Sometimes You Really Need a Sandwich

Many of the conversations that I had with my father during his life were non-verbal. He showed me the way to ascend to manhood, often simply by his example. For those lessons, I’m grateful; however, there were times when the messages conveyed were not heard.

Dad expected a lot of me. Accordingly, he tossed compliments like manhole covers — sparingly. He scolded me, but never hit me. He supported me, often without me even knowing. I’ll never forget looking into the stands, surprised to see him at my Little League game. I was one out away from pitching a no-hitter. The next to last batter got a hit, and a few pitches later, I walked off of the diamond victorious. He put his arm around me and told me I’d done well, but that I’d lost a little focus at the end. The back slaps from teammates and coaches were intoxicating. I was a hero that day. But lost in the reverie of the moment was a message that I did not hear: Always follow through to the end.

Inter-masculine feelings were not readily expressed by guys that grew up as Dad did — even if the other male was one’s own son. Perhaps, that’s because he never had the role model of a father himself. My dad loved me, even though I can only remember him telling me one time. Likewise, and as far as I can remember, my father called me on the phone only one time in my entire life. This highly unusual occurrence took place in September of 1987. It was a Sunday afternoon. It was our last conversation.

With the phone to my ear, I sat on the edge of my bed, more than a little surprised that he’d called. We talked for about fifteen minutes. He didn’t ask me for anything, and I never questioned why he’d called.

We’d seen each other two months before for three days during the Fourth of July weekend at his home in Washington DC. Those three days seemed to go by in about three hours. Prior to that long weekend, it had been several years since we’d seen each other. Thinking of that visit makes me smile. We explored the Smithsonians and the Frederick Douglass home. There was breakfast at the Florida Avenue Grill and lunch among those on the government dole near the Capitol. It was one of the best times of my life. Our interaction was as one adult to another, as friends more than as father and son. I loved it and I could tell he did, too. It was during this trip that he told me that he loved me. But as I looked into his eyes, there was an underlying sadness — the sadness of a man of late middle age, blessed with many talents, but without enough successes to overcome his regrets. I wish I’d have stayed longer that weekend. I wish I’d tried harder to pierce that veil.

After nearly forty years of marriage, my parents had divorced about five years before. It was an only marginally civil break-up; a split, strung out over a decade, that had its share of ugly moments. It left my mom hurting and bitter. Of course, Dad would never share his innermost feelings with me, but he hurt, too. During the few years before our DC re-connection, phone calls with my dad, initiated by me (of course), had been sporadic and infrequent. We were both getting our bearings within a family that was no more.

About a month after that surprising Sunday phone call, I received another call. This call informed me of my father’s death by his own hand.

The next day, I was back in Washington DC, dealing with authorities, sorting through Dad’s things, processing unfathomable guilt as I realized l that I hadn’t really heard Dad’s pain when he called in September. In his nightstand drawer, I found a Father’s Day card with a note that I’d sent him the year before. My note to him closed with, “I’d rather have a sandwich.” It was a little joke based on one of those expressions you hear all of your life from a parent. When I was growing up, he’d often comment, “Son, folks are more likely to offer you a drink than a sandwich.” It was his way of saying that people were more likely to share and celebrate with you in your joy than to lend a hand when you’re struggling. More precisely, no one wants to hear your problems. Was his call to me in September a request for a sandwich? Of course, it was. Did I provide only the offer of a cold beer? Maybe. Just as with my near no-hitter, had I failed to follow through to the end?

Those are questions with which I’ve had to live. They will always persist. I can only take deep breaths every time they begin to suffocate.

Suicide doesn’t just happen. One doesn’t commit suicide, one completes suicide. As we approach the holiday season, listen to your friends and loved ones. Holidays aren’t joyous times for everyone. As a wise person once said, “You never know what someone is going through.” Ultimately, Dad was never able to open up to anyone — even to those with whom he was closest. He was a man who gave and received many drinks, when all he really wanted was a sandwich.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Don is the co-founder of Alchemy Media Publishing. He is the author of

LITTLE DID I KNOW: The Coming of Age of a Black Boomer https://alchemymediapublishing.com/?my-product=little-did-i-know

and

DATELINE: BRONZEVILLE: A Runny Walker Mystery https://www.datelinebronzeville.com/

He attended Brown University, Georgia State University, and Florida State University College of Law and lives in Atlanta.