The Cape Doesn't Fit Yet

The last time I was up like this, I was writing to you all about my friend who had to say goodbye to his father. It turned out, I was managing the feelings I had about that, through the time my daddie said goodbye to me. It wasn’t a forever goodbye. It was, you’re in college now, and daddie can’t do this part with you goodbye. Different goodbyes, yet his father and my daddie were saying the same thing. We can’t do this part with you.

I’m up late right now thinking about another man and his father. This is a pretty special man to me. I can’t tell you all about him though, not for a lack of time or words – it’s just not the time yet, and those aren’t the words I have. I have been thinking about him and his father for a while now. But I know, while it’s genuine, it’s also a projection.

He and I just happen to be in the same place in our lives. Where something happens and your father, your pops, your dear old dad, and he has to become something else. And after they worked so hard their whole lives to give you all those wonderful experiences growing up, send you off to the best schools, and work day in and out paying for what all of that costs, you don’t have enough education or sense to figure out how to get through this.

His father needs him, more than he needs his father. It’s the not so fun side to raising your parents that we never status update about on social media. You know, the time when they like legit NEED you. Like, if you don’t figure out a way to come through for them, some bad stuff might really happen. And you might not be equipped for this, but you definitely ain’t prepared for the bad stuff that might happen. So you figure it out. And that wears you out. #ThisWomanIsGettingWeary #PretendingImMadeOfStone #projecting

You are oscillating back and forth between gratitude and grief. He’s thankful that his father is still here. I am certain of that. But the grief of this changing relationship, Lord? Having to be there in this new capacity? But it’s not new at all because it’s what his father has been doing for him his whole life. Growing up though, you never think the tables are going to be turned. You assume that your parents are always going to have this power, this authority, this control. They are always going to be able to veto that holiday plan you have, because ain’t nobody going to no damn Las Vegas Bowl the day after Christmas? Is you crazy? You can Las Vegas Bowl your butt on that couch! Child went off to school and came back crazy as I don’t know what!

#MyMotherDoesntBelieveInMe #DreamKiller #PopsIsATraitor #PopsDidntEvenHelpMeOutWithThatOne  

Grateful that you have the means to be able to do this. To fix the world up for them - even though it looks different every time you "fix" it. Grief because remaining patient and humble through that process takes an expert level of Jesus and you haven’t been to church in a few Sundays so… #Level:BasicJesus. And something tells me, even if you were on the front pew taking notes, it would still be a bit challenging. Like you actually need Jesus to be there with you through this kind of patience and humility – next to you, zapping you with patience and humble blessings as you care for your father. Because, #YouBasic.

And who, like WHO can you actually say this to and not sound like a jerk? I mean, I started this off with, my friend who had to say goodbye to his father – I mean, talk about your first world problems, right? For all the people who wish they had a father still here to worry over, there’s an equal opposite amount of those who wish they had the means to do what you’re doing right now. And you’re over there worrying over a mug of pomegranate tea sweetened with organic honey. Complain much?

You say nothing. It’s easier that way. You suck it up, and do it in silence. My friend isn’t looking for a handshake, hug, or help even. He is just trying to find his way. Just like I was some time ago. #StillLookingForThePath #TakeUsToTheKing

So I told him about it. In the black church, they call that a testimony. It was over a text message though. I told him what was actually happening to me all those times he was sitting right next to me. In the car. In the bar. At the tailgate. On the way to the game. All that time, he had no idea. I knew exactly what he was feeling, although a different father, it was the same emotion. More like emotions. It’s all of them bruh. Any given moment, you can be feeling anything on the inside, but that outside is like a rock. We become the rocks, like Tristan, that our fathers beat themselves (read: their pride) against. Unshaken. Steadfast. Unmovable. Strong  (read: humble-ish) enough to endure. Everlasting. Because we must. We have inherited this task.

You can’t give that kind of grief away. Save that for yourself. Gratitude is good. Use that for Dad.

His father is changing. His father is doing the most courageous thing a father can do for his son. He’s not being his son’s superhero anymore. He’s not moving the mountains, capturing criminals, or saving any more days. He is stepping down, so his son can learn to use his super powers.

My friend is going to have to figure this part out all on his own. Something like his father did the instant he knew he was passing his genetic material on to create the remarkable man I know today. The great man (my friend) who lets me order things we both know I won’t finish, but allows me to be great in that moment of ordering a beer I can’t pronounce because I want to be down. And never says a mumbling word about it. Okay, he says a few, but he lets me be great. Then drinks the rest of the beer. Because we don't waste alcohol. 

Things have to be this way. See, unlike Matthew McConaughey, my friend’s father won’t be able to leapfrog through time. The natural order, probability wise, will likely be preserved in this instance. This is what is left for us. A desperate, restless, search for all the horcruxes father has left you. So you can figure out how to make the cape fit. Lord knows it doesn’t fit yet – not even close. It too long. It's not the color you imagined your cape would be. Whoa - you actually never even imagined you would actually have a cape because you always thought your father would be here. I mean, you understood passing on the the figurative sense, but not in the "It's definitely going to impact my life" kind of way. An overwhelming panic is setting in. It's real. You have to do this. All on your own.

It’s then you realize just how all powerful your father was. And how ill-equipped you are for this task.

I have never doubted what it takes to be a mother. And I never will. But fathers have an incredible task to match.

Passing the cape on.

Knowing that it does not fit yet.

Unsure if they will ever see it fly.

I suppose that’s the real lesson fathers teach us. Faith. Believing in something they may never get to see. Believing in something they might not ever see. The great courage, the immeasurable love, it takes to have that kind of faith.

