By: Noah Lewis

From the age of five, I can remember being patted down by the police. The officer would ask me to open my mouth and stick out my tongue as they shined a flashlight in, looking for anything unusual. Apparently, it was common for children to sneak things in.

The room was cold, the chairs were a gray flexible plastic, the lights yellow with a buzzing hum and the cinder block walls white. Walking in, completely dressed in orange, was a line of men, each looking for the right table to sit down at. A man finally sat across from me and my mother. I called him Dad.

A Dad is supposed to be present. He’s supposed to teach his son the ways of ‘becoming a man.’

However, my relationship with my father early on was much different. It was hard to teach a son how to navigate life when stuck at Deerfield Correctional Center or the many others he would be transferred in and out of.

To me, he was the fun guy we went to visit every few months. We’d play board games, get to eat a lot of vending machine junk food, and he’d tell me stories. Then the whistle would blow and they’d get back into their lines before walking behind the loud buzzing door.

My mom would cry. Eventually, I would too. For a while, I couldn’t understand why my Dad
had to be taken away. My friends didn’t have to go through this. At school, when kids would talk about what their parents did for a living, I would tell them my father was in prison. I quickly learned that wasn’t a good thing. I’d be asked what happened or what my father did so badly to go there.

What did they mean? The guy I drank grape soda with for an hour every few months wasn’t a monster. Why did everyone think he had to be? Was he actually?

The truth is my father was a very complicated man. He spent the time that he wasn’t incarcerated working on the Chesapeake Bay as a waterman. He had a huge heart and would give the shirt off his back to anyone who asked.

However, two things would always slither their way back into his life, crushing the attempts at becoming the amazing, hardworking family man we all saw the possibility for him to be.
Drugs and alcohol.

By age 12, I began losing track of the number of times my father would go to jail or prison. Two years here, three years there, they all started to blur together. Typically, it’d be a probation violation of some sort due to drug use.

I stopped believing the empty promises that this was the last time. I knew he meant them. I knew he wanted to believe it was true as he spoke them. But, I had to guard my heart, so I’d put on a fake smile and hoped for the best.

I realized I wouldn’t know a father like most knew theirs. I wouldn’t have anyone to go out and throw the ball with. When the guys would talk about fishing, I’d have no clue how to even bait a hook. I still don’t. To me, that’s gross. Who’d want to touch a slimy worm to then touch an also slimy, smelly fish? I don’t get it.

Growing up in a county of 11,000 people didn’t make it easier as just about everyone knows you.

My family didn’t have the best look. My father was known as a drug addict and alcoholic, my
older sister was a young mother after getting pregnant while in high school, and my two brothers were following in my father’s footsteps with drug addiction.

Needless to say, my story seemed already written early on. I was destined to follow the same
path.

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According to the U.S. Census Bureau and fatherhood.org, 18.4 million children currently live in fatherless homes in America. Studies show that these children are more likely to go to prison, commit crimes, become pregnant teens, abuse alcohol and drugs, drop out of school, struggle with obesity and depression, and fall into many other awful statistics.

My odds weren’t good on paper. However, I was ready to put in the work to change them.
Something I’m tremendously thankful for every day is the support of my mother. She made it her mission to focus on my upbringing, assuring I had every chance to shoot for the stars if I wanted to.

This was hard for her at times. She didn’t want to divorce my father when I was 11 years old, but she knew it was the best thing for us. She also never let me know that we were living paycheck-to-paycheck, only just making ends meet. She stayed strong for me.

As I grew up, I developed a passion for NASCAR racing. That passion eventually led me to start writing for an online website at 15 years old. By 17 years old, I was one of the youngest credentialed media members to step foot in a NASCAR garage. I was determined to shake the stigma that I had been born into.

Now, at 21 years of age, I’ve covered multiple DAYTONA 500’s, championship races, and
significant others. I’ve talked to celebrities like Pitbull, Emmitt Smith, and Michael Jordan. I’ve been featured in local papers, proving to my community that I can rise above and proving to my father, most of all, that I wouldn’t let his inability to be there all the time hinder me.

I’m on top of the world.

Correction: I was on top of the world.

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Life is pretty weird. We all know that right? Just when we think we’re ready for anything it
throws our way, life comes to this screeching halt, showing it’s always smarter than you.
Everything that once made sense no longer does and it feels like the world stops turning.
I guess you can compare it to an amusement park drop tower. As it goes up, you’re preparing for the drop but again, you feel like you’re on top of the world, invincible, untouchable.

Then, it comes to a sudden stop and you’re stuck there for a moment, not knowing what to do or think.

Finally, it slams you to the ground at an unthinkable speed and by the time you finally reach the ground, you’re forced to get yourself together and walk away.

On November 1, 2022, my life came to that screeching halt, my world stopped turning, and my tower dropped. How do I pick up the pieces and walk away? I’m still trying to figure that out.

“I love you, I’ll always love you. I am going to be free. Please be happy for me. I will find peace. So as the crow flies, I’ll fly. I’m so proud of the man you have become. I’m so sorry I’ve hurt you once again. I’m sorry I was hardly there for you in your life. You’ve made me a proud father. Never doubt my love for you. Never forget me. I’m gonna miss you. Love always, Daddy Pop.”

This was the last text I received from my father, coincidentally while writing the first version of this story. He’d been doing the best he had in a long time. We started talking every day. Then, legal accusations from his past appeared and he had no fight left in him.

On the morning of November 1st, 2022, I received a call that my father committed suicide.
There I was on top of the world and in an instant my tower came tumbling down.

I didn’t know this would affect me so much. No matter what, my siblings and I always had love and hope for my Dad. My mother taught us to always see the good in him.

But now, for the first time in our lives, we are truly fatherless.

When I first started this story, I called it beating the statistics. While I still feel I can continue to beat the statistics, it’s a lot easier to say when you’re on top of the world.

Now, as I pick the pieces of my heart up, I realize statistics exist for a reason. I’ve never wanted to throw my hands in the air and say screw it all more than right now.

Nonetheless, I will do my best to push forward and continue making him proud. And Dad, don’t worry, despite it all, I will never forget you.

I forgive you.

I love you.

Rest now.

(If you or someone you know is struggling, reach out for support. Resources include the National Alliance on Mental Illness website and the National Suicide & Crisis Lifeline, dial 988.)