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 Has Fake Degrees... #ShowMeTheSealSoWeKnowItsItsReal

Have you been to my office? If you have then you know there is a large paper medal on the wall because I got the MVP of Student Staff Training #Spring2015…and what else? A bunch of thank you cards and other pieces of celebratory paper. The piece(s) of paper(s) you expect to see aren’t there.

Yup. There are no degrees on my wall in my office. And in the span of my full-time professional career, they’ve never been on my wall because…

…them joints is fake, yo.

Let me explain *in my Kevin hart voice* …

In 2000 and 3 I graduated from the University of California at Los Angeles. Just in time to NOT have the terminator’s name on my degree #BlessGodInThisBuildingSaints. It was an exciting time. Let’s go back to Ackerman…

I was so happy! I called home. Well, prior to the exciting call home, I made a huge scene in Ackerman buying the diploma frame. Yea, I want that one at the top. Very top. Yes, the best one you got. I just graduated homey…you better believe this piece of paper is hanging in style. Hello…this is me? I need better than your best.

Then he rang it up. I didn’t have money for three weeks. Daddie actually had to send money from Texas for California groceries…because hungry. I was embarrassed that I even needed money for food – until that time, I was able to take care of all my financial needs that financial aid didn’t cover #BraidingHair.

Anyway, as I wasn’t saying, I called him. Mom answered. She was sooo happy for me. So much so, that she stated that I should Go to Kinko’s… Yeah, Make a copy… Yeah, Then send the original… *ummm…where is this going* …to her in Texas. That, if I ever wanted to come home ever again, I would need to do this. I obeyed. But she got the coldest side eye ever given in the game though…through the phone. Because I wanted to go home, because fried cabbage yall. Both degrees are on the wall in their home. And a whole heap of other awards and such. I know because this past week (or so) I hung them there #TheyMoved.

Have you seen the color copy version of your degree/seal on your degree from Kinkos? It's orange... It's not even the same orange all over the seal. Because the photocopier, and the lights, and physics! Bro, this joint is as believable as the current sitting united states president. Like, we know it’s real, but it looks fake AF. Exactly.

Why would I put this on my wall at work? So I haven’t. It’s just not a thing. And, of course, this is all my mother’s fault. What does she want with it anyway?

But, as time deals with most things I made my peace with it. As a new professional, I began to realize that though I work with many people, some of which have many degrees, they are quite dumb. AF, homey…dumb AF. I started to take solace in the empty walls. My brain isn’t empty, and I use coherent sentences. I have the innate ability to swirl the king’s English with slang and contemporary vernacular, that honestly…the degree didn’t teach me to do. My intellect is more than what that piece of paper says I know. So…I’m good.

But I wasn’t. At a student leadership retreat, I had to share a piece of me…because vulnerability can be an important part of your leadership. Yes, all those aforementioned reasons are the reasons why my degrees are on bookshelf in my office. I know that I am smart, but I don’t always occupy that space. I am sometimes very insecure about what I know, to the point that I probably give the appearance that I don’t know anything. Like this guy last week told me how the Plan B pill works. Aside from the fact that this is something as a woman I would probably know because vagina, I was a Physiological Sciences major. Though I don’t work in my major, I LOVE science, because three swirls, remember? But nobody would know that was my major, because bookshelf.

I regularly get the feeling that I didn’t earn my degrees. Because, Daddie. Dude is smart as heaven…and a little hell – he ever tell you what he did to that cat? He would be an awesome person to have on a trivia team because he knows about the oddest, craziest things, usually from personal experience. He remembers dates like you wouldn’t believe. Why do I know that I was born at 10:16pm on a Tuesday? One year he called me at exactly my birthday. To the minute, yall. He even factored in the time zones because that was CST that I was born in, but it was PST he was calling to...so he called...twice, so it was 8:16pm PST, then again at 10:16pm PST. Everything I know is because of him. What he didn’t teach me, he prepared me to learn. And every bit of knowledge I engaged him in, he expanded upon – for my good – for my name to be on those pieces of paper. How can I take credit for everything that HE did. Doesn’t really seem fair at all.

