I don't know my Father very well.
I know he's from Ghana, I know he's a very serious man, and I know that his name is Richard—other than a few stories I've been told on and off, a few snippets of information I tucked away from random conversation, and a few things I picked up over the years, he's almost a stranger.
I could be exaggerating, though.
Now, I'm not the type of kid who lashes out against authority and is a depressed heap of nothing because Daddy wasn't there, he has his own reasons for being absent in my life, and if a Father-figure was really that important to me I could easily attempt to get to know him—no one was holding me back; there's a problem though.
I don't want to get to know my Dad.
Maybe that’s not a problem, possibly, that’s just a choice.
I don't hate him or anything, but just like I said, I don't know him, and from the little things I do know, I just—I can't even explain it. He’s an amazing, somewhat kind-hearted man; there’ve been plenty of times where we could've sat down and had a half-decent conversation, but we're so uncomfortable around each other. He has no idea what to talk about and I have no urge to be rude and change the subject.
I'm not mad about our lack of communication, and most of the things that are fueling this pointless rant could've been easily fixed if I just got a backbone…
Anyway.
If there's one thing my Dad can talk about, it's school. He wants me to succeed; he wants me to be perfect.
Once again, a possible exaggeration.
“Perfectionâ€