If you were to ask anybody to share a story or memory about themselves, they would probably have to think about how much they wanted to share or blab out.
I am the exact opposite. It is like pulling teeth from me. I don’t know why that is. Maybe it is because I did not have the opportunity to make lasting connections or memorable moments when I was free, due to my incarceration at the age of 15.
Though I have one memory that is never far from my mind, and it is from my father, who was never a role model or a positive influence. This was a life moment which, at the time, I did not realize I should have paid attention to. It was a lesson of humanity and the rewriting of one’s story.
My father and I had just left Blockbuster after picking out movies for a family night that he was trying to start as a tradition. Walking back to our car, we passed an elderly woman who was in distress about something, but we continued on by. Thinking we were leaving the parking lot on our way home, my father pulled up next to the elderly woman.
Where I was just in my head, he was aware enough to notice that she was in hysterics over her tire. “Ma’am, do you need any help?” he asked, which was a first for me to witness this type of kindness from him.
She told my father that she had a flat tire and was from out of town trying to surprise her family for the holidays and did not want to ruin the surprise by calling them for help. She accepted my father’s offer to help.
It took him around 20 minutes to change her tire, and the entire time I was in my head telling him to hurry up. When he was done, she was so appreciative of his assistance that she offered to pay him something for his time. I was thinking that was cool, something extra for me, but he told her no. “No, Ma’am, that is not necessary. It was my pleasure to help you out.”
I could not believe that he would not take her offer, especially after the second time she insisted. When she got back into the car, I asked him why he didn’t take the money, especially since he did the work. All he said was, “Son, when a person needs help, you should not expect nothing in return. What if it was your grandmother, mother, or sisters that needed help? I would hope someone would help them.”
This was uncharacteristic of my father because he was an addict and a criminal most of his life, and I had never seen him do something if he did not get anything from it. I believed this change of character was due to him missing out on most of my life and my sisters’ lives, and he was now trying to make up for it by getting his life together and on the right path.
Over 17 years, I have learned multiple lessons from this act of kindness my father did. Be of service. Give kindness where one can. Think of others and be selfless. Those were the values I built my new foundation on as a man.
Just recently, I came across a quote: “There are facts, and there are stories. Any number of stories can be told about a fact.” I believe what my father was trying to impart to me was that it is never too late to retell one’s story about themselves.
He had done wrong most of his life, but that was not who he was. The fact was that he had just lost his way along his journey, but he was now back on the right path. Just as his story was not over yet, neither is mine. Even despite what others might see or label me as, I am the one who is writing my own story and not them.