As we were driving around in my Daddie’s truck, I was talking to that lady about degrees hanging from the wall. How I sent the originals, but all my sisters punked out and sent copies. But why they get to come home when you told me I couldn’t? Sure, I get the wealthiest portion of the fried cabbage, but nothing else for my obedience!!!!!

She said, your Father wanted that degree. I just passed the message. Then she looked at me and shrugged like, so you mad or nah? I leaned over the driver’s seat in amazement. All of these years those degrees have been on the wall, he never revealed this. And because, although hard-headed, she is a good wife, she kept his secret. She kept it until I needed to know it.

Today, this very day, there are two odd looking degrees on the wall in my office. I am more proud of them than you could imagine.

I have exactly what I earned on my wall.

...and Daddie has exactly what he earned on his.

First Time's The Charm

Especially when it’s a 5K. And definitely when it’s in Las Vegas! You know this is one of my most favorite running destinations as evidenced here! and here!. Even #MedalessMonday was an adventure! It’s 2015 and time to do it all over again. And clearly, since I was here for the inaugural Las Vegas 5k, I gotta come back! #LegacyStatus

The crew has changed though. I gifted a 5K entry to my little-ish sister for her birthday. I’m such a good sister. Giving people things I totally love and would definitely want for, well, any reason, actually. Huh?? Maybe that’s why I’m single. Anyway, she’s been working on her running and doing a good job of it, so what better way to induct her into nateezy’s running fb posts of fame than this, right?! Right.

While planning for this event with Alicia Keykey #ThatsRunningBae #NewAliasAlert who always complains but signs up anyway #NOLA, a fellow Bruin connected with me. She wanted to know if I was running in Las Vegas. LOL, it’s funny because it’s true. She happened upon a groupon for the 5K and felt like she wanted to be down with my running crew. So, of course that happened!

I just love it when a plan that I didn’t plan at all comes together.

We made our way to the Expo early Saturday morning because flight delays are totally a thing #SouthwestAintLoyal. While at the Expo I showed my sister all the fun running stuff. You know, free samples, running trinkets, and awesome things we’d get to do because we’re runners #WristbandsActivate. We passed a super awesome blown up picture of Meb…

I wonder if my friend is here. I’d love to see him!

What friend?

My friend from UCLA. That’s his brother right there.

Oh wow, who’s that?

*suppressing my runner’s ‘wheetttt?’ face because she actually doesn’t know* That’s Meb. Suffice it to say he’s a running rockstar. Like kind of a big deal.

*she shrugs and keeps looking around*

*I internally gasp, clutching all the pearls*

I’m such a running snob. And I’m not even that great a runner to be snobby about it. Gimme a second to get my life. Thanks. Needed that.

We caught up with my friend. Exchanged hellos and brief life updates. I keep on with my encouraging him to get back out here with us runners. He continued to think it over. We took our picture with Meb and hightailed it out of there.

We have a run to prepare for.

START: Okay – this is your race. We don’t need to stay together or anything. It’s your first Las Vegas 5k – go out there and do what you came here to do! Let’s get it! #RunLeaderPepTalk #ImSooooEncouraging #OrBossy #YouChoose

Mile 1: Yo, it’s chilly out here homey.

Mile 2: Yea, I don’t want to do this anymore. Meanwhile, my thighs feel great. All warmed up and whatnot. I mean, I’d rather warm them up with a martini, but well, warm.

Mile 3: This is a much better race route than last year. Sure I’m running back and forth in a parking lot. Point is, the path is lit and I feel safe. Well done. I also would like food now.

Mile 3(0.1): Yea….it’s going to be freezing tomorrow.

FINISH: I bet they killed it! I can’t wait to see their faces.

I made my way to gear check to pick up my bag and check on my sister. She wasn’t doing too great, even though she did a GREAT job in the 5K. As she updated me about how she was doing, and how the race went, I noticed that I didn’t see her medal. So, while she’s trying to get me up to speed about her health, I ask, Um, where is your medal? because that is clearly more important than life apparently. I didn’t get one, I didn’t win.

What? Gurl, bye.

I love my sister, Lord knows I do, but I just couldn’t Jesus. We had a long discussion about how this whole running thing works, how I’ve never “won” a race in the coming in first sense, but how we win every time we show up and do it.

