Saint And Sinners (62 page)

When I held you the first time in my arms, I died and was resurrected. You literally
took my damn breath away, Princess. I looked into your eyes, and saw a reflection
of myself. You have your mother’s lips, but the rest of your face is all mine. I remember
being surprised at how pale you were. Your skin is more like your grandmother’s, my
late mother that you didn’t have the pleasure to meet—but I found you gorgeous, heaven
sent. Now that you’re three, you have a slight tan with a golden hue, but you’re still
light, bright and damn near white.

“She is not, Saint!” Xenia protested merrily. “You are the opposite of color-struck;
I don’t even know what to call it, what term that would be. I thought you were better
than this! I’ve never heard you say something like that before,” she quipped.

“I am
not
color struck! You know I have nothing against light-complexioned women. I dated plenty
of them, I think they’re just as beautiful as dark-skinned women and you’re a perfect
example. You’re not dark skinned, Xenia, so I resent that accusation.” He chuckled.

“Mmmmm hmmmm! Talking about that baby like that!”

“Xenia, you know it’s true!”

“And she looks more like
me
than
you
… I see how you tried to slide that in, try to claim her under false pretenses. She
looks
exactly
like her mama.” He could almost envision the woman rolling her eyes as she stated
her case. Saint knew it was true, but the girl still had his eyes and he refused to
give Xenia the satisfaction of agreeing with her…

Smiling, he kept on reading…

When you were born, you had a head full of soft black hair, and it was sweet smelling
in a way I can’t describe. I’d run my fingers over your delicate face, feel those
delicate, loose curls against my fingers. You were so mild, so beautiful, and so pure.
You looked like a perfect little doll baby, as your mother called you. I could see
Africa in your face, Isis. I could see Korea in your eyes. And I could see Egypt in
your prowess. Speaking of Egypt, by the time you receive this, that situation would
have been discussed with you and resolved, as well as the situation surrounding that
whole ordeal, stated in a way that you can understand. That was one of the worst times
of my and your mother’s life, because one of the best things that ever happened to
us—you—was being challenged in one of the cruelest ways possible.

Isis, you were a big deal, and you still are. You literally changed the world before
you’d even reached your first birthday. Your mother and I had no idea your conception
and birth would be so crucial, so monumental. All we wanted was another child, someone
else we could love hard and share with. You exceeded our desires, and then some.

All parents have expectations for their children, or at least they should. I’d imagine
you know by now what my expectations are of my children, you specifically. I don’t
envision myself keeping that a secret, or being a passive parent. For instance, I
expect you to be true to yourself. I expect you to be honest with others, and not
fabricate or purposefully mislead. I expect you to take school seriously. I expect
you to be respectful to your mother and me. That doesn’t mean agreeing with everything
we say, because you are your own person, but it does mean expressing yourself in a
courteous manner. I’m not always courteous; matter of fact, most of the time I’m not,
Isis. But…I am honest. I am also honest enough to tell you that many of the things
I expect from you and your brothers, I do not practice. Does that make me a hypocrite?
Possibly, but that also doesn’t make me wrong for wanting you to do and be better.

There are so many things I expect, and I’m sure by the time you read this, you and
I probably have had a few disagreements along the way. Matter of fact, I can guarantee
it. I know what type of father I am. I am a loving father, a devoted father, but I
am also very flawed, Isis. Right now, at your age of three, you think Daddy is perfect.
I can see it in your eyes when I hold you. You believe I am incapable of doing any
wrong, and that simply isn’t true, but that is the perception of a young child who
is loved and cared for. I will never tell you I am picture-perfect or pretend to be
something I am not. I am human; I have made numerous mistakes, and will continue to
do so. Matter of fact, I’ve been making mistakes my whole life.

Some of them involved situations that are difficult for me to admit and discuss with
you, Isis, but I must, because I need you to be prepared and armed. Also, you need
to know that when I come down on you, it is about something I know firsthand about,
not because I want to spoil your fun or make your life miserable. I love you more
than my own life and anything in this world. I would never want to be the source of
your grief and tears, but I know from time to time, I will be through my efforts to
protect you, my daughter. To fully protect you however requires full disclosure.

