Broken Rungs - A Story of Ambition, Hope, Love and Life.

CHAPTER 1

The Setback

They say that our traumas can define us. Mine had plagued me for so long, but it was my driving force. When I was in the fourth grade, my parents told me that my dad wasn’t my actual dad and that I had another father named Keith. I don’t know how other people would’ve handled this when they were first told about it, but for me, it was something I couldn’t shake off so quickly. Shit confused my ten-year-old brain, but I was excited about it for whatever reason. Growing up on the east side of Detroit, I seen a lot of shit, but nothing could’ve prepared me for that news even at ten years old. My dad, James was the person that raised me. He has been one of the most influential men in my life, and I have always looked up to him. Every boy has a role model; someone they want to copy one or two from. For some, it could be their older brother or an uncle. For other’s it is their friend, or a character from a television show; but for me, it is my dad. He is an outstanding individual, someone that has always been a stand-up guy. My mother is a phenomenal woman. She has a heart of gold. My mom has always been the one to keep shit real with my siblings and me. My biological father was a different story. I remember being in class and drawing pictures of my two fathers and me together! You can imagine what I was thinking around that time. My mother had this old shoebox full of pictures that she’d pull out whenever it was time to reminisce. My mother rarely throws away anything from our past. I mean, she still has old report cards and awards from when my siblings and I were little. One day, she pulled it out and revealed several photos of Keith. It was my first time seeing him. He looked like a smooth dude. He had this long wavy hair and tailored suit on. It’s my mother’s favorite picture of him. Honestly, he looked like one of them DeBarge brothers. As we continued going through the pictures, we came across another one that made me curious. The picture was of a teenage girl and Keith. I looked at it for a brief moment, and I wanted to know more about whom the girl was. It made me ask about her. My mom told me that this girl was my sister, Dawn. I swallowed hard. (‘Pause’ if you know what I mean). I have a sister that I’ve just heard about for the first time, but mom wasn’t done with giving me the shock of my life. She mentioned that I had an older brother, named Keith Jr. too! I froze for a moment. What in the hell am I hearing? My eyes were wide open when my mother said that she was planning for a date to meet my real father. Everything was happening too fast as I was just becoming aware of a reality I never knew existed. That date came faster than expected. It couldn’t have been any more than a week or two that went by. Keith was at my grandmother’s house, waiting for my mom and I to get there. The drive seemed to take forever because the excitement overwhelmed me with emotion. I didn’t know what to expect, but since I was going there with mom, I wasn’t that worried about it. I didn’t know much about this man besides seeing some old pictures, but I sure wanted to meet him; I wanted to see him in real life, get to know who he was, and everything about him.

