She got a name, then he walked away...

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 8^th 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… ♫♪

Oh…and if you’re looking for a song about fathers, check this one out. 

I promise, it’s a winner. 

She Got A Temper Though #HelpMe

You don’t have it? Okay, well take this sheet of paper and write it down here. Okay. …and so I began writing, in the neatest handwriting, on unlined paper. Just like Daddie.

I’m so over this whole entire thing. What more can I tell you about this man? I have filled out soooo many pieces of paper. But, I am who I am…sometimes, a writer…so let me get this done and we will be done with it. As I’m writing…

You’re 37? I will be eventually. You’re not married? No. You don’t have kids? No. So you’re not married and you don’t have kids… *was that a question?* No. Why aren’t you married? Because nobody asked me. What’s wrong with you? *these mf’in questions are what’s wrong with me* You mean or something? No, I’m not a mean person. You sure? *well, now that you mention it, I might be mistaken*

At this point, I have only written two sentences. They’re hella neat though. I look across from my mother who is exactly no help at all with this ridiculous line of questioning. Mom, this is over, you do it. I’m not writing this.

But maybe I should have kept writing because I think that made him feel like he could continue. You must be mean or something. I look over at my mother, the woman whose womb I occupied for 9 months…the easiest of the 7 births she endured. Help. Me. Mama…HELP. ME. HELP. ME.  Well, she’s not mean, but she got a temper though. She does have a nice personality. *mom, what in the ENTIRE F are you saying right now*

Seriously? I don’t like her.

He looks back to me like he’s got confirmation of something he knew. Anyone who’s been victim of my temper has earned it. This is the only part of the conversation my mother confirmed. She’s worthless. Okay, so let’s say you’re going out on a date. He wants to go to Outback, but you want to go Chili’s *I actually never want to go to either of these places, but hell, it’s not like my mother is going to help me out* …are you one of those types that gets mad when you can’t go to the place you want to go? I don’t get mad about things I don’t spend my money on. This is a non-issue. Well, you know some women are like that. See, me, I can find something to eat anywhere, but sometimes you want what you want.

Well, isn’t that lovely for you. Do you want to know what I want right now?

Sometimes I feel like my mother doesn’t love me. She does, but you are sitting across from me. You know me. You know my life. AND you obviously know my temper. And you’re just gonna let this ride? Under these circumstances? I don’t even want to be in this place. But, here I am, the oldest born 3^rd, so I have to be in this place.

This place = Funeral home.

Writing = My Father’s Obituary.

Guy = Funeral Director.

My Mother = Doesn’t Want Me To Be Great.

Yep. Daddie ain’t here no more. When I told Ernie the news he gave me two immediate pieces of advice. Don’t order any drinks (from the restaurant airport I was at…he actually said give it back but well, me) and write. I took none of his advice. When I write things, they become real…and this is something that could have remained fake news and alternative facts a few decades longer. And I ain’t wasting no alcohol, ever. But it was what I needed to hear. So much so, I would not let him call me. Text only. Because if you say something like that to me, I might come undone. And the way my life is now set up, there is no time for that.

I told him because of all the people in the world, he knew exactly what I was going through. Not because his daddie had passed. But his person had passed, just months ago. For some of us in the world, there is a person that connects us to it. Just one. They are your link to Earth. The only person in the world, with the sound of their eyes…the only person that can collect you, snatch your edges, give you the go ahead to pop off (Daddie was very, extremely, selective about this one…but sometimes I got a chance at greatness), encourage your dreams...

My father is the reason I am good – if you believe me to be good. The reason I am a writer –if you believe me to be so.  The reason I am a good friend – if you believe me to be your friend. The reason I am smart – if you believe UCLA and UCA were right about those pieces of paper they gave me…which hang on my parent’s wall today. And most importantly, the reason, the actual, specific, Earthly reason I love – if you believe that I love and or love you, in whatever ways love is meant. My father, my Daddie is my person. And he’s not here anymore. And that’s worse, much worse than the terrible awful. I am the child of a great man. I am the child of the greatest man.

