[Originally Published in 2010]

NOTE: According to the National Fatherhood Initiative, an estimated 25 million children live their days devoid of biological fathers. I felt impelled to write this piece last night, when my own father, who has been absent from my life for over 15 years, suddenly thought it wise to show up out-the-blue on my doorstep. It was in a word….a shock. To be transparent, I threatened to “cave his face in” if he didn’t extricate himself immediately, but nonetheless, as part of the healing…a blog about vulnerability….

On Vulnerability: the biggest hater? and Absentee Fathers…

If vulnerability were a subliminal dog-whistle-esque stimulant, it would sound like the ocean at night; not one casual observer there to rescue you, not one hero but your own will and courage to swim through the tidal waves. If vulnerability were a Rorschach meta-cognitive exam, it would look like leaps (but honestly, it usually looks like a splattered butterfly, whatever, indulge me family).

LEAPS: the distance traveled between who I thought I was and who I am honest to say I would like to become. I’m realizing that in the depth of this winter, there was in me an invincible summer of reflection and personal development.

I’ve spent my entire life pushing people away with the bullheadedness of a Frank Gore stiff arm. I looked up the definition of “vulnerable” in dictionary.com and this is what I found: “capable of being physically or emotionally wounded, open to attack or damage.” I hate feeling vulnerable, I think it’s one of the most awful feelings to have. The only worst thing to me would be heartbreak, another emotion I’ve always tried to avoid at all costs. The only way I felt apt to conquering vulnerability has been to numb myself, a technique I’ve used for years now. That, in addition to not wearing my emotions on my sleeve, helps to insulate me. But placebos are placebos…and one thing that continues to remind me akin to a trophy basketball wife, is that everything that glitters ain’t gold, and all things gold don’t glitter.

Sometimes in life, we’re saturated with emotions left neglected and don’t know it. In youth we learn of their existence; in age, we understand them. This is a testament to the universal truth that what we learn as children is the foundation of who we are as adults. If childhood is a picture, then age is a lens, slowly bringing it into focus. We spend the entirety of our youths taking in everything we can, until our thoughts and ideas become so cluttered that childhood inevitably becomes a photograph out of focus— full of colors and pixels, but impossible to make sense of.

For most of my life, my derelict father had been a mystery to me. As a child, I resorted to fabricating my own perceptions of him based off negative generalities I made to ease the issue (of having to be my own de-facto “man”) to rest. The result was a deeply-rooted sense of resentment, anger and distrust of those who‘ve said they love me. I found myself open to, yet thoughtfully critical of all ideas, particularly any positive ideas of my own identity as a flourishing young man…nevertheless, I sought knowledge in every aspect of my life, for which I am eternally grateful. My friends and circle of confidantes have contributed to a sublime and lucid understanding of my own youth.

Growing up with my mother’s skewed perception of reality was like comparing my imagination of a movie to that of a movie director’s (hers). Since my father’s leaving reinforced my anxieties about missed opportunities to make him “proud” (or maybe he wouldn’t have vamped) and consequently in my life making myself “proud” (or maybe I wouldn’t be bouncing at the first sign of heavy cupcakin’ with the opposite sex)…I overloaded myself with activities, motivated by the crippling fear that I would miss something if I didn’t do EVERYTHING humanly possible all at once.

I’ve spent so much time in my life worrying about losing time— that ironically— I ended up being too stressed to truly enjoy the time I was frenetically and desperately trying to savor. I was vaguely aware that I was getting myself into a vicious cycle. Rather than being in a constant rush to check items off my mental “bucket list”, I’ve been taking more time to enjoy life as it comes, one day at a time.

There’s a balance to be struck, and yes, I got mad affection for activity and feeling utilized in talent and spirit but…it’s never been more important to settle those qualms within myself than right now, in this transition period, when I am leaving my known world of San Mateo and Stanford behind and onwards to: PhD programs, better hip hop LP’s, better produce in the market, fellowships helping 1stgeneration low-income students realize their intellectual firepower, fly duets with Brother Ali, Camp Lo and Slug, a tour of the Haribo Gummy Bear factory, collaborations with Michelle Elam (“brain crush numero uno”), Carol Suarez-Orozco and Pedro Noguera, trips to Africa and Mediterranean bazaars to practice haggling with fellow cuddies, new partnerships, expressive, transformative relationships (others revived) and beyond.

The dirty truth is, we men, often have holes in our souls the size and shape of our fathers. However, it’s never too late to recapture our identities, rather than live out the role that our fathers should have been holding auditions for, long ago.

With Love,

Arash D.