“You still there, baby?” He became suddenly paranoid that Xenia’s silence meant the
woman had fallen asleep! Reading this aloud proved far more difficult than he imagined,
and what a waste it would be if his one-woman audience had clocked out.

“Yes honey, I was just not interrupting anymore, so I could listen completely to you
is all.”

“Oh, okay. Thanks…just making sure.”

I never want you to walk around being afraid to live your life. I don’t want to smother
you, but I will always guard you, no matter what. As long as there is still life in
my body, you will have a father. And after I pass away, you will still have one then
too, looking over you, each and every day.

Saint paused, needing a minute to catch his breath.

Now, Isis, here comes the tricky part. This is the part of the letter that I wish
you’d just skip over, ignore and forget. But, I know you won’t. I first need to give
you a little background. When I was a child, Isis, a little boy—I felt alone. Sometimes,
when children feel alone, like no one cares, they do careless things. This is not
an excuse for what I am about to confess to you; it is me laying out the groundwork
and facts of how everything came to be. Being a teenager is oftentimes a confusing
time in a child’s life.

Hormones are raging, peer pressure is a daily occurrence, and there is a need to fit
in, to belong. I also lost my mother at a young age. Isis, I loved my mother so much,
and was what many would say, ‘clingy’ when it came to her. You may or may not recall
this, but Dakarai acts with your mother how I acted with mine. I always wanted her
around; she was my best friend. I was a child that didn’t quite fit in. I had problems,
and I lived in a neighborhood that seemed to hate and love me, all at the same time.
The Bronx you see today is a different Bronx from the one I grew up in. I have old
photos I will show you, but I lived in extreme poverty. The place I lived in made
international news, Isis. The South Bronx was described as a war zone in a country
that professed to be free. My father was one of the few working people that lived
there. He was a schoolteacher. My mother worked at a small grocery store. They loved
each other very much, but I had a strained relationship with my father. When a boy
feels fatherless, he sometimes gets ideas of what a man should be from the wrong places
and people. I was trying to fit in, trying to find out who I was, where I belonged,
and I did not understand that some people were not what I should have been trying
to emulate or aspire to be like. I was basically looking for love in all the wrong
places.

Isis, I began to have sexual intercourse at the age of fourteen. No child should be
sexually involved at the age of fourteen. The maturity level is simply not there,
for such a responsibility. I began to smoke marijuana soon after. I was drinking as
well. I no longer cared about my life or anyone else after my mother was killed. It
was a downward spiral. Amazingly, I kept my grades up, but I didn’t care about school,
either. Honestly, I was just naturally academically smart, so it wasn’t a struggle
for me. I could read something once and retain the information. I am not bragging,
just stating the truth. I could put little to no effort in it, and still make the
necessary grades. My intelligence, however, did not save me from my fate.

I was smart enough to pass a geometry pop quiz with flying colors, but not smart enough
to not try and go selling cocaine. I was tested when I was seventeen, and had an I.Q.
of 167, Isis, but that did not prevent me from being one of the stupidest motherfuckers
you would have ever come across in your entire life. Yes, Daddy cussed. I try to not
curse around you a lot, but by the time you get this, I’m sure that would have be
thrown to the wayside because you’re older, and well, that’s what I do.

Unbelievably, by the grace of the Creator, I never contracted a sexually transmitted
disease, nor did I get any girl pregnant. This is not typical banter a father tells
his daughter; it is more reserved for sons, but that has been a mistake, in my opinion,
that our culture condones. Fathers need to sit down with their daughters as well,
and speak to them candidly about these matters. You need to understand the man’s perspective
regarding this, so you can make more informed choices. I am baring my soul to you,
giving you this embarrassing, shameful confession because you deserve it, and it could
help you. It isn’t for my benefit, it’s for yours. I even hesitated, but had to ask
myself—if I was willing to tell Hassani and Dakarai these things and not blink an
eye, why should I not tell you? That wouldn’t have been fair. You have the right to
know.

