commitment? I was cheating on M every chance I got.
On the weekends, me and Rob—himself a recent father—would roam the malls for girls. My favorite way to get numbers was to approach a girl at work. They were required to talk to you. Hooking up with other women always sounded better than spending time with M. All she’d want to talk about was what should happen with our unborn child.
“Whatever you decide,” I’d say, “I’ll support you.” It was another way of saying, “You figure it out.”
Sometimes, I’d put the phone down while she was talking. When I’d come back to the phone she’d still be yapping to herself. Then finally, I’d have a call on the other line. I’d tell M I had to go, it was for my mom, but it was really another chick, a girl who sang me love songs.
M entered her second trimester, still undecided.
On a visit to DC to get A, M had the abortion. I wasn’t sure why there instead of here. Maybe she knew having it done here was doubling down on the hurt. I’d worm my way out of taking her to the clinic.
We would manage to stay together for another year until we broke up a month after I received my acceptance letter from UC Berkeley.
The night of the operation, M called me and told me we would’ve had twins, a pair of boys.
If M had kept the twins, they would’ve been two years old when I graduated Berkeley. I might’ve carried them across the stage as I received my diploma.
They would’ve been six when I became a founding teacher at June Jordan School for Equity.
They would’ve been eight when I visited my father in Minnesota after Javon’s death. I might’ve brought them to see Bah Ba, their grandfather. This is the way I’d remember the twins, each year another birthday lost.
lost generation
The act that Mao is perhaps most vilified for is the Cultural Revolution. If we were to only examine his life up until the first few years of his rule, when Mao was in his
