A tightening sensation appeared in my throat. It felt like I dry swallowed a penny, and warm tears streamed down my face. My tears came from the deep-rooted hate I felt for him. Not the typical “teenage angst,” but the type of hate generated from seeing your mother come home late at night, weary and drained from a hard day’s work, with worry in her eyes about whether or not the water would still be on tomorrow. The type of hate generated from hearing your brother cry for his dad at night and your heart shatters and you can’t heal that open wound for him; can’t put a band-aid on a toddler boy’s heart and explain why his dad will not be home any time soon. The type of hate generated when you’re in the store with your mom and she’s down to her last $5, but we need shampoo and body wash, so she transfers the last $5 left from your account, and still digs through her purse for loose change to ensure the cost is covered. The truth is I did hate my father for the longest time. My family struggled more than we needed to and his absence came off to me as him getting off easy. I’m not sure the exact moment I realized that I didn’t hate him for making life harder than it needed to be, but it was somewhere around the time I noticed that my past was whatever I chose to make of it.

Currently I am thankful for everything I have endured. I wouldn’t change my past if I could. My family history has driven me to rise above the circumstances in which I’ve started. It’s given me hope for a future, one that differs from poverty, abuse and endless limitations, yet instead is filled with enriching my intelligence, filled with ideas and with possibility. Most importantly my past has given me the possibility to dream up a future that I get to choose what to  make of it.