Return From The Dark SideChapter 19 Fatherhood
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There is much to be said about one’s origins, that’s for sure. My name is Solomon Rashid Joseph. I was born in the City of Detroit, Michigan, to a Haitian-American mother and Lebanese immigrant father. My father, Rashid Ahmed, met my mother, Nicolette Joseph, while attending Wayne State University in the 1980s. Unfortunately, as luck would have it, he died while visiting his parents in Beirut, three months before my birth. My mother married a guy named Harold Jacobson three years later, and this hard-working brother from Atlanta is the man I called daddy all the days of my life. My mom has a daughter by him, my sister Tanisha.
Growing up in the City of Detroit, I embraced my African-American identity. A lot of folks coming up from Detroit always make it out to be an urban nightmare. Martin Lawrence, Eminem, even Kidd Rock, all these fools give Detroit a bad name. For me, it’s home, pure and simple. My pops Harold is a police officer and he always worked hard to provide for our family. I always wanted to be a police officer where I grew up, but ended up in law instead. I’m at the University of Detroit Mercy’s Law School right now, trying to become a lawyer at the tender age of twenty three. I’m young but I’ve already done a lot of living, I think. Last year, I went to the City of Beirut, Lebanon, to meet my paternal grandparents, Omar and Amina Ahmed. It was a bit of a shock for me to meet them. My mother seldom talked about my biological father or his side of the family while I was growing up, and that summer in Lebanon I found out why.
The Republic of Lebanon is considered the most modern of all Arab nations, and it has a lot to be commended for. It’s the only place in the Middle East where Christians and Muslims actually make an effort to coexist, instead of slaughtering each other over who loves God more. For now anyways. I saw a lot of fascinating things in Lebanon. I saw policewomen at the airport, women politicians speaking on television and female soldiers in the streets, and I also saw women in burkas. I saw churches and mosques on the same street. Yeah, Lebanon was an interesting country. I also saw the way they treated a black guy who was walking around with an Arab woman. I don’t speak a lick of Arabic but I know a racial slur when I hear one. The Arabs aren’t fond of Black men, especially the ones who have dealings with Arab women. I got the feeling that for all of black Muslims fondness for all things Arab, the Arabs couldn’t give two shits about black folks. Wherever I go, the black man seems to be universally hated. The Arabs don’t like us, and white folks have no love for us. Hell, we don’t even have much love for each other, judging by what I see on the news sometimes. Nigerian Muslims bombing Christian churches in northern Nigeria. South Sudan and Sudan perpetually on the brink of war because the former is a secular republic where religious freedom is the law of the land, and the latter is an Islamist nation. One of these days, if we’re not careful, we’re going to have a global war, between the Muslims and everyone who isn’t Muslim. Mark my words.
My biological father’s family was less than thrilled to meet me, the American-born son of their long-dead wayward son. My father was born and raised into a Sunni Muslim family, and before he died, he’d planned on marrying my mother, the daughter of a Baptist minister. Not only was he marrying a foreigner but he was also marrying a black woman who was an infidel, a Christian, the enemy. They didn’t approve of his relationship with my mother, brief though it was. When I met them, I saw surprise on their faces, along with a gruff disapproval of my very existence. I stood before them, proud and strong, all six feet two inches and two hundred and twenty pounds of me. I’m light-skinned with curly hair and amber-colored eyes but you can tell that I’m at least of partial African descent. I’ve always embraced my African heritage. When my paternal grandparents called me a kafir to my face and asked me if I came for my father’s inheritance, I told them that I didn’t want anything from them, cursed them and their godforsaken land, and left.
I drove straight from my father’s old neighborhood in east Beirut to the airport, and flew home. Thus ended my middle-eastern adventure. I don’t know what I expected to find in Lebanon, but I didn’t find it. Oh, well. I should have listened to my mother. She sought to protect me from the awful truth, but I didn’t listen. I always have to discover everything the hard way. That’s cool, though, because I am a hard-headed brother. I never take the easy way out, in anything. When I was nineteen, I was a bit confused, sexually speaking. I hadn’t had sex yet, and I felt drawn to both girls and guys. I met this hot chick named Milena Monteiros, a half-Black, half Hispanic gal who was one of my sister Tanisha’s best friends. Milena was around five-foot-nine, big-bottomed and chubby, with raven hair, light brown skin and a lovely face. Just the way I liked my women. You know those chicks whom you can tell they’re trouble just by looking at them? Milena was definitely one of them chicks.
