Damn, You Have a Daddy?!

Promises, verbal spars, a higher power—and an understanding that love will conquer all.

By Donnell Green

Damn, you have a daddy? Yeah, I do. If I had a dollar for every time I was asked this, I would have enough to cover attorney fees.

My friends have heard this story: As far back as third grade, when I’d misbehave in class, my teacher would make a phone call and, like a genie, my dad appeared outside the classroom door with a scowl that rivaled ‘90s Ice Cube. My classmates, surprised, would spout “You have a daddy?!” At the time, I wished this wasn’t the case because just the thought of him kept me in line.

Illustration by Ariel Bueno

Sometimes the teacher would place his number on my desk without saying a word. I wanted nothing to do with an upset dad. He was tough. He had survived a Jim Crow Mississippi, where violence against Black bodies was a common occurrence and prospects of economic progress had a ceiling that was among the lowest in the nation. For him, the Marine Corps was a practical solution until he succumbed to an injury, leading to withdrawal and a move to Chicago.

There, he entered into the ’70s–’80s drug epidemic and remained there for a while, sleeping on the streets, eating out of trash cans. He’s been shot, beaten, and left inches from death, ironically experiencing the same fate he attempted to escape in Mississippi. During this time, his lifestyle prevented him from envisioning a future until he had a dream about having another son, one who would atone for his shortcomings—so he asked my mother to have me.

The logistics of how to raise me in a healthy environment was an afterthought. Fortunately, he escaped the ’90s incarceration boom, and he stuck around to make his presence known to me. He credits his resilience to a prayer whispered many moons ago, which may’ve also helped him avoid the dark abyss that seemed to have swallowed up my friends’ dads. Truthfully, there is no abyss—only structures that negatively impact urban communities while providing rooms in state-run facilities.

Having a daddy not only made me stand out from my classmates. It also distinguished me from my siblings. Out of the six siblings in my mother’s house, I was the only one with a concerned dad. Even though he did not live with me, I felt his presence. My dad’s power and wisdom showed me that I didn’t have to repeat the destructive behavior. Instead he would tell me I was special enough to break a generational curse, and somewhere deep down I believed him.

I relished the weekends I spent at his house. Seeing his white Blazer coming up the street made me seven feet tall. I remember the love we got at the barbershop, our trips to the movies, and the smell of his cologne. Those times shaped my moral code, and that’s where I get my impeccable dress style from.

Although at the time life kept us apart, my dad’s love for me fueled his fight for sobriety. I watched him battle back with humility. He promised that by the time I was 13, he would be ready to raise me in a functioning home. Periodically, he would check in and let me know things were on schedule. We even spent time in his room at the Salvation Army. At those moments, I watched him intensely, and his character never swayed despite his circumstances. My respect for him grew.

By the time I turned 13, he fulfilled his promise. He rescued me from dysfunction and provided me with the choice to live in a healthy home. I was torn over the decision to leave my mother and siblings in Chicago, but in order to grow, I had to go after the life that my dad fought so hard for.

Ironically, though, life with my dad was more than I could handle at the time. As hard as my dad fought to give me a chance at a productive life, I was overwhelmed by the pressure to make up for his shortcomings. The more he pushed me to be great, the more I shut down. I still respected his scowl and the discipline he instilled, but I was careful not to excel academically or show gratitude for the life he provided. I learned to live in a gray area of concentrated blasé.

Still, to my chagrin, he paid attention to every second of my life. Family members would ask, “Why Donnell?” I wondered the same and thought he should save it for his other sons. But his love was relentless.

Now as I write this, sitting here as an incarcerated son, I am choking on tears because his love is still relentless. I can call on him for anything. He is my cheat code against presentism. If I need to know what the 70-year-old version of myself would do, all I need is ask his thoughts on a particular situation. Although we’ve had our ups and downs, it’s year 17 of my 35-year sentence, and he still has me convinced that I was destined to break a generational curse.

From my position, it’s unclear if I’m a curse-breaker, though I do understand the nurturing act of a dad speaking life into his son. These days, I am embracing the responsibility I have to my siblings to impact them positively and to share knowledge.

Despite the arguing through the years, he’s my champion fighter, and his main goal is to see me free once again. I fought hard and rebelled against his rules—now I put that fight into forging our bond and learning an oral history of our family. Our 20-minute phone calls are not enough, so we schedule visits to crack jokes and take pictures that will embarrass him. (I tried to take a pic kissing him on the cheek, but staff said no contact is allowed.)

Our relationship is proof that love conquers all. Recently, my name was called for visitation. My neighbor asked, “Who was it?” I responded, “My old man.” He then shouted from his cell, “Nell, you have a daddy?!” I laughed because I understood.

I love you, pops.