Read Life Is Not an Accident for Free Online

let them. I shrugged it off then, but looking back, I have to admit there was one loss in particular, at Florida State, that validated my dad’s theory.
    When my parents threw a party, my mom would cook these great dinners and you’d hear the soaring voices of Patti LaBelle, Aretha Franklin, James Brown, and others singing in the background. Everyone was always just so happy being together and kicking back. I was taught to call my parents’ friends “aunt” and “uncle.” Uncle Allen was my dad’s best friend, and my mother later became friends with his wife, who was Aunt Diane. Uncle Tony and Aunt Chris were the parents of my close friend and “cousin” Jared. My dad’s friends would arrive with a whole bunch of alcohol to go along with the feast. We were one big, racially mixed family having a blast.
    When I was young, my parents would always try to get me to go to sleep by eleven P.M . on Christmas Eve, which was always a challenge, considering how loud things got downstairs as the evening went on.
    One year my dad told me, “You better go upstairs, because Santa Claus is going to call you.” And I’m like (insert Kevin Hart voice) “Oh my God! Oh my God! Santa is going to call me? Great, I’m going to tell him what I want for Christmas!” My dad told me to make a quick list of all the things I wanted. In our house there was one set of stairs near the living room and another by the kitchen. The kitchen stairs were still a little high for me, but in my excitement I took them, slipping and hitting my head on a step.
    â€œI’m okay, I’m okay,” I yelled. “I gotta go write to Santa.”
    So I have this huge knot on my head now, and I’m upstairs writing down this list when all of a sudden my dad yells from downstairs.
    â€œPick up the phone. Santa’s calling!”
    â€œHello,” I say.
    â€œHo-ho-ho! Is this Jason?”
    â€œYes, this is Jason . . . Is this Santa?”
    â€œYes, this is Santa. Now tell me what you want for Christmas.”
    The voice on the other end sounded like the most ghetto version of Santa possible. The way he asked what I wanted sounded like he was sticking me up. I could hear the laughter coming through the phone. I might’ve been young and naive, but I wasn’t stupid.
    â€œThis isn’t Santa. This is Uncle Allen.”
    â€œThis isn’t Uncle Allen. This is Santa! Now tell me, what do you want for Christmas?”
    Meanwhile, I started to sneak my way down the front staircase.I saw my Uncle Allen on the phone and my dad cracking up in the corner.
    â€œYou all trying to trick me,” I said.
    And my dad was just laughing and laughing. My father’s laugh was one of the greatest gifts of all.
    To understand how my mother fell in love with my dad, how he managed to convince her to move back from California, maybe even why she stayed with him as long as she did, all you have to do is hear him laugh. That isn’t hard to do, because once he starts, you can hear him in every room in the house. Jared, my friend Dre, and I all tried to imitate it, because it’s the kind of laugh that is infectious. He stomps his foot and loses his breath, with these short bursts of “Oh shit,” “Ohhh, ohhh,” “My God” in between. It was one of the most joyous sounds of my childhood.
    But with two strong personalities like my father and my mother under one roof, there were bound to be some clashes. I heard them shouting and arguing more often than I like to remember. My mom can be scattered, like she has a little ADD in her; she’ll start in on something and then get distracted and maybe come back to it or maybe not. My dad always wanted things to be where he left them; if he put a book or a tool someplace, he expected to find it there, even weeks or months later. My mom would clean up and put things where she thought they should go, sometimes forgetting