The next day, because the gravity of this hasn’t quite set in, because grief…I think? My mom and I are at lunch. It starts to come back to me.

Mom, that was kinda weird yesterday? What was weird? The funeral home guy. Those questions. You think he was trying to hit on me or something? What’s wrong with that? *besides the freaking obvious?* MOM! Dad’s there…Like Daddie is literally there!!!! I can’t…I Can’t Do This With You! I think if you lived here in Texas he would have asked you out. Mom, that’s insane. There’s no way I would do that. Like ever. Why not? He has a job.

Does anyone need a mother? I have one. She’s not all there, but she’ll be super supportive of your quest for a partner in life. Because, Outback and Chili’s.

I think about that day at the Funeral Home (and the next one with my mother) because it’s the epitome of my relationship with my parents. If the roles were reversed, and we were making arrangements for my mother (not something I really want to think about, but…) there is no way that conversation would have gone that far. Daddie actually would have been pretty pissed. Which makes it funny. It’s almost comical just thinking about it because I know what my Daddie would have said and done. Because I got the chance to experience it, just weeks prior.

We were at my younger sister’s graduation party (Welcome to the Master’s Wheaty!) and someone asked when I was having a child. My other younger sister has just recently had a beautiful baby girl. Before I could come up with my see what had happened was… my father, my Daddie gave the most chilling, the most supportive, the most direct facial expression that the conversation literally ended. He said, without saying, that having a child is not the definition of her life. Should she have a child, it will be the most perfect child that ever lived. And if she chooses to not have children, she will still be perfect. Just like she is, right now. He cut his eyes so quickly and sharply, I felt like I needed to confirm that I wasn’t pregnant… This is the first time in my life that I didn’t have to explain myself. And the last time that he could protect me from it.

 

It is said, that Sigmund Freud once said, that there is possibly no greater need in childhood than a father’s protection. I would have to agree with him. I would venture to speculate that this need remains well into adulthood.

Especially if your mother is anything like mine. HELP. ME. N!**@!!!  

A Blog For My Father #andasongtoo

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 trips in between. If you lived in the Bay Area, one of those trips was inevitably to Great America, because well…the school year ends. So, I knew my Daddie would potentially be there, but not really. I didn’t know that I would actually see him. I mean, Great America. Ain’t nobody got time to be there with Daddie when there is literally every single child stimuli turned on HIGH, and hello! I’m a child and I’m so here for this. Lights, Rides, Shiny Things, Sugary Things, Other Kids… I’m so here for this.

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.

The Daddie'sGurl Dilemma #ThisAintMother-FatherDay

Try Seven. #JustThe7OfUs

I am my daddie’s daughter. I am his creation. I am his possession. I am his most precious thing. I am perfected through his imperfection. I am the child of a great man.

I am the daughter of a preacher man from a small town in Texas. He is the first of 9 children. My daddie is kind. Most boys from our neighborhood would dispute that fact with empirical data, but he is kind. Trust me, I’m a blogger. It was just a ruse – a really real, but not all the way real deception. You are automatically kind when you have his capacity for love. I get my generosity from my mother, and love from my daddie. After all, it was his first gift to me. The second? Words. My daddie wrote me. And through that literary experience, I became a writer.

Anyway, a short man, with high yellow chicken legs, charismatic presence and inability to clap on beat. Yup, that one is mine. Right there, behind the pulpit, feeling the Spirit of the Lord and not the beat of the organ. Full of wit, intelligence, down home jokes and tales from a dirt road. Even this day, this very day, as educated as I am, my daddie can get me with one of his twisted tales. I remember when I made the decision to attend UCLA…

What do you see when you fly over Los Angeles?

I’m smart (or a smart ass, depending on who you are) so I obviously knew the answer…hello? You see smog!

