Son-Sun,
As you face another Father’s Day, owning only a single picture of your father—him holding you as an infant—and a birth certificate bearing his identity, know that you are more than a last name—you are Antwone’s son.
You’ve spent the majority of your life without the spirit of your father, without a mere memory of him in relation to you, knowing nearly nothing about the man who fathered you—not knowing the history of his childhood nor the trajectory of his future.
The truth is, neither do I.
We were together as teenagers. We met when the hood was rich. When drug dealers lined most boulevards and occupied low-income buildings that made up your place of birth, South Jamaica, Queens, this was back when gold teeth were on its third wave, and though “bling” wasn’t out yet, truck jewelry was the thing. Hip-hop was NOTORIOUS and B.I.G. He was the typical D-boy, and I was what the kids now call a baddie. He was ballin’. I had bawdy. We went on late-night creeps—and somewhere in that, I grew to love him.
Ultimately, that summer love evolved into a years-long toxic relationship that involved lying, cheating, several love triangles, prison gaps, pregnancy, five baby mamas and a funeral.
Source: Photo by Ida Harris
When I told him I was pregnant with you on the visiting floor at Rikers Island (the men’s house C-76), he said emphatically, “Keep him.”
He wanted you.
‘Twone was in and out of jail and in and out of my life. I carried you during one of his short periods of freedom—right along with your sister’s mom, who he’d also gotten pregnant at the time. We’d both go on to deliver the two of you just hours apart while he was still incarcerated. That sobering reality helped me fall out of love with your dad and the delusion of a solid union real quick. That disappointment begot times when I denied him access to you. I assumed the love he did not have for me was the love he couldn’t give to you.
I was so wrong.
He loved you fiercely—as best he could with me lording over that love. He was present—as present as he could with me, lording over that presence. He checked for you as best he could, with me lording over those check-ins.
He begged for you.
He demanded you. You should know that your dad loved you far better than he could ever love me—and that will always bring me peace.
Most of what I know about your father is colored by the moments we shared and fragmented by memory and loss. Your dad was for them streets—and the streets claimed him. He was a hustler to his core and to his death. I’ve always hated that for you and your siblings.
The streets gave zero fucks about Father’s Day and fatherless sons- then and now.
You don’t have him today, but what you do have are remnants of a man who loved you: his burnt umber eyes, his kinky course hair, his proud nose, full-bodied lips, his curious smile, your dad’s nappy beard and razor bumps after a clean shave, his perfect fingers—his perfect you. The perfect picture of him holding you, cheek-to-cheek, as an infant.
Your dad’s life may have been abbreviated by drama and punctuated by death—but one of the best things he could have done is father you.
I love you, Son-Sun.
Media maven Ida Harris’ provocative approach to journalism while covering topics at the intersection of Black culture and womanhood has cemented her reputation and bodies of work as the bridge between our generations. Ida is a published author whose essay “MamaSick” is included in the 2024 NAACP Image award-winning text The New Brownies Book and the recently released anthology Bigger Than Bravery: Black Resilience and Reclamation in a Time of Pandemic. Her literary work and essays are featured in Boston Review, Teen Vogue, ELLE, Essence, Yes! Magazine, USA Today and more. Ida is currently the Director of Digital Content for BLACK ENTERPRISE, where she curates the daily content around Black business, entrepreneurship, entertainment, health, lifestyle, and news.
