Daddy. Papa. Father. The Paterfamilias.
Pops. Daddie.
A man known by many names. A
name that some of us all know instantly the meaning. We know exactly who that man
is, when his name is called, by his people…his little people. He is mine, and I
am his, it doesn’t matter what I did (let’s face it, you know me), or
where we are. He always sees me just as I am. And on this day, I am running
towards him…
But before that day (well,
chronologically after, but before in the recollection of the memories…you know
my mental life)
I was running to a song. A song I learned about in my Introduction To
Jazz Class at
UCLA. Taught by someone else’s paterfamilias.
I was in Osh Kosh, Wisconsin,
meeting my twin sister from a different Mommie and Mister. See, we have the
same birth day, but the years got a little off. Anyway, I was in Wisconsin, all
the way from Arkansas, on a recruitment trip for our graduate school and
residential life program. We were deeply engaged in some professionally social
conversation when I heard the first instrument. Literally the first note.
Now, I can’t tell you what note that actually was, because well, Physiological
Sciences degree, but my heart knows it.
I stopped mid conversation,
literally, in the middle of speaking, and told them I had to go. Actually, I’m
not sure I even said anything. I was like Shug that
fateful Sunday. I was doing something, and then I wasn’t. Because what I was doing
didn’t matter like what I needed to be doing…in the place I needed to be. Just
like the Lord was speaking to her, that song was speaking to me. I had to find
where the music was coming from. Nothing else mattered #SeekingTheMaster
#GodsTrynToTellYouSomething. Nobody else mattered. Not in that
moment. I had to hear it. The song. #iHearYaLord
A Song For My Father. (you
should stop reading, click the link, start the song then finish reading…because
this song is everything…and your father probably knows it…and I’m already in
debt for that UCLA class…so, for free, right?) Thank you, Horace
Silver. Somebody needs to play that at SF Jazz. They would get a lifetime
membership from me. Meanwhile, you should join.
Anyway, back to the story. I
stopped speaking, literally in the middle of speaking to prospective students
and employees, and sprinted toward the music #TheMakingsOfARunner
#WhenIYetDidNotKnowTheLordsPlanForMyLifeAndFeet.
I stood awkwardly close to the band, eyes half closed, heart completely open, smiling,
and listening for every melody, arms folded in pure delight. Praying that each
one would be right where it was supposed to be. Housed in a memory from years
ago, in an overcrowded auditorium, listening to an overqualified man, breathe
life, musically, into me.
After the song, I realized
that most important thing I wasn’t talking about. Love. What makes our heart’s
beat. Things that fill us up, when the world puts us on E. I spent the next
fifteen minutes explaining Jazz to everyone that would listen.
Running. Back to that memory.
Daddie is a bus driver by trade. So he spent his days shuttling children
to/from school, and field tri
But not really. Because I have
a Daddie, and he’s the best one in the world. I know that other people think
that, but well, delusion. I kid (not really)… Many
of us are children of great
men, so I know there are some awesome Daddies out there.
But mine.
I saw him out of the corner of
my eye. And before my mental facial recognition program could ding, I was in
mid-sprint towards him. Screaming his name. Daddie!
Daddie! Hi Daddie!
Waving frantically like he didn’t know who I was, because well, it was possible that 6 other people in the world could have been doing exactly what I
was doing because, you know, sisters…
I hugged him like we had not
done this, oh say, 5 hours ago, in the morning, in our home. Like I had been taken,
and he went through hell, high water, and Paris to find me. Like it was the last dance
we would ever have after having lived a long life #iKnewForSureIwasLoved
. Like his desperate
search for me, after hours and hours, had finally ended #IGetLostYo.
I held on to him. We talked about all the fun I was having, which didn’t really
seem all that important anymore, and I sat there. On his lap. I didn’t have a
single worry. Eventually one of my friends caught up with me, because…sprinting
creates distance. I knew it was time to go. He had to go hang with his bus
driver friends, and I had to go be his daughter, but somewhere else.
I hugged him real tight. I
told him with authority that I loved him, and held out my hand. My Daddie
kissed my forehead, authored his own loving words, and put a $5 in my empty
palm. My friend standing next to me looked at this ritual of sorts, and
attempted to mimic our actions. And in her tattered hand, he placed a dollar
bill.
That’s Daddie for you.
And a facebook friend noted so
importantly that for all of that, we have yet to memorialize fatherhood in song
the ways in which we do motherhood, right? I get it. Umbilical cords, stretch
marks, and well, baby’s big heads through a really small passage is worth
noting. But, is that more important than our moment at Great America? Perhaps for
some. Not for me.
What my Daddie was to me in that
moment (and others like it) keeps me alive like my mother did those nine months bouncing around in
her womb. My attachment to his leg that day was the exact same. He was transferring
sustenance – sacred survival sustenance to me. And he had Daddie enough in him
to give a little to my friend.
Actually, maybe I am a little
glad that there aren’t many songs about Daddiehood and all that it is. For some,
the feeling is foreign. For others like me, it’s too complicated to compose.
Horace did a
good job though. I like the way he remembers fathers.
Happy Father’s Day to the
amazing men out there, and to those gone before this day doing their work from
Heaven. The men who save, the men who sustain. The men who are the source
#NotTheMatrix
#WelliGuessThatKindaWorksToo
#YouKnowWhatIMeantTho.
The men who can turn a child’s gaze from every toy on the aisle, ride in the
park, dessert on the counter and every other sparkling kiddie thing – just by
being. And that wanting, to be exactly like him.
Thank you for being Daddie. It
keeps me being (whatever
it is I am)
all these miles away.
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