My First Christmas

I didn’t meet my father until I was 23. This isn’t an odd story in the black diaspora. Absent and out of touch fathers have become a part of black culture in the past 50 years. Although, parenting difficulties extend previous of that. Before emancipation, families would be torn apart at the whims of owners. I’m not examining the causes of that or how it’s affected the lives of children and the adults they become.

I just want to  talk about my first Christmas with my Father. In 2017, I was able to fly down and have my first Christmas with my Father. At 72 years old, it’s not known how many more years I might have with my Father. I braved air travel over the holidays to fly from Seattle to Atlanta to see him. Delta has been making a bigger play in the Seattle market (watch out Alaska Airlines!) and I have had some good experiences flying with them recently. Their on-time rate could use some improvement but otherwise, the quality of travel is good. I’ve had the chance to travel both in Economy and in First (got a great deal on a short flight) and I was pleased both times. On the wings of Boeing, I flew to Atlanta. The airport has improved but the routes to and from it have not.

I flew down to Atlanta and then drove from Atlanta to Tuscaloosa by car. It has been a year since I had driven across the south and through the heartland of the United States. Flying from one end of the country to the other can be a dysphoric experience. From the Pacific Northwest to the American South, you notice several changes. Hondas and Toyotas become Fords, Dodges, and Chevys. There’s more fast food, more hotels, and more homogenization of the culture. The asian markets are traded out for small shops catering to specific needs ranging from auto repair to hardware and African-American hair care. Familiar grocery stores change for regional brand names like Publix. Regional stores like Winn-Dixie begin to pop up.

The interstates coming out of Atlanta were impassable thanks to a series accidents. Google maps advised me to take a route along the winding series of state and US highways along I-20. Growing up in NW Arkansas, I’m familiar with a winding southern road. I navigated my Toyota Camry past trees thick enough to rival the forests of Washington. The afternoon turned to evening as I finally was able to rejoin I-20 and move out of Georgia and across the state line to Alabama. I picked the proper music for my evening journey and soon I was pulling off I-20 and on to what would eventually become Lurleen B. Wallace Blvd. That’s what you get when you are a former governor and a famous former governor’s wife. You get a bridge named after you that crosses the Black Warrior River. I finally guided the car to a final stop on my father’s street. Getting my luggage out of the car was a welcome chance to breathe in the nice humid air. It was the first chance I had to orient myself to where I was on the planet. The airport had been a rush and very crowded with other holiday travelers like me. Now I had a chance to take it all in.

My Father lives in the same small house he grew up in. The short house is getting fixed up slowly but you can tell it has good bones. He seems really comfortable there. I think it’s a good place to age in place. Everything is on one floor and he seems to really feel at home. He’s made lots of repairs and is doing more all the time. [pullquote]
There’s a care-taker like quality there that I think is really special.
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My father doesn’t live in Tuscaloosa proper. He lives in the southern side of the Black Warrior river that bisects the area. On the north side of the river is the City of Tuscaloosa and on the south side is the City of Northport. The Tuscaloosa side has the University of Alabama and traditionally was the white area of town. The very first time I went to see my father where he grew up, he drove me through the historic downtown that he walked as a child and showed me a theater that was “Whites Only” and other establishments that observed the strict social mores of the Jim Crow-era south. At that time he was renting an apartment near his sister in a quiet industrial neighborhood. Driving around with him in his truck felt great despite the awkward distance 28 years left between us. The first time we met in Denver in 2011 was just as nerve-racking for me. However, this Christmas trip had a different ease to it. There was a familiarity that made it special.

I ducked out of my office a day early and so we had a chance to get settled, fill the refrigerator, and watch some basketball. On Christmas Eve, I ventured to Target for a couple things I forgot and a drink from Starbucks for a little taste of home. The weather was Seattle grey which made it seem a little more Christmas-like for a state that doesn’t get much snow. Christmas Eve was spent quietly at home watching TV and eating quickly acquired fast food. While I was sitting in the rocking chair, going back and forth like a meditation, I was thinking about that missed time. All those times we could have simply been sitting there, together, watching TV. Would I have liked basketball if I had a chance to grow up with him? Would he have taught me how to dribble? It’s hard to tell. I did learn how to dribble. I’m ok at it. I’m not a huge fan of basketball but I do like football. He likes football too. He likes the Broncos from his years of living in Denver. So we talk Broncos and I always mention something about the Seahawks. Being a 12 is compulsory and I like to follow the “rules.”

Christmas day was really the crown jewel of the trip. We visited with the family. I met so many people and shook so many hands and was shown so many pictures. My mind is still a blur. I don’t think I quite remember everyone’s name. But it was exciting to be apart of something. The feeling of rooted-ness that I experienced on my first trip came back. I could point so some dirt and say, “I come from here.” I never knew how important that was, even for someone like me who grew up on road trips and can pack at a moment’s notice. Though we ended the day early, spending the day among family, getting tipsy from a home-brew jungle juice, and eating three plates of lovingly prepared seafood seemed to be the big family Christmas that I had always wanted. Aunts and Uncles around, children playing, and just being another member of the family and welcomed.

However, the magic of all of that must end. Towards the end of the trip, as I was getting ready to pack and make the journey home, I was reminded that while there is a belonging-ness there for me. It is not my home. My mind thought about how I could make it work. “Should I move to Atlanta?” I thought at one point. By the time I was packed, I was ready to go. I belong there, but I don’t need to dwell there. I loaded my bag into the back of my rental car and gave my Father one final hug. He stood on the porch as I pulled down his street, in the proud southern tradition of making sure your friends have really got going before you go inside your house. 3 hours of driving along I-20, later I dropped off my car at the airport and got comfortable at my gate to wait for my flight back to the Emerald City.

These stories don’t always have happy endings. This one is happy but there is one more entertaining moment that makes this story uniquely human. As I recall, I lost my car in the WallyPark parking garage for at least 20 minutes. I had taken a picture of parking spot but I ended up on the right floor on the wrong side of the garage. It had decided to snow and sleet in Seattle while I was gone and so I had to navigate cold temperatures and moisture in looking for my car. 2 Trucks had parked around me and I could hardly see my dark blue Audi between them. I don’t think I’ve ever turned on the heat in any car so promptly. As annoyed as I was, it was a great welcome home.

Special thanks to my Father and my family for a truly great Christmas.