Well, there’s smog, but what do you see, when you fly over Los Angeles? Daddie has a way of making you think so critically about things. He knew that I wasn’t really thinking, I was just talking.

#8Clap #BruinDads

And I continued to talk… Well, you don’t see stars, because of the smog…You see houses, downtown, hecka (not hella) cars because everyone is stuck in traffic… Talk, talk, talk… when he wanted me to think, think, think.

Finally, with that smug look on his face, knowing that once again he got me… You See L – A.

He really got me #ImSeriouslyHellaSlowSometimes. An incoming first year student. To the University of California at Los Angeles…otherwise known as U – C – L – A.

         

People like me, who think he is a really awesome guy, are sometimes in the minority. As tough as the streets of East Palo Alto and East Menlo Park were, you couldn’t find one boy, one young man, one ill-informed person brave enough to date me. Back then I thought it was me #ItProbablyWas. I wasn’t pretty enough. I wasn’t cool enough. I was too much of a nerd. Had to have been that. Nobody likes a smart girl in High School, right?

         

I returned home from Bruinville for Christmas after that first epic quarter of college. I walked the streets of East Menlo with my homey – as was our high school custom. During this particular stroll, we came across fellow classmates. In May they were listening to my commencement speech on Menlo-Atherton's Football Field, and that December I was in the streets getting caught up on their lives. Riding to the corner store with a male friend (unbeknownst to my father) we chatted about high school, what was going on in Los Angeles, and everything I missed while I was away. Bold enough in the moment, I asked…

I wonder why nobody wanted to date me in high school? I mean, I couldn’t have possibly been that unattractive. I will never forget his response.

Hell, I would have dated you. But uh, yo Pops is crazy. #missionaccomplished Well played Daddie. Well. Played.

This. Dude. Right. Here. #MyDaddie

I am sure that on this day some woman is going to be wished a Happy Father’s Day, because well, her kids didn’t get to experience everything that I did. A man, consistently being The Man in the life of the child he made. This, in my humble opinion, does nothing to advance "Daddie"hood or recognize the importance of this day. It does the very opposite. It says that a woman could have done the things my Daddie did for me. And that is not the truth. My Mommie knows my Daddie VERY WELL, and she, even with all her insider knowledge could never make me feel as perfect as he does. No way could she have scared an ENTIRE NEIGHBORHOOD of boys by her presence alone! Commanded their fear and respect? Nope. Not Marilou.

That’s a tough job. Daddies have it hard. My Mommie knew this, and as such, Daddie always got the piece of chicken he wanted #wings. Sure men don’t have babies gestating in their bodies for almost a year, but to discount their role in the development of children by saying it can be done by a woman is deception of the worst kind. And I consider myself a womanist. The presence of a good father has the equal-converse impact on the life of a child as his absence. As such, there is no replacement. No stand-in. No substitute.

And if you think otherwise, riddle me this… If iron sharpens iron [and indeed it does #ItsBiblical #Proverbs27 ¹⁷Iron sharpeneth iron; so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend], please share with me (and all of these internets) how a mother becomes a father, and does his job successfully? We’ll wait.

When we do this, when we say mothers can be fathers, we tarnish the works of great men, great fathers, like my friend's dad.   And on this day we celebrate the lives of Father’s past and present (and inspire the fathers to come), we sully their good names, wise words, beautiful hearts, and love. 

On this Father’s Day (and others), I pray you spend it celebrating men doing the work that Fathers around the world do every day. Tell me about those men. Show me those men. It might encourage some man to be them. It just might inspire some man absent from the life of his child to come back home. To reclaim the person he made. And remake them anew.

…and though I LOATHE sharing him (especially with my sisters), I’d even be willing to loan out mine. He’s pretty damn fantastic. I mean, he has to be. He made me.

I cannot think of any need in childhood as strong as the need for a father’s protection. #SigmundFreud