The 60s were a time of rebellion. My father was straight. I was a hippie. His politics and mine were in conflict for most of our lives and I swore that I would not be my father. He was no fan of my lifestyle. We were worlds apart from the 60s into the 90s. A truce existed between us during those years. Politics and religion were banned from holiday dinners. After my mother’s departure from this world, we became better friends. My older brother attributed this newfound amity to my resemblance to my deceased mother.

“He’s not me and I’m not him.”

I was still a rebel, however one rainy afternoon I was looking for my umbrella without success and noticed my father hunting for a lost object. I asked him, “What are you looking for?”

“My umbrella.”

It was a simple answer, yet negated my years of revolution, because I was him and he was me.

And the tradition lives to this day for Fenway’s mom called the other day, saying that his son had disappeared from the house, while she was cooking breakfast. Fenway was nowhere to be found. Not in the house. Not on the street. His sister ran him down at the motor-sai taxi stand some 400 meters from the house.

Safe.

He had been looking for one of the motor-sai taxi boys to drive him to the market to buy fried chicken. I spoke to him on the phone and Fenway said that he was hungry. His mother refused to say that she had beaten his ass for his wandering away from home. I knew better. Mam thinks that Fenway had a beautiful ass. She knows I want him to be a super-star. She loves her kids; Fluke, Noi, and Fenway more than me,but then what else can a man expect from a mother.

I told the story at work. The girls were horrified. Manny, my boss, said that if it happens again I should throw the TV in the street. Richie Boy was worried about Fenway. He’s the godfather.

“Don’t worry about my boy. He’s the same as me.” I sat in the diamond exchange wearing a suit and tie. My son was half a world away. I hadn’t seen him in two months. We spoke every day on the phone. I have no idea what he is saying to me. Mam translates all, but I feel good. She is a mom and Fenway is my son. I told Richie Boy and Manny, “When I was a young boy in Maine, my mother put my older brother and I into harnesses. The sea was four house away from our driveway. She would hook our snowsuits onto the laundry line and leave us out in the winter sun to run off our energy. My brother was smarter than me and one day figured out how to free us from this prison. My mother came out of the house to find two empty snowsuits. She ran frantic down the street to the sea. My brother and I were in the water. Naked. Wet. Cold. She tanned our asses.”

White folks in New York don’t understand my connection to my kids.

They’re squares for the most part.

Some think my kids aren’t mine, but I know better.

“Fenway is just like his father. He wants to roam.”

Manny and Richie Boy laughed at the story. They know me a long time. Neither has met Fenway. Maybe this year.

He’s a boy of my own heart.

A man of the road.