Happy Father's Day - to anyone responsibly fathering their children. You know who you are.
I wrote part of this piece as an open letter to my son's other parent. I won't call him a father, a daddy or a baby-daddy, because right now he's not being any of those things. But I don't want to focus on negativity right now.
Right now - I want to honor the man who taught me what it means to be a man, and what it means to be a father.
Fatherhood, for me, means helping your son with his first steps, teaching him to tie his shoe, sharing with him the rules of T-ball and helping him hone his basketball skills. It means making sure his lunches are made, or he has lunch money. It means fishing in the summertime, early on Saturday mornings, before Mom has even gotten out of bed. It means tying his first tie, when he asks a girl to his first dance. It means making sure he not only has lunch money, but making sure that your child has all the things kids take for granted will be there: a bed, clothes, a roof over their heads, shoes, a visit to the Doctor when they get sick, money for field trips at school, and someone to pick them up when they fall.
My father was all these things and then some, for me. He did all those things. Most of my childhood growing up, my mother worked second shift, so I spent most of my time with my father. My earliest memory is being in my backyard running around, as my father worked on his '61 Mercedes. He'd restored the engine, repainted the exterior, and replaced the interior - sans rims or custom kits. He played ball with me, and worked...then entertained my questions, as he contiued to tinker on the car. That's what stands out - his handling his business. He managed to work, pay his bills, and take care of his household, my mother & me. And still spent quality time with me.
You know those $5M words that I tend to use unsparingly? My father forced me to use those, so that I could "play fairly in the white man's world". My love for music, and fashion, and anything slightly left of center? My father taught me that - with his Grover Washington albums, and his fitted suits, Donegal hats, pegged pants and ankle boots, and his complete rejection of anything that seemed 'ordinary'. My father was "bougie", despised folks that acted like "first-generation" money, was a spendthrift, appreciated fine things, and loathed things that were 'ghetto'. My father was my original Bohemian, questioning everything, rejecting only after careful consideration, and unaccepting/intolerant of average. My father exuded, embraced and challenged me for excellence.
When he died, I thought my world ended, because he (as did my mother) meant that much to me. And as I raise my son alone, I think of him more often than I have in the 30 years since he passed away. He was a stand-up guy, and a hustla in the sense that - when it came right down to it, he did what he had to do to make sure that his family had what they needed. Work for himself? Sure - he did that, owning (and closing) several businesses. Work for "the man" within 'the system"? Sure, he did that - working for Ford and Sears at some points, even though he later decided (well, he knew all along really) that it wasn't what he really wanted to do. Get out and hustle to make ends meet? Sure - he did that...learning several trades (electrician, welding, car repair, appliance repair) out of his own workshop, with only the help of his library card. Serve his country? Sure, he did that - when called he did his time in Europe during WWII, and came back unable to land a job, or travel freely in the country he fought to protect. Entrepreneur/investor? Sure, he did that - investing in real estate before there was a "market" and investing even became popular.
And he did it all with only a 9th grade education.
He taught himself to: fix cars, fix appliances, restore old houses, fix boats, cut hair, trimmed lawns, whatever he had to do to make the ends, not just meet, but overlap. When he didn’t make enough money at one job, he’d get another. If that didn’t work, he quit and worked for himself. If he decided he needed health benefits, he go back to work for a company. If he needed extra money, he’d work on the side for cash.
He did it all, while raising me. My father taught me how to tie my shoes, taught me how to fish, taught me how to multiply by 9. My father taught me how to shoot a 22 without ripping my arm off. He taught me how to quietly wait for fish to jump on a line. He taught me the value in reading, and in stillness, and in listening, and in the quiet. He taught me that the undertones in a music arrangement (those instruments that you barely even notice are there) are what makes jazz stand apart from pop, and what makes music so rich and ripe for appreciation. My daddy taught me how to stand up in skies, and pushed me down the hill, and picked me up when I fell, and made me hot chocolate from scratch, using real baking chocolate, and whole milk and sugar.
Anyone who knows me, knows I'm a carnivore by nature. And knows that I take my steaks medium rare, with juicy pink or bloody red center (depending on my mood). Anyone who knows me knows that I must have a steak every so often, with a good glass of Lambrusco. Anyone who knows me knows that if they put sauce/ketchup or too much seasoning on my steak, they will catch a beating. Anyone who knows me knows that I prefer my steak finished only with grilled/broiled mushrooms/onions on the side, and maybe a little unsalted butter on top. But anyone who knows me also knows that my daddy taught me all that, My daddy. My father.
All it takes is the smell of Borkum Riff Cherry tobacco coming from a pipe...or a well prepared steak, to bring my father vividly back to me.
My father’s been on my mind lately, because he’d turn over in his grave to see what his daughter’s life has become. He’d be really proud of some things, like my going back to school and getting my degree, getting a good job, buying a house, etc. He’d also be horrified to know what I’ve gone through, and am still going through with the "men" in my life. He’d be horrified, because he taught me to expect the best from life, and that I’m deserving of the best, and that so are his grandchildren. Obviously, he’d be less than impressed with the way I allowed some men to treat me. He’d be absolutely infuriated by some of these men.
Daddy, I love you so very much...still. Even though you've been gone for 30+ years, not a day goes by where I don't think about you. Things as simple as my wishing you were here to see my back yard, and to tell me how I can keep the weeds back in this Georgia drought. Or to talk to you about the Zero 7 remix of Mos Def's "Umi Says", and how I can hear Grover in that. Or how I wish he'd bring those fitted suits, pegged pants, and Donegal hats back while ridin's in his subtle vintage Benz, so that these brothers would retire those white t-shirts, overloaded jewelry and overdone vehicles, and see how a real man stays sharp.
I love you Daddy. And I know you're still here within me. I'll work hard to respect that part of you that resides here within me.
