Three Fathers, Three Different Lessons

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  Henry Floyd Marshall ("Grandpa-Pa") and me

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  My father, Leonard Beene, with my sister Regina and me

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  Rodney Thompson with my sister Regina and me

I believe parenting, particularly fatherhood, is about three things: protection, provision, and preparation.

Of course, there is no manual.

Some fathers do an incredible job while making mistakes along the way. Some walk away completely. Some were never shown how to be fathers themselves. Some are navigating circumstances most people know nothing about.

Whatever the situation may be, I've lived long enough to understand that fatherhood is not a cookie-cutter experience.

My own childhood certainly wasn't.

My childhood was shaped by three father figures.

My grandfather, Henry Floyd Marshall.

My father, Leonard Beene.

And my stepfather, Rodney Thompson.

Each of them shaped my life in different ways.

Each of them taught me something.

And now, at 43 years old, with Father's Day approaching and Juneteenth just days away, I find myself reflecting on all three.

Grandpa-pa

Henry Floyd Marshall ("Grandpa-pa") and me as a teenager

When I think about feeling safe as a child, I think about my maternal grandfather.

My dad was in and out of my life growing up. Because of that, I became the hopeful child.

No matter how many times he said he was coming, I believed him.

No matter how many times he didn't show up, I believed the next time would be different.

My older sister Regina wasn't like that.

She would tell me, "He's not coming."

She was trying to protect me.

But I wasn't ready to let go of hope.

So I waited.

And cried.

And worried.

And sat with knots in my stomach, wondering whether this would finally be the day my father showed up.

When he didn't, my grandfather would pull me onto his knee.

"Come here, Crystal Whistle."

One of my favorite places to be: Grandpa-pa's lap

Then he'd wrap his arms around me and remind me everything would be okay.

"Come on. What do you want to do? I'll take you somewhere."

Sometimes that somewhere was McDonald's for a Big Mac meal.

Sometimes it was just a drive in his blue Oldsmobile with the softest crush velvet seats I've ever felt.

But every single time, he made me feel loved.

Safe.

Chosen.

Seen.

Looking back, I realize my grandfather wasn't just comforting a little girl.

He was helping heal a broken heart.

Even now, nearly thirty years later, I still long for his hugs.

The Dad Who Didn't Always Show Up

My father's absence taught me lessons, too.

When he didn't show up, he'd often reach out later and say, "Don't be mad at your dad."

The truth is, I was never mad.

I was hurt.

I was disappointed.

There's a difference.

Anger eventually fades.

Disappointment lingers.

One memory has stayed with me for nearly thirty years.

When I was fifteen, my sister Regina and I were involved in a serious car accident.

After the car accident at age 15 — broken left wrist and pinky finger

She and I were taken to different hospitals because her injuries were more severe.

My mother went with her.

I sat alone in a hospital room hurting, scared, and waiting for family to arrive.

At some point, a nurse pulled back the curtain and told me my father was there to see me.

I remember looking around the room thinking:

"Whose father?"

I hadn't seen him in years.

I wasn't expecting him.

I wasn't even sure how to feel.

What I remember most is the thought that immediately crossed my mind:

I have to be hurt for you to come see me?

As strange as it sounds, I think that realization hurt more than the accident itself.

Yet as painful as that experience was, it shaped me.

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  My dad and me during childhood

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  My dad and me — a relationship that taught me a lot

Because of my father, I have always been intentional about my word.

If I tell someone I'm coming, I come.

If I commit to something, I follow through.

I never want another person sitting somewhere wondering whether I'm going to show up.

I never want to be the reason someone feels forgotten, disappointed, or unimportant.

My grandfather showed me what consistency looked like.

My father showed me what inconsistency felt like.

Both lessons stayed with me.

Rodney's Laughter

Rodney and me, still smiling together years later

Then there was Rodney.

Rodney was fun.

He laughed constantly.

He was silly.

He'd lie on the floor and let us walk across his back to give him a "massage."

He'd send us outside to play while he cleaned the house.

He'd play his old-school music while steppin' and mopping the floors.

Whenever something sounded ridiculous, he'd throw his hands up and say:

"Mama Mia!"

And we'd laugh.

A lot.

When I think about Rodney, I think about joy.

I think about laughter.

I think about the reminder that parenting isn't only about responsibility.

It's also about creating memories.

It's about connection.

It's about making children feel comfortable enough to laugh.

Though Rodney has since passed away, the laughter he brought into our lives remains.

The Fear I Chose To Face

Anxiety and I spent years discussing motherhood.

For years, I didn't want children.

Not because I dislike children.

Quite the opposite.

I adore children.

Children tend to love me too.

But deep down, there was a fear I carried for a long time.

What if I chose wrong?

What if I repeated the cycle?

My mother had four children with three different men.

