Honor Thy Father
by Charles Stephens
My father picked me up from Bible study, then took me to the whorehouse. He caught me watching gay porn a few weeks ago, and this was how he planned to fix me.
“Just don’t tell your mother I brought you here,” my father said, gold tooth glittering like a thousand Mansa Musas. “I know one sin ain’t no greater than another, but a man has his limits. I’ll go to hell before I have a gay ass son.”
So I guess I was his limit.
“And I won’t tell your mother either, about what you are,” he said. “It would kill her.”
He started making me go to church every Sunday, prayer meeting every Tuesday, and Bible study every Wednesday. He even tried to put me in the choir, but that’s where I drew the line.
“But Daddy, I can’t sing.”
“Too many punks in that choir anyway,” he said, switching his toothpick back and forth in his mouth.
In our war of wills that was my single victory.
I was fifteen and defying my father was still taboo.
The moment he saw I couldn’t throw a football, I no longer existed for him in a tangible way. At least now he spent time with me.
“Just don’t tell your mother I brought you here,” my father said, gold tooth glittering like a thousand Mansa Musas. “I know one sin ain’t no greater than another, but a man has his limits. I’ll go to hell before I have a gay ass son.”
So I guess I was his limit.
“And I won’t tell your mother either, about what you are,” he said. “It would kill her.”
He started making me go to church every Sunday, prayer meeting every Tuesday, and Bible study every Wednesday. He even tried to put me in the choir, but that’s where I drew the line.
“But Daddy, I can’t sing.”
“Too many punks in that choir anyway,” he said, switching his toothpick back and forth in his mouth.
In our war of wills that was my single victory.
I was fifteen and defying my father was still taboo.
The moment he saw I couldn’t throw a football, I no longer existed for him in a tangible way. At least now he spent time with me.
*
When he announced he was taking me up there, I had enough sense not to protest. He wasn’t concerned with my salvation, as much as he was concerned with his reputation, or so I thought.
“Big Larry can’t have no punk for a son. You know what I think?” he asked.
I turned to him and shook my head.
“God trying to humble me. The Word says: ‘Everyone proud in heart is an abomination to the Lord; though they join forces, none will go unpunished.’”
I nodded, not because I agreed, but because I didn’t want him to see me shaking.
We pulled up to the place. It was a little ranch house up in Cartersville.
“When my old man took me to get some for the first time, I barely had hair on my nuts,” he said. “And you damn near got a beard, but you still a virgin. Listen, I know this may not be your thing. But try it, is all I’m saying. Just try it for me. If you don’t like it—”
“Yes sir,” I said, thinking that if he believed that I was trying, maybe he wouldn’t be so disappointed in me all the time.
“My boy,” he said.
He walked up to the door self-assured, like he’d been there many times before. He rang the bell, and a woman, wearing a gray silk slip, answered and let us in.
Her hair was pulled into a bun with a flower on the side. A bang hung lazily over her forehead that she kept pushing away from her face. She wore pink fingernail polish that made me think of carnivals and cotton candy. Each finger on her hands had a ring. The curtains were drawn and the only light was from the candles displayed on the coffee table. I wanted to go back to the car. My father sensed this and nudged me along.
“And who’s this you got with you Larry?” she asked, as she sat down in a wicker chair as haughty as a medium conducting a seance.
“This here’s my boy. Say, Ebony working tonight?”
“In the back.”
My father smiled.
“But I could take care of you.”
Her hazel eyes took us all in, absorbed us.
“Maybe next time Sweetheart.”
We walked to the back where we met Ebony.
She looked to be about twenty-five. She wore no make-up. No perfume. No wig. And no nail polish. She simply wore two double-braids, down to her long and elegant neck. Her too large bathrobe hung around her shoulders, as effortlessly as a mink, which she kept fumbling with. She was talking to another woman, who was only wearing a white towel.
“I want you to take care of my boy,” interrupting them.
The women looked at my father, then they looked at me, with pity and amusement.
I folded my arms across my chest like I was about to be baptized. When I was a little boy, whenever I folded my arms like that, my father would look at me disgusted.
“Stop being so damn sissified,” he would say.
By instinct or maybe by memory I slid my hands into my pockets. If I remained still enough, maybe I could disappear into the air like dust.
The woman with the towel whispered something into Ebony’s ear.
I bit down on my thumb, looking into the forever long hallway searching for an escape route. “Stop being so damn sissified,” I kept hearing my father’s voice.
