I'd like to dedicate this article to my brother, Andrew and my mentor, Heather. The two people who were there for me when I didn’t know where "there" was.
This article does not discuss the effects the common millennial has on the current era, rather, the current era's effect on millennials. This is done through a real-life story: a letter to my father.
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A Letter to My Father,
Perhaps putting a teenager outside of his grandmother’s house is what was needed in order for you to garner the respect you so desperately sought from your siblings, their children, and your mother.
Speaking of which, I was the only one who took care of your mother. Every day and what felt like every five minutes, I was the one refilling her glass. Every morning before I took the bus to college, I was the one waking her to take her pills. When her 82-year-old sister was too tired to cook for her, I was the one taking time out of all of my timed quizzes and tests to feed her. I was the one to walk her to the bathroom when she was too embarrassed to ask her own children and siblings.
I also dealt with constant antagonizing from your mother’s sister/my aunt. Were you called a “sorry bastard” every night through a closed bedroom door? Have you ever had a rumor spread about you? More specifically: has anyone ever said that you had sex with every boy in the neighborhood? Have you ever been around people who believed this rumor? Even more specifically, have you ever had your 82-year-old aunt tell this rumor to every member in your family, with you in the room?
I kept waiting for you to say something during these allegations. When my uncle’s new wife called me what I can only describe as the worst thing someone could call a gay person, you did nothing. I kept being told that I needed to respect my elders, that I was disrespectful. I am however grateful for the conscience nightmare you put me through. You and your family indirectly taught me to have sympathy for my former fellow juveniles; Any teenager who is being belittled and finally lashes out under duress is deemed disrespectful.
To answer your question: No, I don’t regret defending myself from my mother when she tried to kill me (the second time). I do, however, wish you could’ve understood my predicament. Wait a minute, you did. You understood my position, but you said I should’ve just lied there and died. You said she was the woman who gave me life and that if it was her decision to take it back — that I should have respected it. That is what catapulted these events right? That’s what had everyone’s opinion about me made up before I could even open my mouth, right?
Here’s something you probably didn’t know: When I started college, I thought it was the best thing to ever happen to me because it was. I had a reason to leave the house, and I had an outlet to socialize. I could be free and live, even if it was only for a few hours.
After I climbed the ranks to Student Government Senator, I could’ve jumped for days due to my happiness. My brother, the only constant thing in my life, started sending me a stipend and gave me my first job. Do not let me be misunderstood: he is more of man and more of a father than you could ever be.
You didn’t have to be bothered every day to feed your son. I could eat! I didn’t have to beg anyone for food, and I didn’t have to wear three-year-old clothes that were too small and too tattered to be seen in public. Against my own desires, I reconciled with my mother. She had pills and God knows what else to deal with; she had/has her own insecurities for trying to choke me. But what about you? What’s your excuse?
Around this time last year when my mother asked if I wanted to visit her for Thanksgiving, I obliged. For the two days, I was with her, I was happy. There was a lot of crying during these days, (her tears, not mine) but I got a lot off my chest then.
When my best friend (at the time) invited me to her house for round two of leftovers, I also happily obliged. If you spent six years as a homeschooled child under the strict supervision of your mother, maybe you could understand the appeal of being around people your own age; so another two days was spent at my (then) best friend’s house.
Before any of this, I told my grandmother I would be gone for a while. But unbeknownst to me, she was upset. When she asked me if I wanted to cook for her sister for her birthday, I kindly declined. I had already been subjected to enough turmoil, I couldn’t stomach dedicating a day to a woman so spiteful. When my grandmother said, “you never [sic] here when I need you,” I learned an important lesson: If you feel that there’s something that goes against your moral code, don’t do it, regardless of who's asking you to do it; I later needed to use this lesson again, when your brother asked me to forge his landlord’s signature (even then, I couldn’t let the IT degree I’m pursuing be used for evil). I also learned a lot about gratitude. You could jump into an entire ocean for someone, and they'll still complain about the rivers that were avoided.
This was the case with grandma. I realize you are not the only one to blame for that night. My grandmother said nothing when her son (you) told her grandson (me), “You don’t live here anymore.”
When you said this to me, I watched her intently. She looked straight ahead as if she was having a staring contest with the cast of the amazing world of gumball. When you told me that it was no longer my home, I realized you wanted me to fall. You thought my 17-year-old self had nowhere to go. You wanted me to break down crying, to exclaim my sorrow and beg to come back and beg to cook for my aunt. I am the last person you should expect to beg. I could’ve called the police and showed them my mail to prove that I lived there, I also could’ve shown them that the address was on my ID. Above everything else, I could’ve had you arrested. But I chose to take the high road.
You told me you didn’t care where I went, and to go back to where I had been for the last four days; instead, I did something more drastic: I ordered an uber.
When you stood there wearing that shit-eating grin while I was on the corner waiting, I wondered what you thought I'd do. To be even pettier, you asked me if I wanted to go inside to get my things, knowing I had no way to gather my belongings.
