The Unwanted Son

July 29, 2011 yeah, I remember.

The phone call hit like a gut punch in December. “Your dad ain’t doing well, time’s running near.”

I left work, drowning in a flood of fear. Oakland is home, but my roots? Cathedral City, A small desert town with no love for me.

I left because, see, I’m the unwanted son. Born female, transitioned, but I’m the one They’re ashamed of, the one they disown, the crack in their mirror, the seed they won’t own.

When my father was sick, they set the stage “You can see him, but on one condition: cage Yourself, shave, and dim your light.

Don’t be so male, keep out of sight.

The unwanted son. I saw him frail, weak, holding on by threads. One day, just one, 24 hours to lay it all to rest.

In my soul, I knew that was it.

Goodbye in a moment that didn’t fit. July 29, 2011, back home from the BART. Sat on my bed, wrestling with my heart.

Then I felt a gust of wind but windows shut tight.

No fans spinning, and something didn't right.

My phone rang; I already knew.

My sister’s voice broke, “He’s gone.” It was true.

Later came word of the service, But the subtext was clear don’t embarrass us.

We hope you don't come.

The unwanted son.

Boarded a plane, walked in the house, Every eye on me, like I’m some louse. Cold stares, whispers like knives in the air He was my dad too, but nobody cared. “Leave the house,” they said, so family could come. Shoved aside again, the unwanted one. At the service, I stood by my sisters' side, To thank the mourners, to swallow my pride.

They laughed, told me to sit down, and the sting of that moment still weighs me down

The obituary, my dead name bold,

Their shame of me louder than grief foretold.

The unwanted child, not a son in their eyes, But my truth, my pride, will never die.

I mourned my father in my own quiet pain, Wishing he’d met the man I became.Despite their ridicule, I rise above the fray, A Punjabi man, standing tall today.