He asked me "Did you steal them", I whimpered "Yeeess", again, waiting on his Rath. To my
surprise, he shouted back: "Boy, If you ever bring any goddamn stolen shit in my house
again..." He didn't nish the statement, he didn't have to.
I survived, he didn't touch me for that. I knew crying my eyes out would not help me. It would have
only made things worse.
Well, that scary episode didn't stop me from lifting toys again, but I never brought the evidence
home again. I simply threw away whatever the trinket was before I came home...lol.
Somehow, whenever I tell that story, It feels like my father is listening...yea, I do. Now that's power. I
would later deduce that was also jail prevention at it's nest.
I remember asking for my father's help when I was trying to purchase my rst car. A 1968 Olds 442.
I only needed him to co-sign for me. He refused to do so. He said that particular Olds burned too
much gas. ($. 35 per gallon)I was pissed, but he was right.
Three days later. I had paid cash for the car from monies I earn as a dishwasher. I had little idea that
I made my daddy so proud when I purchased that car...A Chevy too...He would later co-sign for me
after I completed college.
In his eyes, I was developing independence and it would be easier for me to adapt in life, once he
kicked me out of our home after my High School Graduation. The dreaded day all of my siblings got
our eviction notice. Well, maybe it wasn't so dreaded. I think we were all ready and in anticipation
when the day came. Freedom, independence, and space were motivational incentives we all looked
forward to.