I wish I could’ve taken a picture of you when the black BMW pulled up to my grandmother’s driveway, ready to take me where ever I wanted to go. This brings me to another lesson: almost every baby boomer I’ve come across believes that “family is family, and it can’t be replaced." The truth is, if someone isn’t treating you the way you’d like to be treated, and they are a constant drain on your energy, body, and (for those that believe it) soul: you have the right to leave, to not be associated with that person; that’s what the earlier generation and the generation after, neglected to relay. When I called my brother as my uber driver sailed into the night, he agreed to give me a loan for a hotel. He also told me to start looking for apartments.
The night I spent at the Hilton was one of the best nights I had in years. This is especially true considering I’d been turned down by two hotels earlier that night, due to my age. There was no 82-year-old to scream outside my door, there were no glasses that needed to be filled, there were no scams I had to decline and there was no biological father who’d been absent some ten years, pretending that he was a parent.
The next morning when I went to gather my textbooks and you belligerently asked why I was there and asked if I was there to “getcha stuff," (as if I were there to beg for forgiveness) I said, “Yes, move.”
You waited by the front door as if to corner me as I exited (with the textbooks you hadn’t contributed a cent to). You rose up, ready to extend a finger and started to proclaim “and when you ready to be a child again…” I interrupted with a calm “go to hell” without looking at your direction and proceeded to get into my uber.
I was smart with my borrowed money and realized I couldn’t stay in paradise (Hilton) forever. So I called my mentor (she’s an atheist, you’d hate her). She kept her door unlocked for me and expressed her worries. This took me aback for a second. A woman, my former English professor, who had only known me for approximately three months, had more love in her heart for me than my own father. I once heard you say that atheists have no sympathy, that they're devil worshipers who needed to be eradicated from the earth. Isn’t it kind of ironic, that she was one of the handfuls of people I could turn to when you, a self-proclaimed Christian, turned his back on his youngest son? She helped me in my hour of need, and I am forever in her debt because of it.
I’d never felt more at home than the night I spent at her and her boyfriend’s house. I sat on their furniture, admiring all of the Superman and Marvel knick knacks they’d acquired through the years. As I watched them prepare steak and a combination of Indian food for me, I realized that there were stable people out there, and I just had to find them.
I walked past their daughters' bedroom. Everything was laid out in perfect detail with their names hung above their beds. Later that night, I cried for the first time since you put me out; I wondered what my life would’ve been like — had I had parents like them. Maybe I wouldn’t have had to sleep on an air mattress for seven years. Maybe I wouldn’t have had to spend my teenage years hopping from one of my mother's friends couches to the next.
The next morning when you texted me, asking me if I was OK, I could only laugh (so could my mentor). I did not respond and can honestly say I never will. When you did this on and off for two consecutive weeks, I did not bat an eye. When my mother called me, saying you were on the phone with her the previous day, crying, saying how badly you wanted to reconcile, I again did not bat an eye.
When my grandmother was in an ER and I went to visit her, you tried to embrace and hug me by opening your arms as wide as they could stretch, I batted an eye, only to move out of the way.
When I was told that my grandmother was in hospice care, on her death bed and I needed to see her to say goodbye, I gladly did so. After I walked out of her house, noticing everything that I would normally keep up was rapidly deteriorating, you tried to call me back into the house (presumably to reconcile); I politely shook my head “no” and proceeded to get into my uber driver's car (which I later found out the 82-year-old aunt described as being my boyfriend).
When my grandmother passed, you again tried reaching out to me through my mother, saying how my grandmother's death made you realize how much you loved your kids.
I won’t go into too much detail, stating why everything about that sentence was wrong, but instead, I’ll say this: I'm not the kind of person whose feelings will be changed due to a "sorry." I was the only one of your kids who showed any kind of respect, and I was rewarded with melancholy and chicanery.
I am eternally grateful for the hurt I was put through. Had you not done this, I would've never realized how strong I am. That I don’t have to be anyone other than myself. That I shouldn’t seek the approval of someone who couldn’t finish the eighth grade.
I am writing this letter so you will not try to text me when you are feeling sentimental like you have been doing for the past year. You will not hear from me again, and you can consider this letter to be my official final words to you.
So your curiosities can be put to rest: I got a job at my college and moved in with my new best friend. Because of what you put me through, my story was chosen as the lead article for Florida Trend's (fairly popular magazine). I've been featured on PBS and FOX News and continue to reap from the effects of your abandonment, so thank you.
Florida Trend's Magazine Excerpt
After a few semesters with my best friend, I decided it was time to live elsewhere, so I saved and got my own apartment.
I am writing this from the confines of my neighbor's/good friend's porch, surrounded by smiles, laughter and lemonade. I hope you are eventually able to find peace in your life. I hope you finally got the respect you so desperately desired from your family. But as far as having a place in my life, I will repeat one of your quotes, “You don’t live here anymore.”