With that being said, I will continue with this disclosure. I was what you would describe
as wild, out of control, promiscuous, a drug user… I drank too much, had a terrible
attitude, my mouth got me into plenty of trouble and I was gifted, but didn’t know
what to do about it or how to control it. I am talking about all of our gifts, the
ones we were born with, Isis. I knew I was different; my mother had confirmed it,
but I was living in a world I felt rejected by. I pushed it down, ignored my psychic
abilities and gifts because they made me even odder, as far as I was concerned, and
that’s the last thing I wanted. I wanted to just be seen as normal. Not the half Korean
and Egyptian kid living in the majority Puerto Rican and black neighborhood; not the
guy with the tall, strict father who wore wifebeaters after work and would bark at
everyone out the window as he held a cigarette in one hand and his Koran in the other.
Not the guy whose mother got run over in the street, not the boy who got all A’s,
not the one who could move things without touching them, and all of that other business.
No! I just…wanted to be…normal! But I wasn’t normal, Isis. I was far from it, and
I’d never be such.

I ran from all of this. I somehow pulled myself together after seeing one too many
of my friends killed from street life. I decided I was going to stop eating bad foods
and not drink alcohol as much. I was going to stop running the streets, acting crazy
and belligerent with authority figures. I was even going to stop arguing with my father
but the one thing I didn’t stop, Isis, was having sex. It had gotten too important.
I actually needed it. I would wake up in the morning, grab my phone and literally
go through a list of girls to call. Instead of getting up and having breakfast, reading
or exercising, I was up trying to find someone to have sex with.

As I got a bit older, enrolled and was accepted in college, instead of it stopping,
it got worse. I did not see women as women though, Isis. I saw them as objects, something
for me to get my rocks off of. Because I was considered fairly attractive and charismatic,
it wasn’t hard to make these connections and get my fix, so to speak.

I used all my God given talents for evil. I was using women, Isis. I was using their
bodies, after toying with their minds. I became addicted to sex, and didn’t even realize
this until it was far too late. The worst part was, I was a sex therapist, a damn
good one if I say so myself, but couldn’t even see myself for what I truly was. I
had to have sex at least three times a day, and even that wasn’t usually enough. Again,
I know this may be uncomfortable for you to read, Isis, I am your father, I get that,
but I was not rare, sweetheart. There are plenty of men just like me walking the streets,
with this same problem. We are predators, and that is why I am warning you, baring
my soul to you like this.

I was hurting and sick, and didn’t know how to get well. Women became my medicine.
I would literally feel the high, Isis, starting from when I’d be driving over to a
hotel to meet some woman or picking her up to take her. Some of these women I barely
even knew. With so many of them, their faces and names began to blend together. I
never forget a face, Isis, but I was starting to when it came to my conquests. All
I saw were their bodies. They became faceless to me in that regard. All I cared about
was how they could make me feel, and how I could make them feel as well. Though my
addiction was selfish, my ways to sustain it were not. It became very important to
me that I could be sexually proficient because I wanted to be craved. I spent a lot
of time investing in this aspect of myself.

While one addict spends a large amount of time lying and scheming in order to get
his drugs, and possibly breaking into homes, I was reading, watching, observing. At
first, I did not watch adult movies to get off, for instance. I watched them to see
how to please a woman. I would get instructional videos, books, everything I could
get my hands on so I would be a better lover than I had been the day before. It became
so bad, I developed a reputation, and yes, the calls stopped because I no longer had
to solicit women, Isis. Once I was twenty-one or so, I’d made a name for myself and
the women started to come after me. Lots of them. Beautiful women. Professional women.
But most of all, broken women. I don’t want you to be broken, Isis. I don’t want you
to be so vulnerable that a man like the one I used to be is attracted to your energy
and walks in your life, only to purposefully destroy it.