Father’s Day: Head Niggers In Charge (H.N.I.C.): Part 2

Usually, when my father chose to appear back in our lives when my mother kept allowing him back in (he finally stopped. When he did, she chased after him like a love sick teenager and it started all over, again), his only role of being the « man of the house »  was saying, « This is my mother fuckin house », and keeping the cable on ( he had to have cable and electricity on. If either of the two were missing he was back at « momma’s house »).

Otherwise, my father wasn’t about shit(just an oversized 300+ lb. Used to be football player and ladies man). Anywho, my mom took me by surprise and told me that she didn’t ever want me to put her name on a  cake like this, again. Further, she accused me of wanting to be a man and quoted the fact that she « enjoys being a female in every way » and looking like one (in all reality, a number of people have mistaken her for being a man). 

She asked me my reasons for coming up with this new type of celebration for myself. As a result, I calmly repeated myself like a broken record.  Like a stupid ass she felt like she had to repeat her statement when it was just two of us conversing with one another. My grandmother was pretty cool with it, though. I had her name put on it, too because she raised eight children mostly by herself, due to my grandfather being gone in the military, including the times he decided not to include family to come with him when it was O.K. for families to be with their soldier spouses, etc (as told to me by my mom and grandmother).

This also included the times before the military as a traveling minister(as told by mom and my grandmother). These days my grandmommy talks about how my grandfather cheated on her for years before he got in the military as a « busy minister » and afterwards. And, how she was done when she found out she was divorced (when one of my aunts told her that they read about it in a newspaper).

Yeah, as a 7 1/2-8 year old I really could not understand this divorce business and all, except for the fact that I observed my grandmother sobbing while listening on the phone, followed by asking my mother what she was going to do and how was she and all of the other children of hers going to survive  and make it. I guess some of the signs were there. After the church fired my grandfather, he moved the family to a rough area in L.A. (the church moved the family out of the three story beautiful home after termination).
After this my grandfather didn’t stay with his immediate family for very long. He began to be around his mother more in Vallejo, California. Next thing I knew, he was hardly at home, returned broke, had nothing to give me but a dollar at times (eventhough I continued to think he was wealthy for years until our worst Christmas in L.A.), and shared walnuts with me instead of giving me Christmas gifts on the worst day we ever had as a family (Christmas that is).
I must say…that was the worst Christmas I ever had in my life. Yeah, it was rough for my grandmommy. She needed help really bad. That was also the worst I have ever seen regarding a divorce: Abandonment of a wife and eight children. The youngest three of my grandmother’s children were bad as hell.
As a result, for the lack of help and two older sons running to the military (as reported to me) the youngest three were sent via Greyhound to good ol’ Pineville, Louisiana to the now retired Reverend(observed by me and other family members). To continue, throughout the years my mom continued to send money and other items to my grandmother, to continue to help provide for some of my uncles and aunts.
Also, after more years passed by, my aunts got knocked up, all of my uncles except for one knocked bitches up, and everyone (except for my mom at the time) had their time living with my grandmommy while she took care of them and their children off and on throughout the years. When she was not used for this, she was sent to and fro across the states to bake pies, cakes, lasagna and shit for my uncles who were in the military and their wives.
This shit continued until my grandmother received a black eye, ended up walking with a cane, got most of her personal belongings thrown in the trash by an uncle (as reported to me), stayed with another relative, and eventually tumbled down a flight of eleven steps after responding to a noise heard downstairs (at my deaf aunt’s place).
Furthermore, after my grandmother got injured and no longer could get around like she used to, the calls for the pies and shit stopped. Even just to say hello decreased. This meant that there were no more tasty pies, cakes, and cookies to be made nor coming on the holidays. No more cheesy lasagna for those selfish motherfuckers and their brats. No more babysitting anyone’s kids so they could get fucked or dated by some basketball player, etc.
This also meant no more taking care of some prostitute’s kids, no more goodies, period, damnit. Now meals are cooked for her. To end, by my mom’s request, I will not be putting either of their names on a future Father’s Day cake. Eventhough both of these ladies are « Mops », too. However, I am proud to be one.
I guess next I will be the only bitch with my own name on my Father’s Day cake. Well, cheers, cheerios, and chips ahoy to myself and the millions of others who do this. Again, happy Father’s Day!