by YUMI WILSON-SPATTA

Uncle Kenny, a strong man with broad shoulders and a gentle smile, died in February, but I didn’t make it to the hospital to see him. I didn’t even make it to his funeral. It took me months just to send a card to his family.

So, it would be easy to think that I didn’t care much about my uncle. It would be easy to think that his death meant little to me. For a long while, I wanted to believe the same thing, too.

But I was wrong.

Since my uncle died, I think about him more now than I did in years. I think about how his warm brown eyes reminded me of my father’s eyes. I think about the man who worked day and night to help the people he loved. I think about the man who tried through friendly calls to bridge the gap between my father and me. Though I occasionally did talk to my father, I was still angry with him for leaving my mother just before she died; upset that he had found someone else to be happy with.

I also wasn’t feeling too loving toward my uncle for reasons I couldn’t fully articulate – until I called my friend Lisa.

“My uncle is dying. And I don’t know if I should go there,” I said after learning through a text-message that he was in the hospital. “I feel so guilty that I don’t just go and buy a ticket and …”

Before I could finish my sentence, Lisa interrupted. “Isn’t this the uncle who wouldn’t tell you where your dad was?”

My lips pursed. “Yes … oh my God … yes, that’s right. I remember now. I can’t believe you remembered that.”

I was indeed upset with my uncle for not telling me where my father had gone after leaving my mother in ’90. I wanted to find my father, who had left the state – and make him pay alimony. But my uncle said he didn’t know how to find my father. He said he would tell me, if he knew. I wanted to believe him, but I just couldn’t.

How could my uncle, my father’s only brother and one of his biggest champions, not know his whereabouts?

I pretty much stopped talking to my uncle after that. Even so, he would call from time to time, always asking me how I was doing, letting me know he missed me. When my mother died in late ’91, my uncle sent his condolences and some money to help tide me over. I viewed it as generous gift, but I was never able to let him into my life the way I did as a child.

Now, as the days since his death have turned into months, I have not been able to get Uncle Kenny out of my mind. There is always something that reminds me of him.

“Hey Yumi,” my brother said in a recent phone call. “What should I do about Meghan?”
Tabo was calling me to share the latest challenge in raising his oldest daughter, who was about to turn 18. I tried to assure him that Meghan was a smart and responsible woman, and that everything would be fine, but I couldn’t help but remember how Uncle Kenny had called me years earlier to ask about his youngest daughter, Christina.

“Hey Yumi,” my uncle said in one particular call. “When she gets out to California, can you help her out?”

Christina, who was in her early 20s at the time, was leaving her father’s home in Virginia to start a new life in the Bay Area. I assured my uncle that she would be fine; that I would be there for her — if she needed me.

More recently, I thought about Uncle Kenny just a few days before Father’s Day during a phone call to my father, who now lives in a small town in Ohio.

“Happy birthday and Father’s Day,” I said.

“Oh thank you, my daughter,” my father said in his usual Southern drawl. “I thought you forgot all about me.”

“How could I do that?” I asked. It was true that I didn’t call my father on his actual birthday. I called on June 13th, two days before Father’s Day — and the exact day of my oldest sister’s birthday.

“Do you know it’s Mika’s birthday?” I asked.

“Oh … I thought it was June 14th. Are you sure it’s not the 14th?” my father asked.
“No. She was born on Friday, June 13th,” I said glumly.

“Well, I’m going to send her an e-card … and then you can send it on to her cuz I don’t have her e-mail address.”

I told him I would. I could have given him a hard time for forgetting his daughter’s birthday, but there was no point. My father had a lot going on; he didn’t need to feel any worse than he did.

“It sure is hot here,” my father said as he walked around with his cordless trying to get water to one of his two dogs.

Was this the place, I wondered, where my father had been when I had called my uncle nearly 20 years ago to find out where he was?

“How’s your wife?” I asked.

“Oh she’s good. She’s dealing with depression, just like my own momma did. That’s why I think she dunked me and Kenny in that pond and tried to drown us,” my father said.

I had heard the story of the dunking of heads before, so the violence of that act no longer shocked me. What did stop me, however, was hearing Kenny’s name. The story reminded me of how the two boys had been so close while growing up in harsh conditions in West Virginia; how they both joined the Army to try and better their lives; how the two remained close for most of their lives.

I had developed a similar relationship with my own brother, who was just a year older than me. Tabo and I were inseparable for most of our lives, jumping off buildings together, telling lies for one another, and sharing our fears about the dark when we couldn’t sleep at night.

And just as Uncle Kenny had done for his brother, I occasionally bailed my brother out of trouble. When he needed money, I sent it. When he needed a place to live, I provided it. When he needed a co-signer on some loans for junior college, I signed the documents. There were times, however, when I had to say no – just as my uncle has had to say to my father.

For a second, I thought about mentioning Uncle Kenny’s name, but I held back. My father still hadn’t gotten over the fact that he was not invited to Uncle Kenny’s funeral. The family, I was told, was still upset that my father had taken more from his brother than he gave. While their feelings may have been valid, the refusal to allow one brother to see another brother for the last time rubbed me the wrong way. So, I didn’t go either.

That’s when I realized that Uncle Kenny hadn’t done anything wrong when he said he didn’t know the whereabouts of my father, who had just left my mother with no money.

My uncle did exactly what I would have done for my brother. If a nephew or niece had called me, telling me how they had hired a lawyer to go after my brother, I might have done the same thing my uncle did for my father. I might have made it more difficult to find him. I might have said, “I don’t know where he is.” I might have called my brother to urge him to call his daughter or son, but I might not have given them the actual phone number.

It was never Uncle Kenny’s role, I realize, to take my side and “find” my father. It was his role to be my uncle, to be as caring and kind as he was with me, but to be as protective and loyal as he was with his big brother. It is exactly how I would have been with my brother and his children.

I also realize I can’t save the world. I can’t stop my brother, my father or anyone else from making the choices they do over life and love. I can only be there for them – when they want me to be. And that is what I can see Uncle Kenny was doing all along.

So, this month as we give thanks to our fathers, brothers and all the men in our lives, I extend a special tribute to you my uncle: Here’s to you Uncle Kenny, with love.