I initially wrote this on an old Blogspot blog I had back in 2010, around Father’s Day. I decided I wanted to lead off my new blog, “My Life in Black & White,” with it so my visitors and clients would know just how long I’ve been doing what I do, and how I ended up doing it.
This was kind of a letter/blog post to my father, who never had a chance to read it. So here it goes…
Since as far back as I can remember saying it, which was probably in my teens, I referred to my father as “the sperm donor.”
Why?
Because he left me when I was in elementary school. He left us all… me, my sister, and my Mom. He left $10 on the kitchen table and walked out the door.
My mom, rest her soul, took great care of us. She was the BEST!
When I was little, he was my daddy. He spoiled me rotten. So much so that my sister grew to hate me and used to beat me up at every given opportunity.
Every Saturday, he would take me “scavaging,” as my nephew calls it. We’d go to the old Goodwill store on East 55th Street and rummage through other folks’ junk. He was a music buff, and he’d go through all the records that came in, looking for what he called “classics.”
Then we’d walk around and look at books. He’d pick out a few for me, and I’d pick a couple out myself.
On one occasion, he came across an old typewriter, similar to the one in this post. He bought it for me.
When we got home, he brought up this really old metal typing stand. You know, one of those old metal ones with the pull-up flaps on the sides. He set it in my room with a chair. Then he laid down some typing paper, that paper-thin rice kind, some little paper thingies, correction paper, and a magazine.
He said, “I want you to teach yourself how to type. If you do that and can do it well, you will always have a job typing something… for someone… and can make a living.”
All these years without him in my life, I called him “The Sperm Donor” because he left us. He didn’t help my mom. He didn’t help me or my sister. He never sent any money. Mom worked three jobs.
I always said the best thing he ever did for us was leave.
I always thought he never gave me anything that would contribute to my life or help me make anything of myself.
I am “my Mom” and “my Mom’s daughter” for sure. My mom played a big role in encouraging me.
But I finally realized that “The Sperm Donor” actually did give me something.
That old typewriter.
If he hadn’t bought me that typewriter, I wouldn’t be who I am in my business. I wouldn’t know how to type. I wouldn’t know how to do websites. I wouldn’t know how to do anything I do on a computer.
That one old typewriter is what helped me become “Me.”
My father, The Sperm Donor, died October 25, 2008, four months after my mother. So I can’t call him.
“Happy Father’s Day, Craft.”
And thanks for the typewriter.
Love,
Spider