Milena and I had been flirting for weeks, and I kept asking her out, but she wasn’t feeling me. Or so it appeared to my immature younger self. Now that I think about it, the broad was playing with my mind. Anyhow, I was at a party at Milena’s house with my sister Tanisha, and as usual, I wasn’t having a good time. My buddy Kendrick was having a blast dancing with this hot Jamaican chick named Renee and I kept drinking and watching a rerun of Hell Date on BET. Guess who walked up to me? None other than Milena herself. Smiling coyly, she asked me if I was having a good time and when I shook my head, she asked me to follow her upstairs. I dutifully followed her, and once we got to her room, she let me know the jig was up. Translation? Milena wanted to fuck. Damn, I wasn’t expecting that. I didn’t even have a condom on me.
Guys in unusual situations usually think with their dicks, and I was no exception to the rule. Milena told me that she was on the pill, and I believed her. I sat on the bed as she knelt before me and took my dick into her mouth. The sexy mulatto diva sucked my cock real good, then asked me to lick her kitty. I laid her on the bed, spread her plump thighs and gave her hairy twat a good licking. I made her squeal in delight a few times, then we really got busy. It was my first time going all the way with a female, and I wanted her badly. The oral stuff, both giving and receiving, I’d done before. I wanted to know what it felt like to have a hot, tight pussy around my dick. Milena told me to fuck her and I did just that. I thrust my cock into her wet, juicy pussy like my life depended on it, man. Milena wrapped her arms around me, pressed her too-sharp fingernails into my back, and told me to fuck her HARD. Man, you’d better believe I gave it to her real good, for a couple of hours. I had her calling me Papi by the time I was done with her.
Yeah, that was my memorable first time. It was a first in many ways. For you see, Milena got pregnant that night. Nine months later, my son David Rashid Joseph came into the world. I wasn’t ready for fatherhood, but then again, who is? I would take care of him as best I could. I gave him my name, and worked out a parental arrangement with Milena. I was a new dad, and I was still determined to make something of my life. My parents helped a lot. I enrolled at Wayne State University and majored in Criminal Justice. I was lucky enough to win a pair of grants, so I only had to pay for certain things. The grants covered most of my studies. I graduated from Wayne State University in 2011 at the age of twenty two. On my son’s birthday, I had my bachelor’s degree in Criminal Justice in one hand and him in the other. How about that?
Milena and I weren’t together. She was dating this tall, red-haired Irish guy named Scott, and I didn’t care, I just wanted to be there for my son. What his mother did and who she did it with, that was her bus
iness. The first few years after David was born, I was focused on providing for him, spending time with him and also passing my classes. I didn’t have time for dating. I still felt drawn to both girls and guys, but I put that stuff in the background. I was sexless, until I met Hassan Hussein. A tall, good-looking Black man originally from the City of Toronto, Ontario. He moved to Detroit to study business administration at Wayne State University. Hassan and I met in the library of WSU, where I worked to make some extra cash. The first time I looked at him, I just knew. I knew then and there that I was definitely bisexual. Because I wanted this man like I wanted my next breath.
Hassan and I talked a bit, and we exchanged numbers. We definitely had chemistry, as I later found out. Three nights after we first met, I was in his two-bedroom apartment, having my first man-to-man sexual experience. Hassan was very patient and gentle with me, and it was a lot of fun. He laid me on his bed, kissed me all over, and sucked my dick real good. And then he put on a condom and then he made love to me. It was an eye-opening experience, to be sure. After that, I couldn’t get enough of him. We began seeing each other regularly. Hassan was dating a Somali-American woman named Amjad Kader, and they were getting serious, so we had to be careful. He introduced me to her, one afternoon after work. Amjad was a short, plump and light-skinned young Black woman with a pixie haircut. She was really nice and friendly, and had no idea what Hassan was really up to. When I later asked him if he loved her, Hassan told me that he didn’t want to go back to Canada and she was his ticket to staying in the U.S. That should have told me what kind of person Hassan was, but I always miss the red flags. That’s why my life is so adventurous.
My relationship with Hassan was important to me, even though it was fraught with frustration due to all the secrecy. Now, don’t get me wrong, my son’s continued well-being, my studies at university and my family mattered to me more than anything. It’s just that Hassan was starting to matter to me an awful lot. Still, I found his secretive nature a bit puzzling. Hassan’s family is of direct Somali descent and they’re not cool with gays and bisexuals. Hassan told me he’d be a dead man if his people knew he swung both ways. I could definitely relate to that. My parents are deeply conservative Christians. It seems that there is no place for gay and bisexual black men, either in Christianity or Islam. That’s why so many brothers are in the closet, regardless of their origins. Hassan and I continued seeing each other, but six months into our relationship, he ended things abruptly. When I asked him why, Hassan told me that he decided to marry Amjad, and there was no place in his future for me. The guy I thought loved me tossed me out like yesterday’s garbage.
