On that bizarre morning, I woke up. I got out of bed and made it. After I made the bed, I went down the hall to where my mother’s bedroom was; I told her it was time for me get ready for school, so I got in the shower. After I showered, there was a knock at the door. My mother and I ran to the door, we both asked who it was. It was my cousin Bobby, he said, “I have some bad news” We opened the door. He told me that my father had been shot the night before, and that he was not OK, he was dead. At the age of five, I did not realize that losing someone so important would affect me in so many ways. Why didn't I feel that losing my father was important? Maybe it was because I had only seen him once in my life when I was three year old. We had just moved up from South Carolina to New York, I met him at the Riverhead train station. When I walked up to him, he gave me a big hug and bought me ice cream. He told me, “I love you, son.” Years later my mother told me the real reasons why my father wasn't around. It was because of his lifestyle; he was in a gang, and he didn't acknowledge that I was his son because I walked differently from my other brothers. At the age five, I didn't understand why my father wouldn't accept me the way I was. Things changed for me after that. People in general thought that I would be missing something important in my life because I didn't have a father. There was no one to teach me how to be real man. I did not have the chance to hang out with my father, or have the father-son bond that most boys have. As I got older, it did bother me, I think I accepted it because my mother played both roles. I could talk to my grandmother about my father as she was his mother. She told that me that he took care of his appearance, and dressed nicely every day. She also told me that he was a nice person who was quiet and thought about thing before he would act on them. I realized that I have most of those good qualities.