Four children. Three fathers. One family.

Each relationship began with hope.

Each relationship carried the belief that she had chosen well.

Yet none of us grew up with our fathers.

So, I questioned myself.

Could I trust my own judgment?

Would I unknowingly repeat what I had witnessed?

It took years of reflection for me to realize something important.

Trying to avoid someone else's mistake doesn't exempt us from making a mistake of our own.

Sometimes we become so focused on not repeating someone else's story that we stop writing our own.

At some point, fear stops protecting you and starts limiting you.

Still learning. Still choosing. Still growing.

Today, at 43 years old, I find myself in a very different place.

For the first time, I feel open to the possibility of motherhood.

Not because I've eliminated uncertainty.

But because I've learned to trust myself.

That takes time, healing, and vulnerability.

And it requires a willingness to examine where my fears originated instead of allowing them to quietly run my life.

(Black) Fathers Matter

You don't have to be perfect to be number one.

With Juneteenth and Father's Day falling within the same week, I want to take a moment to speak directly to Black fathers.

Thank you.

Thank you for showing up.

Thank you for attending the games, cooking the meals, firing up the grill, cleaning the house, showing up for recitals and graduations, sitting through parent-teacher conferences, and being present for the ordinary Tuesday evenings that rarely make the highlight reel.

Thank you for the sacrifices your children may never fully understand until they become adults themselves.

Thank you for the protection, provision, guidance, discipline, encouragement, and love you pour into your families.

I know the statistics and stereotypes often paint a different picture. Society has spent decades highlighting stories of absence while overlooking countless stories of presence.

My siblings and I experienced fatherlessness in many ways growing up.

That's a part of our story.

But it is not the only story.

There are Black fathers reading this who have been there every step of the way.

There are Black fathers working long hours to provide opportunities they never had.

There are Black fathers teaching life lessons, helping with homework, coaching teams, praying over their children, showing up at school events, and doing their best to raise good human beings.

Those stories deserve to be acknowledged.

Those fathers deserve to be celebrated.

A Conversation Worth Having

Some conversations are decades overdue.

And for the fathers who know they weren't as present as they wanted or needed to be, I offer this thought.

Give yourself grace but not excuses.

Life is complicated.

Relationships are complicated.

People make decisions they later wish they could take back.

Some fathers were navigating challenges their children knew nothing about.

Others were carrying wounds they never addressed themselves.

None of that changes the impact of an absence, but it may help explain it.

If there is still an opportunity to build a bridge, take it.

Have the conversation.

Tell the truth.

Not as a way to justify the past, but as a way to provide understanding.

The Stories Children Tell Themselves

Children don't always understand the full story. They simply remember the moments.

One thing I've learned is that children often create their own explanations when answers are missing.

Sometimes they assume they weren't loved.

Sometimes they assume they weren't important.

Sometimes they carry questions for decades because no one ever gave them answers.

As a child, all you know is that your father isn't there.

You don't know what was happening behind the scenes.

You don't know what fears, struggles, immaturity, or circumstances may have influenced his decisions.

You simply know he's absent.

And when there is no explanation, children often fill in the blanks themselves.

That's why honesty matters.

Not because it changes what happened.

Not because it erases hurt.

But because understanding can become part of the healing process.

The story didn't end in childhood.

As an adult, my father and I have had many conversations about the past.

The relationship is different now than it was then.

Sometimes I ask direct questions and receive direct answers.

Other times, he dances around the topic.

But I don't ask solely for answers.

I ask because I'm still piecing together my own story.

The older I get, the more I recognize pieces of my father in myself.

His wit.

His humor.

The way he quietly turns ordinary moments into something funny.

Some of those traits found their way into me.

Learning about him helps me better understand myself.

The Opportunity That Still Exists

The impact of a father doesn't end when his life does.

You may not be able to change yesterday, but you can influence tomorrow.

You can choose consistency.

You can choose honesty.

You can choose presence.

You can choose to become someone your child can depend on today, even if you weren't able to be that person years ago.

Fatherhood is not easy.

Parenting is not easy.

None of us received a manual.

We're all learning, growing, and doing the best we can with what we know.

But if my grandfather taught me anything, it's that love leaves fingerprints.

Nearly three decades after his passing, I can still feel them.

My Final Reflection

Three fathers. Three birthdays in June. Three lessons that still guide me today.

All three of the men who shaped my understanding of fatherhood were born in June.

My stepfather, Rodney Thompson, was born on June 24.

My father, Leonard Beene, was born on June 25.

My grandfather, Henry Floyd Marshall, was born on June 29.

With Father's Day and Juneteenth both falling in June as well, it feels fitting that this reflection found its way to my readers now.

Sometimes life has a way of connecting dots long before we notice they're there.

Happy Juneteenth & Happy Father's Day.