“How old you say he was Larry?” Ebony asked my father, but eyes narrowed on me.
“Old enough,” he said, and pulled out a wad of cash.
The women gave each other knowing looks.
Her face impassive, she put the money into one of the pockets on the bathrobe.
Since I couldn’t hate my father, I tried to hate Ebony. But there was something in her eyes, a softness that drew me to her, even as I wanted to flee. The hate lingered and stuck to me like mud then turned inward. I bit down to the skin on my thumb to jolt myself into movement.
“Make a man out of him,” he said. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“Big Larry can’t have no punk for a son. You know what I think?” he asked.
I turned to him and shook my head.
“God trying to humble me. The Word says: ‘Everyone proud in heart is an abomination to the Lord; though they join forces, none will go unpunished.’”
I nodded, not because I agreed, but because I didn’t want him to see me shaking.
We pulled up to the place. It was a little ranch house up in Cartersville.
“When my old man took me to get some for the first time, I barely had hair on my nuts,” he said. “And you damn near got a beard, but you still a virgin. Listen, I know this may not be your thing. But try it, is all I’m saying. Just try it for me. If you don’t like it—”
“Yes sir,” I said, thinking that if he believed that I was trying, maybe he wouldn’t be so disappointed in me all the time.
“My boy,” he said.
He walked up to the door self-assured, like he’d been there many times before. He rang the bell, and a woman, wearing a gray silk slip, answered and let us in.
Her hair was pulled into a bun with a flower on the side. A bang hung lazily over her forehead that she kept pushing away from her face. She wore pink fingernail polish that made me think of carnivals and cotton candy. Each finger on her hands had a ring. The curtains were drawn and the only light was from the candles displayed on the coffee table. I wanted to go back to the car. My father sensed this and nudged me along.
“And who’s this you got with you Larry?” she asked, as she sat down in a wicker chair as haughty as a medium conducting a seance.
“This here’s my boy. Say, Ebony working tonight?”
“In the back.”
My father smiled.
“But I could take care of you.”
Her hazel eyes took us all in, absorbed us.
“Maybe next time Sweetheart.”
We walked to the back where we met Ebony.
She looked to be about twenty-five. She wore no make-up. No perfume. No wig. And no nail polish. She simply wore two double-braids, down to her long and elegant neck. Her too large bathrobe hung around her shoulders, as effortlessly as a mink, which she kept fumbling with. She was talking to another woman, who was only wearing a white towel.
“I want you to take care of my boy,” interrupting them.
The women looked at my father, then they looked at me, with pity and amusement.
I folded my arms across my chest like I was about to be baptized. When I was a little boy, whenever I folded my arms like that, my father would look at me disgusted.
“Stop being so damn sissified,” he would say.
By instinct or maybe by memory I slid my hands into my pockets. If I remained still enough, maybe I could disappear into the air like dust.
The woman with the towel whispered something into Ebony’s ear.
I bit down on my thumb, looking into the forever long hallway searching for an escape route. “Stop being so damn sissified,” I kept hearing my father’s voice.
“How old you say he was Larry?” Ebony asked my father, but eyes narrowed on me.
“Old enough,” he said, and pulled out a wad of cash.
The women gave each other knowing looks.
Her face impassive, she put the money into one of the pockets on the bathrobe.
Since I couldn’t hate my father, I tried to hate Ebony. But there was something in her eyes, a softness that drew me to her, even as I wanted to flee. The hate lingered and stuck to me like mud then turned inward. I bit down to the skin on my thumb to jolt myself into movement.
“Make a man out of him,” he said. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
*
Ebony brought me into her room and closed the door. The two of us were alone. I was nervous and hated myself for being nervous. This was what I was supposed to do, and if I was terrified, I’d already failed.
Incense burned on her dresser. The sweet, smoky smell crawled across the room. Beside the incense sat her purse, which was tipped over. Tissue paper, lipstick, a lighter, and a compact spilled out. On the other side of the room was a nightstand with an empty blue plastic cup and two unfinished cigarettes in an ashtray.
Her bed, a deep crimson red, was made up neatly with two huge pillows. If the devil had a bed, it would’ve looked like that one.
She had these framed sketches on her wall.
“Who are they?” I asked, trying to wear my words like a mask. If I talked, it meant I wasn’t really afraid, and she wouldn’t really see me.
