I rarely talk about my father. If you’ve been reading my blog for a long time, you might recall my accounts of his horrific spousal abuse, our night terrors and quick escapes, my parent’s multiple attempts at marriage reconciliation, his lifelong struggle with alcoholism and his slow death by stroke at the age of 54. I was 29 years old, married with 3 young children when he died. Unlike my mother’s huge funeral, only a few showed up to mourn him. The song I selected to sum up his life was “I Did It My Way” by Frank Sinatra.
But there was another side to my father. His name was Lionel Jerome Ball. My mother called him, “Romey”. Like my mother, he was born in Mississippi, both raised in Detroit, Michigan. He came from a large well-to-do family. He grew up as a middle sibling among six children (five boys and one girl). He lost his mother to stroke at the breakfast table during his teens and later had two stepmothers. He was known to be a brilliant young man with a genius level IQ. But he was complicated. For example, he was both an honor student and a gang leader. He owned a bowling alley when he was just 15 years old. Being brilliant and ambitious as a black man in those days couldn’t have been easy.
He grew up to become a successful tax accountant with a law degree who helped many black businesses in Los Angeles get their start. He was tall, movie-star handsome, and very charming during my early childhood. His father was one of the personal bodyguards of Henry Ford and Ford paid for the college education of each of the six siblings (as well as our diapers from the factory floor) when we were babies. It was during college that my father became a member of Alpha Phi Alpha Fraternity, Inc. My mother was a graceful, pretty, smart, and musically talented little sis to the fraternity and they fell in love. For whatever reason, they eloped instead of having a fancy wedding that I’m certain my mother would have enjoyed. They did have a fancy reception and an announcement on the black society pages to satisfy my grandparents (on both sides).
My parents had three children in quick succession (we are each only one year apart). My father made no attempt to hide the fact that I as the youngest and only girl was his favorite. He often bragged that I was the one he gave birth to because he called from law school the moment I was born. I recall being carried around to his business associates in fancy clothes as some kind of show piece. I hated the forced kisses to stranger’s cheeks. Both my parents were extroverts who I now realize had no clue how excruciating their lifestyle of social events and parties along with the endless introductions and forced affections were to an introvert.
But there were plenty of good times with my dad. He would take us to Mexico shop, watch bull fights or dog races. We’d head to Las Vegas on a whim where he’d pay the bar maid to allow us to stay on the casino floor to watch. We’d go to horse races and bet on horses, always letting us keep any winnings. We’d enjoy all kinds of restaurants. We’d have entertaining nights at home with dance competitions. Occasionally, he’d bring home candy bars, just because he wanted to surprise us with a treat. Despite everything that was great or horrifying in my parent’s relationship, I always felt the support, unconditional love, and pride of both my parents towards me even when their next breakup thrust my mother and us kids into an impoverished existence crammed into a motel, a small apartment, or living with a relative. Too escape poverty, my mother even remarried the year I turned seven. But the man was abusive to my brothers and my dad had to rescue us. During that drama, I was sent to my grandparents in Detroit for the entire summer. When I returned, we were living with my father again in his big, beautiful house with the backyard swimming pool. Predictably, their reconciliation didn’t last. I don’t think he ever forgave or trusted her for marrying another man. But they kept on trying.
I was 16 years old when my parents tried their final reconciliation. I was furious at my mother for exposing us again to his terrorism. At the height of my rebellion, I refused to make my father lemonade and he in turn attempted to strike me with a horse whip (of all things). He was too hung over to prevent me from yanking the whip out of his hands and asking, “Who has the whip now?” I didn’t hit him, but I left the house for several hours. Shortly after that incident they separated for the final time. I was relieved that my sleepless nights were finally over. Months later, I gained the strength to tell my father how his alcoholism and violence towards my mother hurt me and our entire family. He made no excuses. He didn’t even apologize. In fact, he made it clear to me that he wasn’t going to stop drinking. I told him that I forgave him anyway because I loved him. But I also set up a boundary around myself that he could never be in my presence if he had been drinking.
That is how we got along. He walked me down the isle of my marriage sober. He visited with my three children sober. We had long conversations. He gave me sound financial, career and business advice. Our relationship was solid. He and my mother remained friends, so much so that she nursed him back to health after his girlfriend poured scalding water on him in his sleep after he beat her. He went on to abuse many women over the years and I hated that about him. I once went to visit him at his home in Los Angeles only to witness an ambulance carrying away the dead body of his then girlfriend. Her teenage daughter, about my age, whispered to me that my father was responsible. I immediately apologized because given his track record and his attempts on my mother, I didn’t doubt it. But both of us knew that the Los Angeles Police cared very little about domestic abuse and even less about the death of a black woman.
Some years later, on Mother’s Day (which was also my mother’s birthday that year) he had a stroke while working in his office. He never woke up from his coma.
I happened to be a stay-at-home mom at the time, so I drove an hour and a half every day from Simi Valley to Hawthorne to visit him while the kids were in school. The nurse assured me that his vitals improved while I was there and so I just kept going to sit with him and talk. I was his only visitor aside from my mother’s occasional visit and that saddened me, but did not surprise me. It had been the same when he was hospitalized for a bleeding ulcer. His alcoholism had not only destroyed his health and taken away his driving privileges but had alienated many people.
Our annual vacation was the third week of June, and he was still lingering in the hospital. He was terminal and they were about to move him to a hospice care nursing facility. Even though children were not allowed on the ward, on the day we were heading to San Diego for our family vacation, I was determined to give my children the opportunity to say goodbye to their grandfather whom they had only known as kind, funny, generous and good natured. The nurse saw me with my husband and our three kids and chose to ignore us. The kids kissed him and hugged him in his unconscious state. I told him I loved him and that we were going away for a week.
Midway through our vacation, I had a very vivid dream that I was in my father’s hospital room. My parents were sitting on the edge of the bed having a lively conversation. I was in shock. He looked great. His foot that was about to be amputated, was fine. My parents were in such great spirits, and I was flabbergasted, asking them how this was even possible given that he was about to be moved to nursing hospice care. I woke up with my heart racing and reminded myself that he was still in the hospital terminally ill. Within minutes, the phone rang. It was about 6am.
My mother called to inform me that my father had passed away overnight. I told her about my dream. She didn’t say anything. In retrospect, perhaps that dream was a premonition because less than five years later, she was gone too.
On this Father’s Day, I wish everyone peace and a willingness to acknowledge that not every father is perfect. We are all flawed human beings. Granted, some are more flawed than others and I think my father fits that category. But even at his worst and most violent depraved moments, I was able to recognize his love and devotion to me as his daughter. He honored my boundaries. And for all that I am grateful. Happy Father’s Day.