My father retired from the United States Air Force in 1983 after serving his country for 26 years. He served honorably, had a strong work ethic and, most importantly, he loved his country. The brass on his chest was one example of that. He suffered a major brain injury during his service and although he eventually returned to work, due to the nature of the injury, he’d soon be forced to retire. He spent the last several years of his career fighting for the retirement he’d earned. His allegiance to his country, however, was unwavering.
I remember when I was young my father talking to me about missed opportunities he experienced when it came time to buy his first house, but I never fully grasped what he was saying - especially since we always had shelter. I didn’t understand the benefits of home ownership. From what I’ve learned after his passing, however, I know that as a black man in the military until nearly the end of his career, he was unable to obtain a federally subsidized loan to buy a home. Black folks weren’t eligible. He was finally given the opportunity to purchase his first home many years later, after which time most of his peers were purchasing second, third and/or vacation homes. He still loved his country.
My parents divorced when I was young. I stayed in California with my mother and sister, and my father bounced around, eventually ending his career being stationed at Little Rock AFB, Arkansas. When I was a junior in high school I went to live with him for a year. This was during the time he was fighting for his retirement. I remember him typing letters. Lots of letters. And sending them to people in high places - Commanders, Generals, etc. I vividly remember him sharing with me the importance of putting things in writing - a value I still hold strongly to this day. Then I remember - eventually, he was granted full disability retirement. This was after years of challenges, of which I only witnessed the tail end. I remember him being glad that it was finally over - and I also remember the toll it took on him physically. As a result of his brain injury my father was on an alarming amount of medication - maybe twenty or so pills a day. He’d meet with his VA doctors regularly to adjust his medications, but there was never a clear prognosis or a long term plan. And typical of capitalized western medicine, just the continuous increase and changes in medications, seemingly adjusting more to market trends than towards his betterment. He was on so much medication that he had a hard time staying awake, and as time went on, would spend most of his days in his chair dozing off to Fox news blaring in the background. As he got older, he’d sat in the chair so long that his back began to stiffen as it slowly began to take on the shape of the chair. I always wondered if it hurt.
After my junior year in high school I moved back to California. I’d still head off to Arkansas to see my father at least once a year, if not more. As mentioned earlier, he’d routinely talk to me about the importance of owning property, and how he wished he could’ve invested sooner. Ironically, he never really complained about it though - it was just the way it was. In his honor, I’m not complaining about it either. Just providing insight based on my own personal experiences as to why there are inherent disparities in black wealth, that are, at least to me, foreseeably insurmountable.
My father passed in 2015. He was able to pay off his house in Gravel Ridge, Arkansas, and was residing in the second home that he was in the process of buying just a few miles away in Jacksonville. Even though we lived in different states for most of my life, he taught me a lot about being a man - more specifically, a black man who, in order to succeed, must find his place in a society whose fundamental principles and attributes are granted to him on paper but routinely challenged as a norm. Rather than complain, my father absorbed the pain and buried his sorrows by keeping busy. At least that was my assessment. He’d spend most of his time sharing stories with fellow veterans at the local Waffle House, conversing with anyone who’d lend an ear, helping out one of his neighbors or tinkering with something that didn’t necessarily need tinkering with. He laughed loud and often and had a host of people that cared about him. He was always careful with his words, and knew how to interact based on the crowd. He stayed ready.
What I’ll always wonder though, especially after his passing, as odd as it sounds, is what really caused the change in his posture? The change that would have him appear to be sitting, when he was actually standing as best he could? Was it as simple as the medication he was on? Was it because he spent a lot of his time sitting due the obscene amount of medication he was on? Those were my initial thoughts.
I now wonder, however, that if he’d been playing on a level playing field if the years would’ve been so hard on him. Would he have been on so many medications if he was able to have an honest discussion with his past doctors? With them being truthful about long term prognosis - or long term impacts? Or if he would’ve been awarded full disability retirement after 26 years of honorable service without having to fight for years for it?
I’ll never fully understand the pains of my father and how he held them so closely, or the grace with which he managed to navigate such an emotionally complex society.
What I do know is that I was blessed to be his son. What I also know is that the more I dwell on my fathers’ pains and struggles, the more my back starts to hurt, and the more I know that I need to get up and get busy.
And, most importantly, stay ready.
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