She didn’t seem impressed by that. But we got her medal anyway because, well, we paid for it. 

We eventually caught back up with the Bruin Homey, and I gave the both of them a little bling of their own…of the candy variety. Firsts are awesome. Don’t you remember all those wonderful firsts you had? And perhaps some that weren’t so wonderful, but you remember them anyway. It’s important to make them memorable. Make them memories you’re always going to come back to. Memories that will inspire some other first.

Another successful adventure in medal’ing. Another Vegas almost completed. And took a whole 35 seconds off my 2014 5K time. It’s the little things.

Half. On. Deck. Son. #IsYouReadyOrNah #Nah #DefinitlyNah

#15ThingsIn2015 Challenge

5 new states (Louisiana, Texas – 2 down, 3 to go) #iShouldWorkOnThisOne #2MonthsLeft

4 new friends (OldieButNewbie #RunningHubby; My Child; WickedWineRunCrew (6 people!); Ragnar Napa Valley (10 people!); Cuzzo; NotQuiteTwinSister & BruinBuddy – 22 down)

3 new running events (Shamrock Half; St Charles Road Race; Orange County Half; Wicked Wine Run; Ragnar Napa Valley; Let’s Go 510…5k; Monster Dash 5k – 7 down)

2 back-to-back running events (Rock N Roll San Jose 5K & Half; Ragnar Napa Valley & Let’s Go 510…5k – 2 down, Rock N Roll Las Vegas 5K, 0 to go)

1 Half Marathon PR (Rock N Roll San Diego Half! 6 minutes!, Rock N Roll Las Vegas 5K – seconds to spare! – 2 down!)

 

Pops! #ThatSecondLastName Oleksy-Jones

So, I struggle with sexuality. Well, not mine so much. Spoiler...I’m heterosexual. The only struggle with that is finding the person who wants to be heterosexual with me. Actually, I don’t really struggle the other side of that sexuality spectrum anymore.

.

Enter, Pops. MO.m's "hubby" in my professional life. My student affairs paterfamilias. SNJ. That second last name I never told you about. MO.m would be where my introversion, my reflection, my calm comes from. The parts of me people do not often see. Pops is genetically (really, not really) responsible for the GirlieGurl many of you have come to know and love! The laughter, the excitement, the willing to try anything at least one, the hosting dinner parties and events...All of that extroversion is Pops. Totally Pops.

There is no real appropriate place to start when it comes to us. I know, though, that he would begin the story in 2000. UCLA RA Training. Me and my AT&T Nokia phone. Damn shame... I’ve never been smarter than these damn phones.

He was my first hall director. My first supervisor at UCLA. The first UCA alum in my life... And my first openly gay friend. Crazy that I actually know my "first" gay friend, right? Right. #AnotherCherryPopped.

Anyway, UCLA. SNJ. ORL. Delta Terrace. Talk about amazing times. Rewriting my incident reports because I couldn’t control the angry black RA inside of me. Some of the best meals (I cooked for him) in his apartment. Amazing holidays celebrated in the 4th floor of the staff building. Driving his car like it was my own. Being called out in Covel Commons with Shellie. I can still hear him calling us Peacock (my wild and colorful braids) and Du Rag (Shellie always had her hair wrapped up). I wouldn’t trade a second of it.

Well, accept the one second that I would.

People on our staff team didn’t take too fondly to his leadership. I struggled a little with his sexual identity, but not so much that I could not work with him. I couldn’t see how they had an issue with him when I would get ALL the extra work! And I did the extra work without complaint. But, I suppose that made me his favorite because they complained about it to our Area Director.

Our Area Director had a “top secret but not really because I’m an informant” meeting with us. (Damn right I told SNJ about it...hello! He feeds me!). Specific people had their serious issues with commander in Delta Terrace and felt all too comfortable to speak up. I’ve never taken too kindly to this format. If you don’t have the testes or uterus to tell the person, please have several seats. In a confrontation strategy coaching counseling session. For beginners.

