Why I Did Not Attend My Father’s Funeral
I have found that to tell the truth is the hardest thing on earth. Harder than fighting in a war, harder than taking part in a revolution. If you try it, you will find that at times sweat will break upon you. You will find that even if you succeed in discounting the attitudes of others to you and your life, you must wrestle with yourself most of all. Fight with yourself. Because there will surge up in you a strong desire to alter facts, to dress up your feelings. You’ll find that there are many things you don’t want to admit about yourself and others. As your record shapes itself, an awed wonder haunts you. And yet there is no more exciting an adventure than trying to be honest in this way. The clean, strong feeling that sweeps you when you’ve done it makes you know that.― Richard Wright
Truth is proper and beautiful at all times and in all places. —Frederick Douglas
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My father died on October 18, 2022. I sent this email message to friends on October 29th. It is updated, modified, and expanded here.
As I write this, my father’s funeral is happening in Baltimore. I am at home in Delaware. The service is being live-streamed, but I am not watching it. I am busying myself around the house.
My father was absent for much of my childhood (he did not raise any of his children). On several occasions when he was around, he sexually abused me. I forgave him and tried to have a father-daughter relationship with him for many years, but this spring, I eventually walked away from him for good. I was told he became delirious the day before he died and was calling for me. When they called for “the family” to come to the hospital because he had less than 24 hours to live, I would not go. I stayed in Delaware, lit a candle for him, and wished him safe travels. Two days before Herman’s funeral, vases of flowers I ordered were delivered to each of his sisters and what I received in return was silence.
His family is livid because I chose to stay at home. They are especially livid that I challenged them about the obituary on the funeral home website that paints my father as a hero at the expense of the reputation of his children as though we were the ones who neglected him in his time of need. This is not surprising given that Herman and his family were/are given to gaslighting.
Life was good to Herman (I never called him Daddy), but he gave little to his children and family. Yet, he expected everything from us. Two of his four children are at the funeral. Herman’s children, with one exception (his youngest daughter who severed ties with him years ago; she was the smart one), live out of state in Virginia, Delaware, and Pennsylvania. Yet, we did all we could do for our father. My oldest sister is the primary caregiver for our 83- and 99-year-old mother and grandmother, respectively. I am the primary caregiver of my 28-year-old son, who is deaf and autistic. My brother works several jobs to provide for his family. Despite this, we did what we could for Herman and then some, and he took it all for granted. We were more than “on the other end of the phone,” as the obituary stated. “There was no challenge Herman would not face?” Unfortunately, he refused to face the most crucial challenge of his life, fatherhood.
I forgave Herman for his absenteeism and the sexual abuse. I spent years building a relationship with him and helping him navigate the realities of old age. We shared so much and had so much in common that I considered him a friend. I inherited his intellectualism, love for books, impeccable work ethic, and wicked sense of humor. Our political debates were intense and invigorating. But we never spoke about what happened, and he NEVER apologized to me. About a year ago, he even stated that he told someone, “The only one of my children I owe an apology to is Arica.” No, he owed us all an apology.
Yet, Herman (and his family) acted as though his children were beholden to him. His sense of entitlement was overwhelming. I, or anyone else, could never do enough for him. So, I walked away. I had done so twice before. It was guilt or what psychologists call trauma bonding, “a hormonal attachment created by repeated abuse, sprinkled with being ‘saved’ every now and then. The brain latches on to the positive experience of relief rather than the negative impact of the abuser.” The desperate need to have my father in my life motivated me to apologize to him and try again. I protected him at my own expense. But this time, I did not look back when I walked away. I wished Herman well and kept it moving. I had to choose myself and my responsibilities to my disabled son and my beautiful husband, an excellent husband, and father.
Sadly, because I walked away, his family has engaged in a full-scale character assassination and has disowned me. I cannot help them; they can think and say what they want about me. Yes, Herman was my father. But I was also his daughter. Why was I required to be loyal to him? Where was his loyalty to me? I was there when he needed me, but he was never there when I needed him. I skipped the funeral, yes. But I don’t have enough fingers and toes to count the number of events he wouldn’t attend for my children or me though he was invited.
Herman’s family knows he was not the father he could and should have been to us, and they were well aware of his narcissism. But they also enabled him. In their own words, “We created that monster.” Herman’s sisters catered to him like he was a king. But they also complained about how he used, abused, and took advantage of them, and a niece who also cared for him. The cycle of traumatic bonding had gripped us all. Of course, when he died, the narrative changed. Hence the obituary on the funeral home website.
I implored a cousin directly involved in planning the funeral via text messages to speak with my aunt, a retired English teacher who writes all of the family obituaries, to make the necessary changes that would not cast Herman’s children in a negative light, as though we neglected our father. But the request fell on deaf ears. My two siblings at the funeral were also displeased with how we are portrayed in the obituary, but they believed they had to go along to keep the peace. Dr. King characterized this phenomenon in his Letter From A Birmingham Jail as “a negative peace,” stating that people are “more devoted to ‘order’ than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice,” underscoring the notion, “You are not supposed to speak ill of the dead,” inculcated in the funeral performance. But is it okay to disparage the living? Language matters, and that section could have been written so that the dead and the living were not maligned. My aunt understands this as well as I do.
Herman’s family knows I supported my father as best I could. But I grew tired of his demands, finally put my foot all the way down, and said, “NO!” I did what his family could or would not do. Because I refused to co-sign on his bad behavior any longer, now I am a pariah. But it is not my fault; I did nothing wrong, there is nothing wrong with me, and I am not the problem. The problem is that as much as Black families teach their girls to grow up to be independent women, we are also expected to value our men and boys more than ourselves. This is particularly true when it comes to sexual impropriety. We must remain silent, not air the family’s dirty laundry. Yet, as Dr. King stated, “Silence is betrayal.” There is no greater betrayal than the betrayal of one’s self. But no more. Me too.
This short video aptly captures the complex family dynamics when an adult child terminates a relationship with an abusive parent. “If it is one thing a family hates is a truth-teller,” contends The Speech Prof. “When an adult child chooses to go no contact with that parent, that is a very loud truth.” Indeed. So, don’t hate me because — in the words of Colonel Nathan R. Jessup (Jack Nicholson) from the famous line from the movie A Few Good Men, who shouted at Lt. Daniel Kaffee (Tom Cruise) — “You can’t handle the truth!”
The truth is, I loved my father more than he or anyone will ever know. I was an excellent daughter. I did right by Herman despite his ill-treatment of me. I have no regrets. None. I would have hated Herman if I had not severed ties with him. As Maya Angelou stated, “Hate, it has caused a lot of problems in this world, but has not solved one yet.” Word.
When I informed my youngest sister of my decision to sever ties with Herman once and for all, she gave me the best advice. “ Sis, I know you are hurting, and that is because you care,” she said. “You must pray for Herman and forgive him every day, but now that you have drawn that line in the sand, for your own sake, do not cross it.” I told yall she was smart. I took her advice, and I am so glad I did.
R.I.P. Big Herm! I’ll see you again on the other side, and when that happens, I believe the both of us will be better than we were in this life. xoxoxo
