The only father I've ever know was a World War II vet from St. Louis, Missouri. He married my grandmother's sister in the 70s and together, they took in my mom when she arrived to the States alone, at 18 years old.
They later helped to raise my brother and I while my mom worked full time. No one ever really explained to me what a father was supposed to be, biologically or otherwise. Being the only male at home who watched over me, took me to the park, taught me to ride a bike, bought me candies, dolls, toy cars & toy guns (in the early 90s😅) he was what I understood to be my "dad." I grew up telling the kids at preschool he was my dad.
I don't remember having conversations about race in preschool lol but I do remember thinking, he's my dad.....and he's Black......so I must be Black too.
He passed when I was 7 years old after I returned from living in Mexico for almost a year. It wasn't until I was about 8 or 9 that I realized he wasnt my biological father, therefore I wasn't Black. I remember feeling yet another sense of loss.
I don't have a lot of pictures with him but I have plenty of happy memories. Like sitting on his lap while he ate dinner in front of the TV and walking to the liquor store while holding his hand, in South Central LA, where we lived.
Though my understanding of what and who my father is has changed over time, in my heart, in my life, he'll always be my daddy.💓😇