…and the burden to carry it. Like my friend said, it’s hard on the both of them.

It’s hard on us too homey.

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

Still Here: We Children of (great) Men

In just a few days I will be running the second leg of a marathon in the City of Oakland. I plan to #RunLikeHella for 6.6 miles. I will enjoy a splendid time at the Race Expo on Saturday with some of the other legs running like hella with me. We will hang out and have fun. Then in our individual places, we will slumber and awake – ridiculously early. Report to our separate starting lines, hella run, and finish. I am sure I will throw in some pre-race complaining about the cold, the cold that will later be the healing breeze fighting against me running hella inclining miles. And we will celebrate greatness. In a few days, I will be great. Hella great.

Miles away, in the same East Bay on this weekend, there will be another kind of greatness. The life of a great man I never knew will be celebrated. Hella celebrated. The hard work. The laughter. The pain. The achievements. The silly moments. Everything. What he created. All he ever created, will be celebrated. Everything he ever touched will be remembered by those he accidentally inspired with a hug, a word, or silence. If the person that I know he made, is any reflection of him, then even this man’s silence was inspirational. His quiet made greatness. Hella greatness.

And I am conflicted. My heart’s desire is to be there for my friend. But we all know my foolish heart. And how reckless my heart can be at times (hella reckless). Thankfully, my head tends to steer the ship, as it’s more calculating. Knowing that me, around grieving people is more of a liability than an asset.

So I write. I woke up from a deep sleep before the sun to write. In hopes that the things I feel, travel far enough to get to where they need to go. To my friend.

Fathers are amazing men. Wise beyond their existence. Magically wise. All knowing – knowing that they do not know much at all. But yet, they seem to always have the answers you need. Stronger than all the pain in the whole wide world. Smarter than the degrees conferred upon their progeny. And funny. They have the unique ability to lighten the worries of your heart with a twisted tale – a tale so twisted, you wonder if it’s just fantasy, or part of their past reality. If a woman’s heart is a deep ocean of secrets, then a (great) father is the brave traveler on a journey to retrieve every treasure she ever lost there. Successfully.

They make us. Then remake us. And then, do it all over again. The best parts of them end up in all we endeavor to do. And then they leave. They always seem to leave us too soon. No matter how long they have stayed.

Like when I moved into Hedrick Hall in September of 1998. My Father, My Daddie and I road tripped from East Menlo Park to Westwood. I literally started that day at the bottom (the hood) and ended up at the top of the hill (the ‘wood) – I was in there!

We moved every earthly possession a barely 18 year old could possess into a triple on the 5^th floor. He took out the trash one final time. He made up my bed. He watched with pride I imagine, as I found a new home for the t-shirts and toiletries. Carefully, I put all I owned where it newly belonged.

Daddie: Well daughter, looks like you’re all set. I’m so very proud of you.

Me: Awwwwww Daddie!!! *hugs*

Daddie: I love you. My baby girl is a UCLA Bruin… *pause and hugs* It’s time for Daddie to go now.

Me: *confused, legitimately* Where *do you think* you going?

Daddie: *looking at me like I should know* To Aunt Wyrtress’ house.

Me: So… So, um, you’re not staying here with me?

Daddie: Baby girl, I can’t stay here. You’re in college now. You live here with your roommates. Daddie has to go home.

Me: *hella pleading* Uh… Wait. Okay, see, I don’t know them like that. I can’t just be staying with strangers. You can’t be seriously leaving me here. Are you?

Daddie: Yes Daughter. It’s time for Daddie to go. I can’t stay here with you. You have to do this one on your own. I know you can. *forehead kiss*

Me: *hella crying some of the REALEST tears ever cried in the history of wo/man*

I never seriously imagined my world without the man who created it. So much so, for the first quarter at UCLA, I called home and asked him for permission to do everything. Even go to parties. Never did I imagine life without him. Until I had to. I still though, cannot truly fathom it. We are separated by thousands of miles, layovers, starts, finishes, medals, Mondays, and interstates.

And this weekend, another great man I never knew will have a conversation with his son (my dear friend). A conversation with the person he created. And as they celebrate his life, that great man is going to pause the pain in his son’s heart (amidst every other feeling he’ll be feeling that day) and tell him what my Daddie told me, “Yes Son. It’s time for Daddie to go. I can’t stay here with you. You have to do this one on your own. I know you can.”

...pound it pops. #iGotNext

And my friend maybe might shed a tear or ten. And be afraid to do it. But he will. And in doing so, he will remake his father. My friend will fashion all the good things his father ever hoped he’d be, into a greatness those of here left to wander this dusty world will get to experience. My friend is going to make so many things, so many people (like his sons) so much better because he is still here.

He has to. His father told him to. And he, my friend, is a good son. And like his father, I know that my dear friend can do it. We children, children of great men carry a heavy burden. The greatness of the men who gave us life, lives on in us.

I’m supposed to say something churchy or biblical – about joy coming in the morning or peace in the middle of the storm, right? Queue up a hymn with CJC on the organ composing the soundtrack? But my grieving heart gets so far from God in these moments. In these moments, I have difficulty seeing God for Who and just What He is. So, I guess I will say this… I pray that during this season in the life of my dear friend that You show Yourself real God. I pray that the power I know, that can heal, is released through just the hem, just the stitching in the bottom part of your garment – because in times like these, that’s as far as many of us can reach.

I know that, just that much would be overflow.

“My father didn’t tell me how to live; he lived and let me watch him do it.” #ClarenceBudingtonKelland