I was a wreck after Hassan dumped me. Nothing could console me, though I followed my daily routine as best I could. I went to class, I went to work and I took care of my son. Still, I was a ghost. I was in pain, and there was no one I could talk to. Solace came to me from the most unlikely of sources. I was hanging out at the Twelve Oaks Mall, sitting inside the food court, sipping on my drink and watching people go by. I felt like a ghost. What’s wrong with me? I wondered. I was in my mid-twenties, and had only been with two people, one man and one woman, and both of them screwed me over. Nicolette by ending my future before it could begin, through her lustful schemes, and Hassan with his deception and lies. The saga of the bisexual brother continues.
I sat there, staring at the crowded food court and not really seeing anything. My mind was far away. The only good things in my life were my son and my studies. Everything else sucked. I can’t seem to connect with anyone, man or woman. For me, the one doesn’t seem to exist. I was lost in that train of thought when someone came and sat at my table, on the chair opposite me. I gasped at the intruder, my eyes widening when I saw who it was. Milena, my son’s mother. The one who started it all. I looked into her eyes, and asked her what she wanted. Milena shook her head, and told me to pull myself together. I rolled my eyes. This broad was telling ME to get my shit together? Since we became parents and got stuck together for all eternity ( or until my son turns eighteen ), Milena has been a powerful force in my existence, and not always for good. We grew up together, in a way, but in many ways she’s like a stranger to me.
Milena has a degree in accounting from Marygrove College, and for a time she worked at Wachovia ( now Wells Fargo ). Last year she told me she wanted to be a realtor. The broad bounces from job to job, career to career, boyfriend to boyfriend. Somehow, it’s always my fault when something she tries doesn’t work. She’s my son’s mother and the first woman I have ever been with. A part of me will always care for her. Still, she’s a pain. I might be a mess right now over Hassan’s lying ass, but Milena is a mess 24/7! Milena looked me in the eyes and snapped her fingers, actually snapping me back to reality. She asked me what was wrong, and her soft tone surprised me. I was so used to us yelling at each other, over any and everything, that when she sounded nice, I was…taken aback.
I looked at her, and hesitated. Shall I tell her, of all people? Fuck it, it might have been all the coffee I’d been drinking, but I decided to take a chance. I told Milena to brace herself, and when she smiled at me and told me to go ahead, I dropped the first of several bombs on her. I told her…everything, from the beginning. All the shit which had been eating me inside. My trip to Lebanon to meet my long-dead father’s racist Arab family. My disappointing trip home. My tryst with her. The joys of unexpected fatherhood. My emerging bisexuality. My relationship with Hassan. Him leaving me for Amjad. And finally, how I came to be here, of all places, talking to her, of all people. I sipped the last of my coffee, and looked at Milena. She sighed deeply, and didn’t say anything.
I leaned back on my chair, looking into Milena’s eyes. What could she be thinking? All of a sudden I felt worried. This crazy broad better not try taking my son away from me because of the shit I just told her. Nah, I don’t think she can do that. Whether I’m bisexual or not, that doesn’t make me an unfit parent. There are openly gay guys adopting orphans these days. We’re in an age where Barack Obama, as President of the U.S. openly supports same-sex marriage. So, Milena couldn’t pull that stunt with me. So why was she so silent? Milena did the last thing I expected…as usual. She smiled, and told me that she knew. I almost choked on the last dregs of my coffee. She knew? Grinning, Milena told me that she had known I was bisexual for years. Something about her and my sister Tanisha finding a stash of bisexual and shemale DVDs while snooping around in my bedroom, way back when. I stared at her, amazed.
For once, I didn’t know what to say. Milena smiled and gently touched my hand. Our faces were suddenly inches from each other, and she asked me if I was alright. I looked at her hand, entwined with mine, and smiled. Then I kissed her. Yup, I kissed her. The frustrating, arrogant, gets-on-my-last-nerve chick who was my son’s mother, she who once took my breath away. I kissed her. Just pressed my lips against hers. I don’t think I’ve ever kissed her before. During our one and only night of love, all those years ago, we just fucked, I think. Milena pulled away from me, and asked me what I was doing. I shrugged, because, honestly I got no idea why in hell I kissed her. Milena rolled her eyes, told me that my kissing sucked, and then she kissed me. When we finally came up for air, I laughed and so did Milena.
Still thinking about Hassan? Milena asked me coyly. I smiled, and asked her about Scott, her erstwhile boyfriend. Milena shrugged, and told me Scott was long gone. She grinned at me, and looked me up and do
wn. I read the lust in her eyes. Was my baby mama trying to seduce me? I asked her, and she bluntly said she needed some dick and remembered that I could lay some serious pipe. Seductively Milena patted my thigh under the table, and I felt myself stiffen. I was hard, damn her! I looked at her, and she looked at me. Laughing, I got up, and offered her my hand. Milena took my hand, and we left the mall together. We got into her car, and drove toward her side of town. We briefly stopped by CVS and bought some condoms. We were going to need them, last time we didn’t use them, unexpected things occurred. I’m going to fuck the hell out of Milena but I’m not trying to create any siblings for my son David, thank you very much.
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