Kesai Feels His Feelings

BY KESAI REDDICK

Growing up not knowing my dad is not knowing my masculine self, my Blackness, who I am as a person.

My only memory of my dad is from when I was 18 months old and learning to walk. I started late. I grew up in the East Village.

My mom takes me to Tompkins Sq. Park and lets me walk around the entrance of 8th St. and Ave. A. I remember her telling me, “Go, run to your daddy.” I look up, and I see him there, my father, squatting down with his arms opened wide to catch me.

I don’t remember seeing him again.

As a kid, my mom does her best to support me and my emotional needs. At seven years old, she enrolls me in therapy. My therapist’s name is Roy. He’s a kind gentleman. During my 45 minute sessions, I can do whatever I want. This means I play video games. While playing, Roy ask me how I’m feeling and how my day was. I never feel like I have to share, and I’m never afraid I’ll be judged or criticized. Then, for the last 15 minutes of our sessions, Roy asks that we sit down and have a conversation. He sets out a cup of Skittles, and we get into it. I tell him about the stuff that’s happening at school and home.

One day I share how upset I am that my brothers know who their fathers are, but I don’t. I feel it’s unfair! I can feel myself becoming angrier the more I talk about it. It’s like I’m pumping up all of these untapped emotions, and they start spilling over everything. I begin to cry and lash out. Before I know it, I’m knocking things down from a bookshelf and throwing things around the room. I’m exploding with rage. Roy lets me act out like this for a while, but he tells me to stop when I start throwing things around. After that, I sit in my chair, crying, and ask, “Why has my dad left?”

Still, I’m appreciative of the relationships I have while growing up and consider myself fortunate. I have an uncle I’m close to. He’s like my surrogate father and fills the masculine role in my life. It’s through him that I first learn about Buddhism. Right away, I’m attracted to its teachings of awakening to your true-self and self-reliance.

I treasure my childhood in NYC. I run around the city streets with my friends without a care in the world. My neighborhood is one of the first to be gentrified. It happens when I’m 14 years old. The neighborhood changes, and so do I, from a small brown child into a tall black man. My mom, who is white, wants me to have a Black upbringing and grow up “Black.” I never really buy into that because it isn’t authentic. I have a white mother, a white uncle, and a white older brother. Even though I never view myself as being white, I never consider myself as being Black either. I view myself as being me, Kesai.

Unfortunately, I’m now viewed differently by the new people in my neighborhood and society at large. One night, I’m walking home from a friend’s house. I find myself behind a white woman, maybe 10 ft. away. I don’t think anything of it until she senses I’m there, turns around, and crosses the street. This makes me upset and confused. I feel like she viewed me as a threat. I understand that women need to be aware of their surroundings and be cautious. At the time, I feel like, “This is my home where I grew up.” “Why should I have to feel like a threat or an unknown in my neighborhood?” From that day on, when I’m walking behind a woman, I always cross the street before she can. I do it partially out of courtesy, but mostly from fear of being thought of as something I’m not. I remind myself I know who I am, and I’m not going to let someone’s misconception about me dictate how I live my life.

When I’m 19, I’m reintroduced to Buddhism. This time it’s by a bartender at a concert hall where I work. I tell him I already know a little about Buddhism from my uncle. “Have you ever heard of Nam MyoHo Renge Kyo?” he asks. I tell him I hadn’t. He explains, “By chanting Nam MyoHo Renge Kyo, you can realize whatever dreams you have and actualize your absolute happiness.” I never heard of Buddhism expressed in this way, so I give it a try.

I chant for a brief period and develop a dedicated practice a few years later. I never pray to be reunited with my dad. Maybe once or twice, it comes up, but I never spend a significant amount of time chanting about it. Then something interesting happens in the Spring of 2008.

One day, I’m on MySpace. (As I said, it was 2008.) My estranged brother, Bajun, sends me a message. When I was growing up, my mother told me I had another brother, but I had never met him. Bajun asks me if I want to meet up and get to know him. I immediately respond, “Yes!”

When we meet later that month, Bajun brings our brother Copez with him. Copez is getting married and asks if I want to come to his wedding. He says our father will be there too. At that moment, I understand what that bartender was trying to tell me when he said that Nam MyoHo Renge Kyo would help me realize my dreams. At 28 years old, I’m going to meet my dad!

I don’t know what to expect when meeting my father again. My mom never really talked about him. I have no details about who he is as a person. Subconsciously I had resolved that I would never meet him and therefore didn’t give him much thought.

So, when the opportunity to meet him presents itself, I do my best to remain impartial. My sister and I go to the church where my brother’s getting married. This is it. Even though I’m trying to keep my expectations in check, I’m excited. I didn’t realize how excited I would be. After all these years of not knowing him, I shut myself off from wanting to feel anything for him.

I walk up a flight of stairs, and there is my father, sitting at a table in a tuxedo, looking very dapper and elegant. I do a spin and shout for joy. My dad! Wow! I’m thrilled. We embrace and sit down and talk. We don’t have much time before the ceremony, but at that moment, I feel like a vast, essential missing piece of my life has been filled.

I had thought my dad would be this animated, kinetic individual. Instead, he’s reserved and introspective. I have that attribute, as well, but I never knew I got it from him. There’s a lot passed down genetically.

Now, my dad and I meet about four times a year for coffee. He’s hesitant and cautious when we’re together. Almost as if he’s apologetic and doesn’t want me to have any hard feelings towards him. The first couple of meetings are awkward, but I can convey my appreciation for just being there with him and let him know I don’t have any expectations. When he gets more comfortable, he shares some of his stories from his childhood and from when he was in Vietnam. Reuniting with him is an ongoing process and a lot of emotional and psychological baggage.

I’m in therapy again and sometimes think about my sessions with Roy. I’m glad I was given the space as a kid to sort out all of my rage, sadness, and confusion. Roy created a safe place for me to talk about my father and my feelings surrounding that lack of connection. Looking back, I think it was when I was eight when I had the emotional breakdown that turned into a personal breakthrough that I was finally at peace, not knowing my dad. It left me with an awareness that helps me now, as I’m getting to know my dad. My happiness isn’t dependent on knowing my father; it’s dependent on knowing me.

Kesai’s story was originally written and performed as part of TMI Project’s Black Stories Matter program and was recently released as an episode of The TMI Project Podcast. Season 2: Black Stories Matter launched on October 28th, 2020, and new episodes air every Wednesday.

Black Stories Matter provides Black-led true storytelling workshops where Black folks can write about, share, and reflect upon their experiences without having to justify, explain, or defend the truth of their lived experiences. The culminating content — written stories, live storytelling performances, videos, and podcasts — is accessible to an all-inclusive audience.