“That’s Josephine Baker,” she said. “Dorothy Dandridge, Lena Horne,” she continued, “and over there is Billie Holiday. They inspire me.”
“You drew them?”
“I can do more than spread my legs,” she snapped.
“I didn’t mean–”
“I’m just messing,” she smiled, still fumbling with her robe.
I caught a glimpse of her nipple, and couldn’t get an erection, no matter how much I concentrated. It just sat there, stubbornly flacid.
She sat on the bed, and patted the spot next to her for me to sit down.
“I don’t bite,” she said.
I sat down next to her, and looked at her slender legs, her smooth skin. The arch of her foot. And I still couldn’t get hard. A vast emptiness of shame opened up before me and swallowed me whole. I began to pray that I would be able to fuck her, so I could step into the ring of fire that my father insisted I cross for his acceptance.
“What’s your name baby?”
I thought her voice would be deep and primal. Instead it was soft, high-pitched, like a preschool teacher.
“Larry,” I said.
“Just like your daddy to name his son after hisself. He say you don’t like girls much.”
I went to deny it, but she held up her hand to shush me.
“I don’t have no problem with it,” she looked at her reflection in the mirror and puckered her lips. “My uncle was gay and I loved him more than my own mama and daddy. He taught me how to draw,” she smiled whimsically. “Listen, I can’t change what God created. So why don’t we just sit here and talk instead.”
Her sincerity disarmed me. It took me a few breaths before I could gather myself and face her. The realization that she was not my enemy but a potential accomplice allowed me to relax, but not completely. I knew shame. But feeling safe? That was unfamiliar so I couldn’t completely trust it. I took off my shoes anyway and sat on her bed cross-legged, finally letting my guard down.
“Why did you let your father bring you here, if you don’t like girls?” She leaned in and whispered, “He gonna beat you or something? I won’t let him do that to you. Just so you know.”
I thought about how when I was seven years old, my father caught me hitting cartwheels in our yard, and he came outside and beat the shit out of me. After he was done, I asked him, “Daddy why you beat me?” I knew by asking him I might get another beating, he didn’t like being questioned.
“Black men can’t be soft in this world, and you hitting cartwheels like a fucking—” he stopped himself. Then he squatted down so we were at eye level. “You can’t understand what I’m saying now. But you will. When you’re older.”
After the words left his lips, he considered them, and his belt dropped to the ground. I was startled by the clank of the buckle. Tears flowed down his face. And he began to repeat as if in a trance, that he’d promised himself he would never lay a hand on his own son. He brought his hands up to my face, then gathered me into a hug. I thought for a split second that he might snap my neck. Affection was not a language we shared. However, I surrendered. I trusted. And he held me. I knew then, even at seven, his tears mingled with mine, that no matter what, I would never completely hate this man.
I didn’t tell Ebony any of that though.
Instead, I simply said, “I just want him to love me.”
“He got to love you for you baby,” she said. “Remember what I told you, can’t nobody change what God made.”
We continued to talk, and she continued to tell me about her life.
She was going to become an artist but got caught up. Caught up in what exactly, she never said.
She told me about her children.
“Three girls,” she said proudly. “One boy.”
“All my kids have the same father. In case you was wondering.”
They were with her mother back in Valdosta.
“I’m getting them back though. On everything, Imma get my family back together.”
At first, I tried to think of something to say, something profound and mature, but I found myself just reaching over and hugging her.
We talked like that for hours, until my father knocked on the door.
“Don’t forget what I told you,” she whispered. “He has to love you for you. Don’t forget.”
Incense burned on her dresser. The sweet, smoky smell crawled across the room. Beside the incense sat her purse, which was tipped over. Tissue paper, lipstick, a lighter, and a compact spilled out. On the other side of the room was a nightstand with an empty blue plastic cup and two unfinished cigarettes in an ashtray.
Her bed, a deep crimson red, was made up neatly with two huge pillows. If the devil had a bed, it would’ve looked like that one.
She had these framed sketches on her wall.
“Who are they?” I asked, trying to wear my words like a mask. If I talked, it meant I wasn’t really afraid, and she wouldn’t really see me.
“That’s Josephine Baker,” she said. “Dorothy Dandridge, Lena Horne,” she continued, “and over there is Billie Holiday. They inspire me.”
“You drew them?”
“I can do more than spread my legs,” she snapped.
