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.

Jazzsplanations

I have spent an inordinate amount of time and money at SF Jazz! If I ever come up missing and there isn’t a race scheduled that weekend, check the SF Jazz event calendar. I’m probably there, en route there, or rushing to BART to get to the last Caltrain to take that trek home. I hate driving in San Francisco.

I digress.

Earlier this month I spent time with three lovely people at SF Jazz. If you are looking back at the calendar to see who was performing, you won’t find it. It was a Member’s Only event. Yeah, remember my Jazz Mama? She was playing there and I had to get a membership so I could buy a ticket. You know that happened.

So now, I am benefiting from all the privileges of membership. Like this event, The Artistry of Ensemble: Wine & Jazz. See this winery wanted to give away introduce a new red blend they’ve been working on and well, us. Free wine? Yea, okay. Sit with that for a minute while we get another round.

My lovely friends and I got gussied up after work and made our way to the SF Jazz Center. Ah, that place. Every time I’m in there I feel like I’m in another world. Like I’m a little girl playing dress up, who snuck out to hang with the grownups. I’m always worried that I won’t be dressed appropriately. Then I remember not to apologize for who I am, and enjoy the show.

It was awesome seeing the looks on their faces. Like kids in a candy store, they were awe’d by everything I have come to love about SF Jazz. The ambiance, the setting, the fancy people, the staff interactions, everything! And I knew it. I was so happy. It’s so awesome when you can show and share with your friends nice things.

…until you actually show and share nice things with them. Enter Jazzsplanations.

In order for Jazzsplanations to happen, you need the following:

1.    A ratchet friend that isn’t loyal. This person will say extremely ratchet things, but when the ish hits the ratchet, they will act like they have never seen you; and

2.    A colorful lip’d friend who puts vampires on her lips because apparently red toned things are in; and

3.    A friend that…that’s…that’s…thank God he’s cute; and

4.    …and me. And my kryptonite? My smarter-than-me phone.

Now that you’ve got the friends, you have to give them access to unlimited amounts of wine. That costs them nothing. Like entrance to the venue. It must all be free. #membershiphasitsprivileges

Cute friend will wink at the bartender to ensure that your red wine pours look like your koolaid cups at dinner time. Cute friend will also avoid all forms of order, like lines, and help himself to the refreshments at his leisure. *take a selfie* Vampires for lips friend will twerk-not-twerk on elderly Caucasian men that get too close to her. She also has fabulous hair, so there’s that #heffa #sowhatyoucute. Then there’s ratchet. But before we get to ratchet, we have to talk about what’s going on.

We had a fantastic time. We learned how Luminary created their Red Wine Blend, and the singer jazzsplained music to us. With each development of the wine, she jazzsplained the instrument, the music, the development of sound I never take for granted. It was truly the artistry of ensemble. While we could have done without her singing along with the music, it was an amazing event.

So, in this beautiful room we have a group of musicians playing the soundtrack to our shenanigans. We have the director of the SF Jazz Center, the Winemaker, and a Jazz Singer, entertaining us while we swirl and chug sip our wine. The director tells us, that this event is a first of its kind. There are 2 bars set up with unlimited wine and stemware, a table set up with fancy cheeses and figs, and we are the lucky benefactors of such an event. Everyone smiles and cheers (in a calm calculated tone, cause we fancy and ish).

Enter Ratchet…

Let’s fck this sh*t up… Turn these tables over, break this glass… Turn up!

Wait. Do what?

You should never, ever, eva show and share nice things with your friends. Never. Granted, this friend had no intentions of going through with said plot. Problem was, the delivery of the line was so timely, so well choreographed, so damn believable. He leaned in, so only we four could hear the exchange like he was about to give us the crop report before the stock market opened #TradingPlaces. Before I laughed, I was like, …damn, like really tho? …is he for fake or for serious Lord? *clutched pearls and wine glass* 

#NoNeedToWasteThisThisTastyFreeWine

Just um…next time, go by yourself. 

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.