Then someone did it. Someone brought up my and his relationship. She’s his favorite... He doesn’t hold her accountable like he does us... She gets to do whatever she wants... *under their breath* Doesn’t she drive his car?

I had a conflict of conscious in that moment. We’re in a room talking about a man who isn’t here to defend himself. They obviously know nothing about our relationship. Which isn’t a relationship. Why are they looking at me? He is a gay man and I’m the daughter of a preacher, and a Christian. And people know that about us. What am I supposed to do?

I thought about it for a while. Then I realized exactly who he was. He was my supervisor, a good (albeit crazy) man, a Cowboy’s Fan #WeDemBoys, a generous person, a gay man...and my friend. And dammit, NOBODY says nothing bad about my friends!!

I began to speak. And with every word, every You're hella moded statement and …as a matter of fact accusatory finger point, everyone else begin to have a crisis of conscience. Mine was gone. Me and the other RAs were never the same after that day. And he and I changed a little too. Only it was me who did the changing. He was the same ole guy. Pops.

Before I made it to Westwood, I would have told you that homosexuality is wrong and I’m not sure I could be friends with someone who lives that life or identifies that way. I could not see how it could be. Not with the way my Bible reads, and how my Daddie preaches. And it’s not even about condemnation; it’s just looking at it from a "what’s right and what’s wrong" perspective, based upon what I believe.

While in Westwood, I made my peace with it all. I was not his favorite. I was just his. To love, to care for, to care about, to teach, to befriend, to develop, to watch Alias & Cowboy games with, and to nag. When I was hungry, he bought groceries and I made us dinner. When I needed to get to the Rose Bowl for the game, he made me take the car to get an oil change days before, then drop him off hours early and bring back lunch – for everyone. When I needed a place to live over the summer, he took me in – no questions asked and no rent required. And when I need someone to look out for me because I was (am) so naive, he anticipates all my needs.

Pops and MO.m took me wine tasting in Napa. You should see them together. How much they care for each other. All of the memories they collected over the years. The shared hopes for our individual futures. There with me, in Napa, drinking wine. There, with me, teaching me about wine. And I wasted every dime they spent on me. We went to some of the best wineries in Napa, because we’re bougie, and sampled California's greatest bottled creations. I had my thizz face on the entire time. Hated it! Even the champagne. I didn’t realize just how much I missed our family time...our together time. Going out to dinner at fancy places I could not afford on financial aid, holidays in the penthouse with that sinful mac & cheese...and good heavens Sweet Tea!

I see now, just how limited my understanding of love was... I love people better because of him. Anyone who has ever received any measure of love from me knows something about Pops. There are days when I am certain, especially at work, that I won’t make it. But Pops is hella strict, and he just won’t allow it. Even those times I fall from grace...as all aspiring earthy angels do. He is always there, waiting for my wings, so that he can catch me, dust me off, and give me enough air to fly again. And his being gay may have something to do with it. Or nah. Point is, it doesn’t matter anymore. It doesn’t make me any less Christian. It doesn’t hinder my walk or relationship with God. My faith is the stronger for it. I believe a little more because of him.

I Remember Dianne & Joe #MyJazzParents

I was born in love. Marilou and Poochie game me all that they could. And let the genetics fall where they now remain. We lived, in a house full of other people. There, they raised us to love God, be kind to others, and get good grades. Remember that time I told you about my Mom and how she felt about partial credit?

Many of my childhood memories are not only marked by my spiritual, social and academic educations, but also my musical ones. I have specific memories of music, of songs, of artists, that have literally been with me since the first cord was played. En Vogue’ing in front of the living room mirror to Hold On. Crooning about the way love didn’t go for me as Brian McKnight sang the hooks. And air guitar (pre guitar hero) to Atomic Dawg like none other could do. Like really though. That song came on at a party when I was in graduate school and didn’t know much about NPHC organizations. Needless to say, I had a situation on the skating rink floor. #LessonLearned #TheyCameForMeThough #IWasntReady

#ButIWasHellaHypeThough #NobodyWasSupposedToBeThereButThem

…and life was good. Then I went away. Away from the genetic fount of my birth. The musical cradle of life. Wondering around Westwood with a sony discman attempting to reconnect me to sounds hundreds of miles away.

