Every
Father's
Day, without fail, someone posts to some social media in the internets, the
following question (in
varying syntax and leveling degrees of mastery of said syntax), All these songs about mothers…where are the songs
about fathers?
One
year I replied with this
one. Mostly because poor grammar upsets me, and my unconscious ability to
be petty amuses others. AND any father worth their fathering is not somewhere
looking for a song.
He’s
looking for the remote. Or a kid to bring it to him.
I
digress.
But,
I love this song. Before I loved it, my father had to help me. Remember that
time my Daddie did that awful thing? When he left me in Westwood all by myself (yes,
I’m this dramatic, still)
to go make a life and be great or whatever it was? Yea, that. He left me with
roommates. A caucasian and mexican girl. And because I like my mexican people from my
neighborhood in the bay area (who are the southern californians anyway? they smell like avocado – not that this is a bad thing or I know what that is at this point in my life).
HOW CAN YOU
LEAVE ME WITH STRANGERS?!
…anyway,
because caucasion people listen to different music, my roommate worships the
devil.
Daddie…I think my roommate worships the devil? Will I
go to hell because I live with her? It’s not like I picked her. What? What are you talking about? She listens to weird music. I think it’s on MTV. These
white guys are like bouncing around and making strange sounds with instruments
and whatnot. I am not sure what this is, and I don’t want my soul to burn in
that place *because even though we’re preacher’s kids, we don’t
use that h-word…around him* I’m
sure it’s not that. Well, what are the people saying in the song? They’re saying…well, he’s talking about…Daddie their hair
is like these weird colors!!!!! Baby, just
relax. You’re going to have to give different things a try. I don’t think she
worships the devil. If she did, I think you would be more certain of it. Just
relax. If you don’t like it, don’t listen to it. But I don’t think you even
know what it is…
Daddie
– A Gazillion; Me – like maybe 5 or 6. I mean, I’m not a complete idiot…sometimes
I got a W. But I certainly took waaaayyy more L’s, like not listening to the
song.
So
I took his advice. I listened. It was awful. Until I listened long enough to
hear what they were talking about. Oh…this is about his father; he must have
been a great guy. Oh, he left you? Uh…my bad. You were scared? Uh….okay, not
exactly devil worship, but it’s not that bad.
Our
fathers are nothing alike, but I love this song. There's
this one part..., ♫♪ …daddy gave me a name, my daddy gave me a name…then he walked away… ♫♪
Same
thing happened to me. Only, it happened much faster for him. His dad gave him a
name, he closed his eyes, his world disappeared, and his daddy was gone. My
Daddie gave me a name, then 18 of the best years a daughter could have, took me
to Westwood and walked away…to the parking lot, to drive back to the Bay Area.
My
Daddie gave me a name. On
that day, when the one who (earthly) made me provided me
that protection, he also shared the story of my name. And everything it means.
At
Wheaty’s graduation taco party, we were all making introductions. As such, I
extended my hand and told a man my name. I was sitting next to my Daddie. He
looked up from his taco and made that eye contact that feels like a finger is being pointed at you and said proudy-matter-of-fact(ly), I
named her. That’s my baby.
…and
like a few of the other people here at this party, but yes Daddie, I’m your
baby.
He
says that he and my mother (before
she became a turncoat) were talking to each other one of the nights they were anticipating my arrival.
He loved the sound of names that sound like mine, but he wanted the “na”
because, lucky for me,
that's what he liked. And he even decided the middle name. But mother wanted
the extra “e” in my middle name…so he signed off on it.
Mother
needed his approval for my name. He had to sign off on it, or it wasn’t going
to happen. The name had to please him. It had to be the name that he liked. Loved.
Being
the first born third, I have always felt some kind of way about my gender. I’m
a girl. I was born female. I’m a woman, because that’s the adult version of
girl, but Daddie called me his baby, and you read these blogs, so you’re
thinking what I’m thinking – she’s technically got "lady parts", but beyond that, the jury is
out.
My
father is the first son. Because of that, he carries the name of a great man.
Exactly that man’s name…with a Jr attached. Because Papa was the original, and
Daddie was that fire remix. My father’s brothers? Just about all have a fire
remix walking around here. One got a sample outchea somewhere on someone’s
playground. I have always wondered, would he have felt differently,
better-differently if I were that remix. If I could carry three stacks behind
my name, be a remix of Daddie – a sample of Papa. Be the legacy in title and
task.
I
have felt less because of this thing. Even more so in thinking about meeting
someone and loving someone, and wanting to do that forever thing with them, and
my name changing. I don’t carry his first name, and if married, I might not
even carry his last name. It would be forever lost.
So
I did what any guilt ridden daughter would do. Spent my entire life leaving
things at Daddie’s altar (the
night stand by his bed)
to purchase his non-existent grief about this. Awards. Perfect grades. Complementary
reports. Certificates. Good behavior. Recognition. I wouldn’t even ditch school
on Senior Ditch Day – nobody anticipates you to be there, and it’s kind of
weird for the teachers when you show up. Remember when I told you spent part of
the 8th grade in CST? I got a Computer Literacy certificate. My
Daddie had it in a folder near his bed. Without a scratch or blemish. If I can’t carry your name Daddie, I am going to make
sure I do right by this one I got. This was how I “fixed it”.
Daddie,
though, being smarter and having
sight beyond sight knew that this might happen (maybe). So
he did something better than pass on a great name. He created one. One that every
time he heard would fill him up with so much pride, that every time he heard
it, the world would stop. Like my High School graduation. The story? It was hot
as a bih on the Menlo-Atherton High School
football field. So Daddie and his other Daddie homeys were standing under the
bleachers doing Daddie things. When they called the name of the child
represented by the Daddie group, they would come from under the bleachers,
listen to the speech, or clap at the awarding of the degree, and go back under
the bleachers. Because, we love kids, but shade too.
He
probably said the same thing at my high school graduation. When I made my
approach to the stage, and gave my stunning and inspiring speech, using my
inspiration at the time – Tupac, because #HellaResist. I named her. That’s my baby.
This
is all postulate though. How can I be sure of these things now, anyway? Much
like Everclear, ♫♪ …I never understood you then, and I guess I never will… ♫♪
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