One of the Hardest Things I Had to Do in My Life

Here is the letter of forgiveness I wrote to my father. It took me a little over three years before I could even complete a letter of forgiveness for my father. That’s why it’s not dated, but it was sent to him in 2022. After completing this letter, it felt like a few tons had been removed from my shoulders. My sister Michelle gave it to him for me, before the dementia set in. Too much drinking and the social isolation led to Alzheimer’s, “the long goodbye.” Since he’s been in the old folk’s home, I spoke with him once. It was one of the only conversations we had where he didn’t speak to me like I was a piece of shit.

Dear Cyril Dundee Davidson:

I have no certainty as to whether or not you will receive — let alone even read — this letter. I write this without any malice in my heart, as I’ve come to forgive you for some time now, Dad. Due to my emotions and sentiments of bitterness and resentment, at first I didn’t think that you deserved a letter of forgiveness. However, I now feel differently. Quite possibly this letter is more for myself than anything, as I have no real expectations of any response from you. You disowned me a long time ago. Still, writing this was much easier this time around. In past attempts, I always broke down crying and gave up.

I am where I am as a result of successive poor decisions. No one’s fault but my own. I was a loathsome, angry, overgrown adult who was muddled by the trauma of my own life’s existence. It didn’t help that I had become an alcoholic, and the drinking worsened my decision making even more. Back then, I believed you never wanted me, and still do. For most of my life you always said, “I wash my hands of you.” The difference now is that you don’t have to see or even deal with me on a daily basis.

It’s sad that I don’t have very many good memories when it comes to you. Growing up, you were my first teacher, as a child’s first lessons are through observation. A son naturally wants to look up to his father, and I definitely looked up to you. Problem was, you were a paradox I could never begin to understand. I witnessed two personalities in complete conflict with one another. When around people outside of our family, you portrayed yourself as a loving, caring, fun, charismatic, even jovial person. At home, with just us family, you were an abusive tyrant who terrified me. I have always wondered how it would have gone had the roles been reversed and you had been kind and loving towards the people within your own family.

I would like to think that you showed love to us the only way you learned how from having to grow up in a Third-World country. Your own father was seldom ever around, and your brother having been lost at a young age. You’re nothing more than a regular person with pain and faults and flaws like everyone else. You moved to this country in order to live a better life, but you failed to leave behind your taste for rum. I once read a book which taught “Inner Power and Freedom” from the trauma of having been abused, and practiced some of its exercises. The lessons within that book brought to mind what experiences you must have had back in Guyana. I recall the newspaper article Granny had. You lost your brother to a swimming accident. I absolutely CANNOT imagine what that must have been like for you and her. No doubt it was devastating for you, and I’m certain it contributed to your drinking habit.

I’m a first generation American. As a child, I didn’t even know what that meant. I had no cousins for a thousand miles or better. Growing up, it seemed as though all of my other half-siblings left as soon as they could. Andre to the Navy, and Nicole to college. I still remember your fight with Michelle, and her leaving. They all experienced Guyana, and from what I have already witnessed, the people who come to this country tend to appreciate it more. Those born here often take things for granted. Some parents take their children to visit their home countries so they can experience the place they’re from. I’ve never visited that which you referred to as “back home,” thus I will never truly know the hardship that was Guyana. Still, it would be nice to visit there one day if possible.

I’ve always wanted to understand you, learn why you behaved as you did and abused me. I wonder how you would rate yourself when it comes to raising two out of three of your children born in America. Hindsight is 20/20. The question is, however, can you be honest with yourself, or do you live with self-delusion. I lived with self-delusion for some time. That and my alcoholism went hand in hand. You were also a verbal abuser. Some of the things you said to your fourth child were ruthless when you were in your alcohol-infused tirade. You spoke to me as though I were your despised worst enemy being tortured and humiliated. In today’s world, the ways in which you treated me would land a person right in prison. Though you may have escaped the justice system, it doesn’t mean your past behavior towards your children wasn’t criminal. For example, I clearly remember once being stripped naked and forced outside to go up the street and play. The only reason I didn’t make it up the block was because of Nicole. I can only imagine her embarrassment that day. Not for nothing, I do also remember when I was young, walking hand in hand with you on the side of Bruckner Blvd., towards East Fremont, to go see the latest Jedi movie. It’s too bad I haven’t very many pleasant memories like that.

You know, in my mind, you valued your canaries more than me and my siblings. And then it was the dogs. Believe it or not, in many ways, I actually became a bit just like you, as those abused often become abusers themselves. But the first time a dog bit my son on his face, I had it euthanized immediately. I’ve no doubt that action of mine was a contributing factor to my brother’s drug-addled impulsiveness to stab and almost kill me. Your dog bit you first, then Ian, and then Nicole. Let’s not forget the day when I ran out of the shower naked and had to pour boiling water from a kettle in order to get Smokey off your mother’s leg. Your precious pedigree dog bit your wife and nearly killed your own mother. My granny, Dorothy Yearwood, is the strongest woman I’ve ever met. I remember the story about a robber who pulled a gun on her near the Cross Bronx and Blackrock. She made him feel so ashamed for pulling that gun that he didn’t take anything from her. At least Granny made me feel loved, hard as she was on me.

There are hard lessons we learn on our own, worsened by our arrogance. I wish you had been a better teacher, and I a better student. Sadly, I only remember the worst lessons, such as: where did my love for guns and alcohol come from? Answer: For many years, your license plate read “Long Guns.” Thus, I ended up right where you said I would be. What if you had said differently?

I don’t hate you, Dad. I forgive you, and I hope that you will find it in your heart to forgive me. Lord knows I’ve done wrong. I don’t anticipate a response, but to receive one from you would be nice.

Sincerely,

Paul Michael Davidson