The Calling: Enter Dianne

I took a Jazz course at UCLA #BruinBests because science majors need electives that do not involve cadaver sections, test tubes, formaldehyde and electrons. We also need to see people not adorned in white lab coats reading unintelligible chemistry equations on graphing paper. It’s kind of a thing there. They want you to have an education formed with many shapes of something…. #WellRounded #theGeometryOfAcademia

…and I love music, so it wasn’t a hard sale. What was? The $25.00 ticket price to go see this lady sing some songs about this lady she “remembered” named Sarah. Back then, $25.00 was a lot of money, and quite frankly, if you remembered her already, what is my purpose?

To be adopted. I was there to meet my musical mom. Dianne Reeves.

She will never know the change in me that day. How I sat in that super-close-for-only-$25-row and listed to her sing life into a generation who could not fathom the essence, let alone life or personage of Sarah Vaughn. I answered her calling.

I just gotta testify... Dianne Reeves saved my musical life. I have listened to the music from that day in just about every state (emotional and geographical) that I have lived in. Calming like I imagine my mother’s voice was as I swam about her uterus. Inspirational as my parent’s hopes for my future. And almost as loving as my Daddie’s smile.

This summer, I got an email from SF Jazz about an upcoming performance. It was a member’s only concert #MembershipHasItsPrivileges. I did not even think about whether or not I had the cash, the time, the resources or the energy to traverse the summer heat and schlep my remains from one end of the Bay Area to the other. I logged onto the website. Bought the closest ticket (which was in basically the last row) and went back to work. It was not until the day of the concert that I realized that I would see my musical mom again.

She hasn’t aged a single bit. Her voice was like the first day we met. And she loved only me in every minute of that show. The vibrant outfit only enhanced the vibrations of her voice in that perfectly designed place. And though she will never know, the profound impact she has made on my life. The fact that she will never know in this moment of professional confusion, sadness and despair that I would recall her reminder about the amazing grace that saved our lives, is just every single thing.

I literally had the best day this past summer at SF Jazz, all by myself listening to her remember Sarah, remember me. 

The Mourning: Exit Joe

I got a musical pops too. His name is Joe. Papa Joe doesn’t say much, at least not with his mouth. He recites monologues with 10 fingers and each key in front of him. We weren’t looking for each other. If anything we were being our introspective selves. Papa Joe minding the business of the CD Rom drive in the computer, me listening to the newly made mix CD from the CD Rom drives in the Sunset computer lab (compiled from all the CDs I owned). Both of us in our own notes.

Then my double A batteries decided I didn’t need to be great. I took my headphone jack out of my CD discman and put it into the computer. Only Sho-nuff Shona left her CD inside. Their CD rather. Joe Sample & Lalah Hathaway. I literally got sick. A fever actually. And it was a lovely way to burn.

The parts of the CD that compelled me most, were the ones in which Lalah stepped aside. Now don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love her. Actually got a chance to see her perform this summer (in the front row!) in Oakland, so um, I’m winning. But something about the music. I honestly believe that every musician means a specific thing, has an identified feeling, is saying a particular thing as they play. The beauty is that we can interpret it to mean whatever we believe it to mean, because that’s there gift to us.

And Papa Joe was explaining that to me. The beauty of a father’s wisdom is that they hold on to it until the very moment they know you need it. Patiently. Watching you develop. Seeing you grow. Basking in every achievement. Aching at your sadness. Urging to fix your unseen wounds. Then, when the time is right, giving you a forehead kiss of wisdom to get you through. Though that time your life was low.

Papa Joe knew that as much as I loved, appreciated, respected and adored music, I did not understand what it was. Music is a gift. Sure we interpret music through our lens, emotions, joys, and pains, but it is created with purpose. It is not made to be this amorphous thing here for our shaping. It’s already done. It’s already whole. It’s already complete. Sometimes, you need only listen. And that be all there is.

But we children of great men know that our fathers won’t be here forever. …and when they are gone, their songs, their genetic compositions, will live on… Even knowing we never prepare for their departure. It always happens so unexpected, and definitely too soon. Papa Joe left me silently this summer. In that moment I almost did what I tend to do when something so devastating happens to me. Retreat to silence. I listen to my loss echo through my mind. #becausemyworldturnedblue

But I listened to a new album that’s been in my iPod queue for a while. Just like Papa Joe would have wanted.

