Runnin' through my head.

Life throws lots of minor inconveniences at us, we all know that, right? Well, I'm dealing with one of those things right now; although it may be a major setback, I'm not sure.

Today I picked up the mail after coming home from tennis practice, and I was pretty mad. It also didn't help that I had a college letter from an admissions office that was paper-thin. I opened it, only to find that I wasn't rejected from college, it was just some problem with my FAFSA or CSS forms. At first I was confused, because I had filled out everything that I was instructed to. Then I read more closely, and found my problem.

"The Noncustodial Parent's Statement you submitted to the Financial Aid Office needs further clarification."


I guess growing up with, or without, something, you just sort of become accustomed to it; you can realize that it's abnormal, but you still can't help the fact that it feels natural. I had forgotten about that error, as most domestic forms that I fill out don't really touch on the subject. The fact that I don't know my biological father is really overlooked, but people seem to get edgy or uncomfortable when it comes up. It's not even that I don't know him because of artificial insemination or because my mother left him or something like that, because she doesn't know either.

When I was a child I used to speak as a child, think as a child, reason as a child. And as a child, I didn't know what that meant. My mother always tried to protect me, and that meant that the subject became tabboo. There was no discussion, and I was discouraged from having friends over the house or interacting with other families, for fear that I might "discover" what a "real" family is like. If anything in my environment had an adverse effect on who I am, that was it.

After I entered the fifth grade and saw the basic sex video and learned all of that, I realized what had happened. It was at this point that whatever mental or emotional disorder that I eventually contracted hit me. I learned about protection, and I learned about STDs, and I learned about abortion, and I learned about adoption, and I learned about different types of sex, and I learned where babies come from, and I learned what parents did to have children and I realized what it meant to be a bastard. It all clicked one day, because according to my aunt, my mother was quite the party girl at one time.

Party girl... that means lots of sex, right? And she hadn't had a child before, had she? Well she was obviously being safe, what with multiple partners and all. She had to have multiple partners, because she doesn't know who my father is. But she suddenly stopped, like something unexpected happened. Contraceptive measures don't have a 100% success rate.

Click.

She didn't need to say it. She did, although not at the time. During a fight over this past summer I heard the words that, as far as I can recall, are the only ones that drove me into a near-murderous rage. I'm not going to say it, take a guess. I dare you.

I'll joke about it. "I was too strong for the condom", "I shifted the diaphragm" and various possibilities of my ethnicity are among my favorites. But just because you joke about something doesn't mean you don't care about it. Dave Chappelle jokes about racism, but I bet he would still get really pissed if I went up to his face and called him a n*gg*r.

So I care about it. That doesn't mean I'm ashamed of it, because it's not my fault that I exist (Rene, I know you must be laughing at this one), nor is it my fault that I wasn't put up for adoption. The fact of the matter is that I'm here; nothing can change that.

And even though I've had my problems with it, I'll act otherwise. I plan on selling sperm to research in college. Once sex becomes a routine thing I'll probably care less about protection. I'm pro-choice and I'd like to see further research into stem cell research.

But it's still there. And I still need to deal with it. And I'll always have to deal with it. And I never had anyone to play catch with, or anyone to look up to as a father, or anyone to teach me how to shave or how to tie a tie, or anyone to fight with if I wanted to stir up some conflict, or anyone to tell my mother the nuances of raising a boy instead of a girl, or anyone to teach me how to drive. And I won't have anyone to go to for that father-specific advice, and I won't have anyone to take me to Vegas, or anyone to reference as a father at my wedding, or anyone to look after my kids and be the cool grandfather, or anyone to have a barbecue with after the kids get a little older, or anyone to share in the loss of a relative with, in that father-son way. And I won't have anyone to show me that affection that you know you've truly earned, nor will I have the knowledge of how to father a child of my own, and I don't know how that makes me feel.