“I didn’t mean–”
“I’m just messing,” she smiled, still fumbling with her robe.
I caught a glimpse of her nipple, and couldn’t get an erection, no matter how much I concentrated. It just sat there, stubbornly flacid.
She sat on the bed, and patted the spot next to her for me to sit down.
“I don’t bite,” she said.
I sat down next to her, and looked at her slender legs, her smooth skin. The arch of her foot. And I still couldn’t get hard. A vast emptiness of shame opened up before me and swallowed me whole. I began to pray that I would be able to fuck her, so I could step into the ring of fire that my father insisted I cross for his acceptance.
“What’s your name baby?”
I thought her voice would be deep and primal. Instead it was soft, high-pitched, like a preschool teacher.
“Larry,” I said.
“Just like your daddy to name his son after hisself. He say you don’t like girls much.”
I went to deny it, but she held up her hand to shush me.
“I don’t have no problem with it,” she looked at her reflection in the mirror and puckered her lips. “My uncle was gay and I loved him more than my own mama and daddy. He taught me how to draw,” she smiled whimsically. “Listen, I can’t change what God created. So why don’t we just sit here and talk instead.”
Her sincerity disarmed me. It took me a few breaths before I could gather myself and face her. The realization that she was not my enemy but a potential accomplice allowed me to relax, but not completely. I knew shame. But feeling safe? That was unfamiliar so I couldn’t completely trust it. I took off my shoes anyway and sat on her bed cross-legged, finally letting my guard down.
“Why did you let your father bring you here, if you don’t like girls?” She leaned in and whispered, “He gonna beat you or something? I won’t let him do that to you. Just so you know.”
I thought about how when I was seven years old, my father caught me hitting cartwheels in our yard, and he came outside and beat the shit out of me. After he was done, I asked him, “Daddy why you beat me?” I knew by asking him I might get another beating, he didn’t like being questioned.
“Black men can’t be soft in this world, and you hitting cartwheels like a fucking—” he stopped himself. Then he squatted down so we were at eye level. “You can’t understand what I’m saying now. But you will. When you’re older.”
After the words left his lips, he considered them, and his belt dropped to the ground. I was startled by the clank of the buckle. Tears flowed down his face. And he began to repeat as if in a trance, that he’d promised himself he would never lay a hand on his own son. He brought his hands up to my face, then gathered me into a hug. I thought for a split second that he might snap my neck. Affection was not a language we shared. However, I surrendered. I trusted. And he held me. I knew then, even at seven, his tears mingled with mine, that no matter what, I would never completely hate this man.
I didn’t tell Ebony any of that though.
Instead, I simply said, “I just want him to love me.”
“He got to love you for you baby,” she said. “Remember what I told you, can’t nobody change what God made.”
We continued to talk, and she continued to tell me about her life.
She was going to become an artist but got caught up. Caught up in what exactly, she never said.
She told me about her children.
“Three girls,” she said proudly. “One boy.”
“All my kids have the same father. In case you was wondering.”
They were with her mother back in Valdosta.
“I’m getting them back though. On everything, Imma get my family back together.”
At first, I tried to think of something to say, something profound and mature, but I found myself just reaching over and hugging her.
We talked like that for hours, until my father knocked on the door.
“Don’t forget what I told you,” she whispered. “He has to love you for you. Don’t forget.”
*
My father hated to walk in silence. Yet, somehow, he remained patient, as if his silence created an opening for me to speak my piece. He stopped, picked up a rock, and threw it off to the distance. We both looked out for where the rock landed. It was too dark to see anything. On the curb, we passed a garbage can, the bags lifting up the lid. One of the bags was ripped, and the trash started drooping.
Finally, tired of waiting, he prompted me. “Tell me the truth. You liked it, didn’t you?” he asked hopefully, then playfully punched my arm.
And just as I was about to tell him what really happened, what me and Ebony shared, I turned to look at him, into his hopeful brown eyes. There was perhaps in his face, the tentativeness of his mouth, the wrinkled lines in his forehead, that revealed something I hadn’t anticipated from him—fear.
He cleared his throat, hawked and spit.
“Look. If I fail to make a man out of you, I’ve failed as a father, and as a man,” he said. “I ain’t got nothing else to give you. And my life wouldn’t be worth shit.”
There were no stars in the sky that night, and only the sound of a barking dog to spare us the unbearable silence. We stood like that, outside, too much had been said and neither of us could hold it.