I am thankful for many things. I am indebted to others. Like Marilou and Poochie. Though I haven’t been as careful with the precious life they have given me, I made it mine, if nothing else. That is a debt I will remain outstanding. In every definition of the word.

And Dianne and Joe. Westwood was a time when I could have became anything or nothing. They helped me remember that no matter what I decided, I was already something. And I was worthy of the trouble to figure it out.

...but who braided your hair tho?

So it all started waaaaay before UCLA. Only it didn’t become a big deal until I got there. Apparently, it’s not common for people to braid hair. In fact, it’s not something that many people can do well. And…you can actually make a living braiding hair.

What?!

My mother owes me back pay for like 10 years – at least! I’m working on her invoices as we speak! #childlaborlaws #theinterestonittho #ShesNotEvenGoing2PayMeAnyAttentionButIWillStillTry

I could say that it was coincidence that I was a student at the height of the grow your hair out and cornrows are a serious thing movement at UCLA. …and that my cousin from Southern California would be part of that movement and the Football Team. …and that many of my friends would not only be athletes, but my residents. …and among the lot of us, I would be the only one that could braid the 3 centimeters of hair they finally grew after painstaking patience and savings on weekly haircuts.

Some call it coincidence. I call it providence. *lowers Morpheous shades*

Add like 600 more beads, and well...Us!

I never thought braiding was a big deal. Especially cornrows. All of the time it took my mother to do our hair? No thanks! We would vie to be the first victim in her chair, because at least you knew that after you took a nap from the migraine she braided on top of your head and decorated with every bead God made in the cosmos, there would be at least 15 minutes left of sunlight to play in before the street lights curfew’d you home. Otherwise, you weren’t waking up from that coma till the next day… It’s Sunday? But I wanted to go play…

I honestly began braiding my hair out of, well, poverty. What first year college student living in a triple in a residence hall has um, $150 to get their hair braided? Ain’t enough financial aid in the world to keep up with the inflation of braiding pricing… And I have to bring my own hair? Naw pimp, not the kid. I’ll walk around this piece with some coulda-been-great braids before I drop that kind of cash.

And I did. Only…those braids were great! Because I knew how to braid hair.

This dude. I had to stay 1 step ahead of him. LOL

It became an empire quickly because, well, I make friends really easy. Also, my cousin told just about everyone on the Football team that I could braid hair. So there was that. Turned into the Basketball Team. Men’s & Women’s Track. Even a couple Tennis players. There were some outlier sports too because athletes stick together. Pretty much, if you wanted to get top of the line braids in the City of Westwood, you had to come through me.

It was like runnin’ the mob, yo. You HAD to know people who knew people because there was no social media, cell phones weren’t exactly a thing, and campus was huge. There would be messages on my voicemail from people, who got my number from someone who knew someone that heard about me. They would be free ANYTIME I was available, because they just HAD to have me personally do their hair. Because TJ Cummings had is name and number braided in the back of his head at the game last night, and they just needed to get their hair done by the person responsible for that. #YesWeWon #GoBruins #8Clap #YoureWelcome.

I sometimes front like I was a broke college student, but my struggle wasn’t as real as some of your struggles. I mean, some days, I would have so much money on me (in cash) that I would be nervous. Not because I thought I would be victim of a crime, but because, if I ever got stopped, how would I explain having $500 on my person in the most random collection of bills? What’s funnier is that I didn’t even think anything was wrong with that until the day the Playstation came out. I wanted one, so I went to Best Buy and bought one. I started pulling all the money out of my pocket to pay for it. The cashier gave me a look…and I realized that maybe this wasn’t the best way to do this. But they still took my money though, so there’s that.

So people knew me, but they really didn’t know me. On a campus of 35,000 people, how can you really know anyone? Even the popular students or the athletes. The probability of you running into them is not high. It’s lower if you aren’t in the same major. #TheNorthSouthCampusDivide. But word got around. Eventually, in my 4^th year at UCLA they caught up with me.

