Editor’s Note: LZ Granderson is an award-winning journalist and political analyst. Over the past decade he has covered some of the nation’s biggest stories including the murder of Trayvon Martin, marriage equality and the election of presidents Barack Obama and Donald Trump for ABC and CNN. Granderson was also a fellow at the Institute of Politics at the University of Chicago and the Hechinger Institute at Columbia University. He is a co-host of ESPN’s SportsNation and ESPN LA 710’s Mornings with Keyshawn, Jorge and LZ. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram @lzgranderson. The opinions expressed in this commentary are solely those of the author.
I could tell that the walls of the room were originally white, but years of dirty hands, sun and time had made them dull. The yellowish hue from the fluorescent lights hanging above didn’t help. Thankfully, the generic floral pictures hanging near the man sitting on the edge of the bed provided some semblance of joy. Nothing else in the room did – especially me.
I was in a nursing home.
The man sitting on the edge of the bed was my father.
And this would be the last day I would see him alive.
In healthy father-son relationships, when the parent dies the child mourns. But considering that more than 20 years had passed since my father and I had seen each other, you could say we didn’t have a healthy relationship.
When I was in elementary school he would occasionally pick me up on the weekends and we’d watch the Detroit Tigers on the television in his kitchen. I once spent an entire summer with him watching baseball and learning how to fish. Then one day, without explanation, he stopped coming around.
I once ran away from my mother’s home, showed up at his place begging for him to take me in, and he drove me back without hesitation. More than five years would go by before I would see him again. Another three after that. Then finally some 20-odd years later in a dingy room of a nursing home in a suburb of Detroit.
I used to say that 23 chromosomes and disappointment were the only things my father contributed to my life. It was my way of laughing through pain I couldn’t acknowledge.
Over time the desperation to be a part of his life turned into resentment and anger over him not wanting to be a part of mine. When my mother told me a couple of years ago that he had Alzheimer’s disease I coldly replied: “He didn’t know me before; what does it matter if he doesn’t recognize me now?”
I’m aware such an admission reflects poorly on me. But I don’t write this to make myself look good. I don’t pretend I’ve evolved or that I have all the answers. I write because we all have our struggles.
I’ve been poor and rich. I’ve been another face in the crowd and a face on television. Inside a crack house and a guest at the White House. And at each junction of my life, the demons regarding my father followed. They had an open invitation courtesy of the anger I kept in my heart. It wasn’t until my son asked why hasn’t he ever met his grandfather that I realized how foolish I had been.
I wasn’t trying to protect my kid. I was trying to punish an absentee father, losing sight of the fact that forgiveness isn’t for the offender, but for the offended.
I went to the nursing home hoping to jog his memory, like a scene from “The Notebook.” I took my phone out to Facetime, so my son could see and talk to his grandfather for the first time. And I went to the nursing home to say “I forgive you.”
But the disease had progressed too far. He smiled but he didn’t know who I was. My son was happy to see his grandfather’s face, but no conversation ensued. My father was incapable of comprehending what was being said or forming sentences of his own. I looked him in the eyes and told him “I forgive you,” but if he understood, he didn’t show it.
In March I learned that my father died. I didn’t cry. Instead, I mourned the fact I didn’t care enough about him to cry. I thought about all the time I let slip by because I wanted to show everyone how strong I was. I thought about the memories I had robbed from my son. And I thought: You don’t always know what people are going through when they hurt the ones they love, and you may never find out if you don’t have enough forgiveness in your heart to ask.
I went to the nursing home that day because I was finally ready to ask. The reward for my foolish pride is spending the rest of my life without an answer.
On Father’s Day this year I woke up to several text messages from well-wishers. Some friends gave me a card raving about what a great dad I am. My son sent his love. I checked baseball scores to see if the Tigers won the night before. They did, 7-5 over the Chicago White Sox.
I closed my eyes and I could see a little boy watching the Tigers with his dad in the kitchen. I saw them fishing. Talking. I guess he did have a positive impact on my life after all. I opened my eyes, stared at the bright white ceiling in my room and finally allowed the tears for my father to fall, whispering – “I hope you found it in your heart to forgive me too.”