I wanted to comfort him but I couldn’t make any words come. Instead I found myself reaching toward him, to caress his face. He moved his face slowly toward my hand.
We were just about to make contact, the moon cast its light above us as if even God encouraged this language of touch that felt as risky as it was necessary. But right as my finger tips felt the stubble of his beard, and I could see his chest expanding as his breathing steadied, he pulled my hand away.
“You trying to box with me?” He laughed and got into a fighter’s stance and started shadowboxing. My hand stung.
“You got your first piece of ass and now you want to fight your old man. You a tough guy now,” he continued to punch into the wind. “That’s all right. You my boy. You my son. I know how it is. Let’s race to the car. Show your old man what you got,” he said.
“I don’t want to race.”
Our eyes locked. He touched my back.
“Tell me the truth. You want to come back don’t you?” he kept smiling, a weary smile, though his eyes suggested that he had already prepared himself for the disappointment of a “no.”
I could’ve kissed him on the lips or told him to go fuck himself. I could’ve even punched him in the jaw. Or all three.
“Maybe one day,” I said breathily.
I looked back over the house, and wondered what Ebony was thinking, what she would say of this moment. Promising myself that I would in fact come back just so I could tell her about this conversation, about what I said to my father.
He sat there grinning, like the kid who gets the prize at the bottom of the cereal box.
Eventually his hopes for me would be dashed. Eventually his idea of himself would come undone. And there would be plenty of time to fight each other barefoot over the broken glass of our shattered dreams. But this would not be that day. And I knew then, as powerfully as I knew that I could never really hate him, that I alone had the power to determine when that day would be, a fact that caused me to both grieve and to rejoice.
“That’s all right,” he said. “That’s all right.”
We got to the car and he unlocked my door.
“My boy,” he said. “My motherfucking boy.”
Finally, tired of waiting, he prompted me. “Tell me the truth. You liked it, didn’t you?” he asked hopefully, then playfully punched my arm.
And just as I was about to tell him what really happened, what me and Ebony shared, I turned to look at him, into his hopeful brown eyes. There was perhaps in his face, the tentativeness of his mouth, the wrinkled lines in his forehead, that revealed something I hadn’t anticipated from him—fear.
He cleared his throat, hawked and spit.
“Look. If I fail to make a man out of you, I’ve failed as a father, and as a man,” he said. “I ain’t got nothing else to give you. And my life wouldn’t be worth shit.”
There were no stars in the sky that night, and only the sound of a barking dog to spare us the unbearable silence. We stood like that, outside, too much had been said and neither of us could hold it.
I wanted to comfort him but I couldn’t make any words come. Instead I found myself reaching toward him, to caress his face. He moved his face slowly toward my hand.
We were just about to make contact, the moon cast its light above us as if even God encouraged this language of touch that felt as risky as it was necessary. But right as my finger tips felt the stubble of his beard, and I could see his chest expanding as his breathing steadied, he pulled my hand away.
“You trying to box with me?” He laughed and got into a fighter’s stance and started shadowboxing. My hand stung.
“You got your first piece of ass and now you want to fight your old man. You a tough guy now,” he continued to punch into the wind. “That’s all right. You my boy. You my son. I know how it is. Let’s race to the car. Show your old man what you got,” he said.
“I don’t want to race.”
Our eyes locked. He touched my back.
“Tell me the truth. You want to come back don’t you?” he kept smiling, a weary smile, though his eyes suggested that he had already prepared himself for the disappointment of a “no.”
I could’ve kissed him on the lips or told him to go fuck himself. I could’ve even punched him in the jaw. Or all three.
“Maybe one day,” I said breathily.
I looked back over the house, and wondered what Ebony was thinking, what she would say of this moment. Promising myself that I would in fact come back just so I could tell her about this conversation, about what I said to my father.
He sat there grinning, like the kid who gets the prize at the bottom of the cereal box.
Eventually his hopes for me would be dashed. Eventually his idea of himself would come undone. And there would be plenty of time to fight each other barefoot over the broken glass of our shattered dreams. But this would not be that day. And I knew then, as powerfully as I knew that I could never really hate him, that I alone had the power to determine when that day would be, a fact that caused me to both grieve and to rejoice.
“That’s all right,” he said. “That’s all right.”
We got to the car and he unlocked my door.
“My boy,” he said. “My motherfucking boy.”