*phone rings*

     Hello? #IsItMeYoureLookingFor #LionelForALifeTime

My name is [whatever it was]. I’m a writer with the Daily Bruin. I hear you are the person who braids everyone’s hair. I was hoping I could talk to you…

    

Y’all need to quit playin on my phone! I’m not falling for this!!! *hangs up phone*

*phone rings again*

     Um, hello?

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you or anything. I got your name from [friend I’m going to hurt badly] and they told me that you braid hair. Is this the wrong person?

    

Oh. My. *dear sweet baby Jesus* Lord. I am so sorry. I totally thought you were one of my friends playing around. We were just joking about this in Covel last week. *awkward silence* Hi! Your name again?

So this interested character came to my suite and watched me braid hair. I thought it was the oddest thing a person would ever want to do. We talk about the most random things. It’s either stupid early because the boys are traveling or really late because they are leaving study hall. I’m either in my pajamas or my duty polo. The Best Damn Sports Show Period is probably on though. Remember that fight on the show though?

He asked me questions in between parts, attempting to not disturb me. Only he didn’t know that multitasking is an important part of braiding hair. Eventually he came up with this article published in The Daily Bruin on that fateful day.

I did not know that the article had been published the particular day in which it went to print. Unfortunately, I was the only person on campus unaware that this article was in the newspaper. As in, in the newspaper in my hand, that I am currently walking around campus with. I walked into the lecture hall in the Life Science building eager to learn. Seriously…I was excited about going to class, taking notes and getting all smart and -ish. A friend near the podium looked up just as I was walking in. She came rushing towards me with the paper in her hand.

     Did you know that you were in the paper?! OMG!

Oh, yea, this guy came to interview me, but it wasn’t a big deal. I don’t even think he was all that interested in it. He seemed kinda bored.

Um, *looking strangely at me* you should flip to the back of your paper…

*whispers next to us* OMG…I think that’s her! I think she’s the one that braids hair!!

That’s when I realized that most of the people I passed in Kerkhoff Hall reading the paper were talking about me. Only, I was too busy listening to my latest playlist on my sony discman to notice that people were trying to figure out Who. SHE. Was?!

I never once thought about fame. I, up until actually reading the article in print, thought that this was a cleverly composed ruse by some of the worst funniest friends a person could have. I only went along with it because he was so damn believable!

But much to Lupita's position, the thought of charging my friends for something that I get so much more from, seems criminal. I met some of the best people on the planet in those weekly 45 minute sessions. People like Poli who never refused my endless need for hugs or pictures. Or BFletch to share music and rides to Church with. Smoke? I mean c’mon, his mother made me a sweet potato pie! Or the UCLA sprinter’s at the time who ran up to Saxon Suites when they saw this dude I was talking to with another chick in Sproul Turnaround. Boy was he surprised when he got up the hill later that night! He obviously was unaware that they were National Champion level runners #OhOkay. I could not believe that I could run, and those women…each one of them…made me feel, whole, beautiful, and part of their championship team. I once confided in JBell about this resident that was making my life misery in Delta Terrace. It was really just to vent to someone unrelated to ResLife. The subject of my vent happened to walk by us. I pointed him out and continued to talk. JBell turned around to catch up with him and have a conversation (eeeeeek!) – I stopped him though #theyareprotective #hewants4braidscausethat’sgangsta #LongBeach. And my very little really tall brother TJ. Oh how we loved me! Even my best friend. It was at one of his regular appointments that he began to peel back his layers and reveal just who he was.

How can you ask a person pay for that? All the love, the laughter, the secrets, the hopes, the wishes for our unknown futures, the plans…all of the tender memories exchanged freely in those moments. I know things about these people that they probably haven’t told anyone else. The words flowed effortlessly because that was a safe space. All of that has absolutely no price. And even if it did, the only thing that would have done me any good was the love. And I am still reaping the residuals of that love today.

And me. I remember finding me in those moments too.

...and, there was that one time where they helped me with me homework...you know, they did kind of let me take pictures of their braids, me braiding their hair and whatnot for the African American Art class that I took. (Remember that Anna?!) So there's that.