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.

January 20, 2015 #PartII

Memory. I remember that first half marathon experience so many ways. All of the emotion of running my first half marathon ever. Being in one of the lowest points of my (love) life and not really celebrating all I accomplished, because I couldn’t see myself. But the beginning was what I remember most about it.

From ending…to inception…

for. the. win! yasssssssss!

I tend to make lots of phone calls while I’m in the Dollar Tree. I mean this place is perfect for a student affairs professional. You need a basket? Bubbles? Gift Bag? Party Favors? It’s a no brainer – they’re all $1.00. Plus, I don’t do regular foil anymore, I prefer my Reyonlds Wrap pre-cut sheets – so I go to Dollar Tree. Walking around “high on ResLife” and “high on running” I called my best friend. That’s also a no brainer. If there is a random thought running through my head, he’ll indulge me. But this wasn’t exactly a random thought – this was a competition. See, before Charlie Sheen was #WINNING, we were already all over that. We aren’t the super competitive types that won’t speak to each other; we’re the perfectionist competitive types that are really concerned with doing our very best. He doesn’t care that I’m not a professional athlete – if we’re doing a 40-yard dash, I better be in it to win it… I don’t care that he’s never taken an Organic Chemistry class, he better be all over those protons, neutrons and electrons.

The Challenge. Strip. The Strip. The Strip – At Night. 13.1 most awesomely fantastical miles down the Las Vegas Strip. It’s on. It took me maybe 30 seconds to convince him to do this with me. The deal was done. The conversation was over. My bougie foil was paid for.

     

We spoke irregularly about the race in between infrequent text messages. I was heading to Las Vegas soon, so we’d really get these details together when I got there, kiss my 2 god-daughters, and finally – FINALLY meet his significant other. I was excited to meet the girls and nervous to meet her. Not for anything that she’s done (or not done), but because it’s me. The Female. The Female Best Friend. What in the world has he told her about me? Blamed on me to get out of something? (because we’ve all done this to our very best friends at one point – don’t you dare lie) What he hasn’t told her about me? You just don’t know…and a woman, walking into another woman’s space can be a recipe for disaster.

     

I’m back in Vegas baby!!! Not on the strip just yet… Hanging out on the outskirts meeting his just about whole family. They were gorgeous. Though I was so uncomfortable for the most part, I was so happy to see my friend. The man who knows me better than any other man alive. There is this overwhelming sense of peace and calm that envelops me when I am with him. I’m less worried, less anxious, less everything that I don’t need to be.

     

We sat on that couch, my family, chatting about random things. Which of course lead the discussion of how I was going to leave him in my tracks when I crossed the finish-line. The conversation was as unassembled like a 1000 piece puzzle. We talked about what I was going to wear, how long the race was, the training plan for it, the dance I was going to do at the finish line, and how it would be hella cool to run, stop by a casino, and get a drink every few miles. I could not have been happier. To do a half marathon, in Las Vegas, in the evening, with my best friend in the whole wide world running with me (part of the way…yea, we definitely were not going to be able to keep the same pace, he’s a professional athlete and my chest is the size of a small child).

     

Then she spoke. As innocently has his daughter speaks to him. Well, maybe not exclusively innocence, like 80% innocence, 20% message. That damn 20%. So it seems (things he conveniently didn’t tell me) that his significant other has always wanted to do a marathon and/or running type event with him. She didn’t seem to have as much luck with getting him on board with the idea as I had. Like I was then going to say anything about the 30 seconds it took me to get a verbal agreement from him. Nope, just like a man, unsure of how he got to this point in the relationship where he obviously did and/or said something wrong, I shut up.  

The conversation ended amicably… After all, to her, I was still more or less company, and she wasn’t going to show her spots about this – at least not yet or to me. It wasn’t my fault, or was it? I gave him the “how dare you put in the middle of that” side eye. And then, just like Chrisette, I had my epiphany. It was clear – crystal clear to me. And before I could speak the truth in my storm, I had to let my best friend have it for his.

     

There is no problem with a man and a woman being best friends. I realize this thought strikes many people as odd, if so, this means, this isn’t for them. You can’t do it. If you think it’s odd, then you have doubt, and you can’t enter into a relationship like this doubting. I’m not going to say something silly like, “to me, he is just a guy” or anything like that. My best friend is super fine – if I met a man like him on the streets that wasn’t him, that fool could get it. He’s a great guy, he has a good heart, he’s smart, he makes me laugh, and he really gets me. These are all great qualities for a mate. But they are also perfect qualities for a friend. And that is what he is to me. It wasn’t meant for us to be together – and while I don’t say that to test God, I just say that to say, today, we aren’t that.

     

But herein lies the rub. I can get him to do just about anything with me. And much like my father’s love, I dare not abuse that. We like to compete – so if one of us lays down a challenge, the other is accepting, bottom line. It’s more than our pride though. We’ve seen each other through some really amazing times, and we’ve had to stand beside each other all by ourselves. We know things about each other we’ve only told each other, things we have entrusted to each other that we’ve never spoken aloud. We have a very special connection. Something many people may not ever really understand. And we really don’t care. We are who we are.

     

It was crystal clear! She doesn’t hate me. She can’t hate me; she doesn’t know me. And the reality is, it’s a rare person that actually “hates” me. Who doesn’t love a Leo? But what she will hate, or dislike, or what will always give her pause, is that there is a woman (no matter the relationship) that can convince her man to do something, to go somewhere, to get something, to say something…there is this woman who is connected to her man in a way that she will never be – because he has a female for a best friend.

Memory. He didn’t run that race with me officially that day. But I would not have finished without out him convincing me to start. And every time I thought about quitting, I thought about him. It was literally the only thing that kept me going. Not the music, the water, the gu, or the thought of a hot shower. It was him. I’d like to think that I ran that first half marathon for myself. It sure started out that way – as something for me. But it was all for him. It was a gift to him. A sign that I was on my way to finding myself again.

And he loved it.

I went back to Vegas in 2013 and did it for myself.

And he loved that even more.