The moment we walked inside; his back was to us. The smell of cigarette smoke came from his figure. I noticed a shot glass and a 40 oz of malt liquor on the table. I looked to my mom to make sure it was okay. She motioned me to walk around and greet him. At first, I just stood there, and we looked at each other for about fifteen seconds before my mom intervened and introduced me. “Keith, this is your son, Rondré.” She said to him. As he took another puff from his Newport, his eyes squinted, and he leaned in close to me… Extending my hand to introduce myself formally, “It’s nice to meet you, Keith,” I said to him with a big ass smile. He immediately flipped on me and said his name wasn’t Keith, and I needed to call him dad. I was confused. I was meeting him for the first time, and he was expecting me to call him dad. I don’t think that would have easily come out of my mouth at will. I had called him Keith without even thinking about it because that’s his goddamn name, and I never even thought about referring to him as my dad. It takes a lot for a child to call someone their dad. For a child to give a man that title, believe me, it’s an honor. Most of us ghetto kids ain’t have fathers in their lives. So, in this case, it would take time before I would be able to call him that or anything close to it. Not that I couldn’t, of course, I would if I was asked to, but it wouldn’t be from the depth of my heart; it would be just a mere formality, something that I would be doing not because I meant and felt it, but because it became necessary. My mom looked at him, “that is your name,” she said at once. He exploded. “THIS AIN’T MY MOTHERFUCKIN SON!” Clearly, he had been drinking heavily and was drunk. Whoa! Hold up, nigga. I had never heard that type of language spoken at me before. No one was allowed to curse at my parents’ house, and they didn’t use any profane language around me or my siblings. It does not matter the mood that you find yourself in; you will have to control your emotions and use your words carefully. This affected me in a certain way; I would rarely ever disrespect someone unless I felt disrespected. That’s how we were raised. Keith wasn’t done with the cursing; the look on his face was getting even more serious. The nigga was highly upset. I was confused because I couldn’t understand why he was that way towards me. The first minute he was complaining that I didn’t refer to him as my dad and the next, he was belligerent. I guess it made him feel like a stranger, but he was really a stranger to me, and his attitude made me kind of feel unsafe. Things calmed for a moment after my mom and grandma stepped in, but Keith went ahead with the insults by calling me a little bitch and a punk ass nigga. Dude was out of control. He was yelling at my mother and going on saying that he didn’t have another son and how she needed to get me the fuck out of his face. I ran off into my grandmother’s bedroom, crying. I cried so much that my lips got chapped. I don’t know what that was about and I didn’t know why I had to be put into that situation. I knew they had talked about the whole thing before my mom decided to bring me to see him. My mom came into the room behind me and hugged me. I was so angry but hurting at the same time. She could understand the confusing state that I had found myself in. I didn’t ask to be introduced to him. I was just too young to understand why this man was being this mean to me. As she comforted me, she explained that Keith didn’t know how to express himself properly, and he didn’t know how to handle uncomfortable situations well. She calmed me and asked if I wanted to continue with the meeting or go home. I thought about her question for a moment. I had waited for what seemed like forever to meet him. Ever since my mom told me about him and showed me pictures, I kept thinking about him even though we had never met. Nigga had me drawing pictures and shit, looking like we were a happy family. If I didn’t want to meet him, I wouldn’t have done any of that. However, I was able to put aside my mood and how badly I was feeling because of how he had just talked to me; he was my father, after all. When my mom asked me that question, I told myself that I wanted to continue with the meeting. So, I went back into the living room and sat at the table with him. He was much more chill than before. The look that I had seen in his eyes disappeared. He looked like a different person, and I felt a bit relaxed as I sat across from him. He apologized while telling me he was just playing and didn’t want me to be so soft. After some small talk about school and other activities, he began getting riled up again. I noticed this happened when I spoke about my dad, James. That resulted in Keith screaming and more name calling. “Oh, that’s the last time this muthafucka is gonna disrespect me.” He yelled. He obviously didn’t care much for my dad, and around that age, I couldn’t understand why. I wish my dad was there that evening to defend me, but he wasn’t. So, I did what any ten-year-old would do. I wiped my tears. I was feeling very elevated, and rageful. I raised up from the table, charged at him, with my fist balled, and proceeded to try and knock this nigga’s head off his shoulders. He ducked my attempt, but his 40 oz felt every bit of my blow. It started spilling all over the table and him. I told my mom I was ready to leave and stormed out of the house. That was my first encounter with my biological father. I left feeling differently about things.

On my eleventh birthday, my mom said that Keith had a surprise for me at my grandmother’s house. I assumed this was his way of trying to make up for the horrific experience of meeting him. It had been about four months since that happened, and I hadn’t really thought much about the encounter or him for that matter. He kind of ruined all the expectations that I had of him. Imagine being told that you would be meeting your biological father for the first time. The expectations would be really high. I might have watched a lot of movies with incidents like this, but I was expecting to get a warm hug from him or something! I was expecting him to hold my hand and be excited to meet me too. It was ten years already, and I was just meeting him for the first time, and he just ruined all the expectations I had of him. My dad at home was one of the nicest people in the world. He raised the standard of what a real dad should be like; this must have been why I had high hopes from Keith. It was...