I remember when I first became aware of my out-of-control father-anger. One frigid winter morning when I was 15, my mother woke me to go with her to the welfare office on Chicago’s West Side. She’d received a notice that her check was being held due to insufficient information. My mother was mumbling under her breath that all they wanted to know is where my father was, and that she had answered that question many times before. Heck, I was wondering myself where he was. If he had been there, I wouldn’t have been freezing to death on that bus.
When we arrived at the welfare office at 9:45 a.m. for our 10:00 appointment, a woman told us to sit down and wait for our name to be called. After more than an hour, I went up and asked how much longer we’d have to wait. My mother wasn’t feeling too well.
“Sorry about that, but everyone in this room was told to be here at ten o’clock,” the woman said. “Go sit down until you’re called.” I felt that familiar feeling; my anger was rising. My young man’s ego was starting to distort the whole experience and bring on the familiar feeling that the world was against me personally.
As I went back to my chair, I thought: My father is a worthless bum for letting me go through this. What did I do to him to deserve this? It dawned on me that all this was his fault.
Maybe I couldn’t do anything about my father at that moment, but I wasn’t going to be pushed around by a stranger. I jumped up and headed for the counter again. I hadn’t taken five steps before the woman locked eyes with me and her posture stiffened. This time she raised her voice. “Listen here, boy, you are about to get on my last nerve. If you don’t go over there and sit down, you won’t get a welfare check.”
What happened next surprised even me. “Fine!” I said. “You’ve gotten on my last nerve, too. You can take that check and shove it! I don’t need your money.”
I heard my mother gasp from across the room. I knew I’d be in trouble for talking that way, but in the heat of the moment, I stormed out. My mother had no choice but to follow me. That was the day I got angry with my father—or at least admitted it—for the first time.
