Two Songs for Some Good Men

I have numberless fathers. I have mentioned in earlier posts how Tyrone, who worked at the group home I lived in for three years as a kid was a better father to me than any man could have been. 

Tyrone wore faded shirts from towns in Africa he had visited. 

Tyrone was tireless at work, putting more into his job than any sane person should. Tyrone knew when I was "actin' a fool" and always expected better from me.

I remember his round face light up like sunshine with the care and love that he put into his work.

When he found something funny that a kid would do or say, like Kenyatta doing some goofy dance or something, Tyrone would kind of shake his finger like he was telling us off, while laughing and say "Ha ha, Only in America, Sam Cooke!"

Oh yeah, and I hated him. I HATED him at the time. He was so hard on me.  And I am a better person because of him.

The next person is a man called Derek. Derek Wycoff came from my neighborhood. 

My mother used her back SSI money for a house down payment. This was down the street from the group home I lived in. So, when I was released back into her care at fifteen, it was still in Oak Park. 

Derek grew up, in fact, had come from generations back from that neighborhood.

Derek met my Mom and dated her off and on for many, many years. 

Derek has the kindest heart and has walked through some of the hardest stuff a man may ever have to live down. And since he was around when I was fifteen, he's one of the few people that knows me from that long ago. 

He was there when I shaved my head. I remember him warning me that I may not want to do that, because then you have to deal with what the shape of your  head was under your hair. I think he was talking about his own experience. Haha! Peanut head! 

Really though, he never had much to give, but he cares about me and that is priceless. 

I can't seem to reach him right now and it scares me. You don't know rough like he knows it. I pray he is ok tonight. Safe, clean, warm, well fed. 

Sometimes I am sick of being in my skin, with my fucking shit. You know you've come up from the gutter- you know this for real- because the demons never really leave your eyes. You just learn to function around them, and try not to inflict your crazy shit on people. And do what you can to work-work-work-work (always fucking working) through them. 

So, how could I ever be mad at my genetic father? 

He called on Christmas. 

I can't call him back. I just can't. I recently was homeless and struggling just to eat, had to drop out of school and when I called he said he couldn't help. Didn't hear from him after that phone call.

But I did hear from a mutual friend that he took my sister's kids (all 4) to Disneyland for their bi-annual trip. Every six months. Like clockwork. While she drove around town having fun (not working- hasn't worked for yeeeeeaars) in the PT Cruiser he gave her.

I'm not mad about these facts. I'm mad that he called like everything is just fine. 

I have had some amazing father figures in my life. My genetic father has never been one of them.

I remember Ralph. Ralph was awesome. He was a big, cuddly bear of a man from Haiti. He had a wide, generous smile, all covered with a shortly cropped black beard. Pretty white teeth and a booming laugh. One of the smartest men I had ever met. He worked as an aid in the junior high class I was in- affiliated with the group home. He was a truly wise and warm spirit. The kind of man that makes the world a better place.

Eventually, he went back to Haiti to help some family member with bad health problems. That was after I returned home and went to the local High School, McClatchy. When the earthquake devastated Haiti, I though of him, as I do from time to time. I pray he and his family are ok.

I remember Dwayne, light skinned with a thin little black mustache, who took me aside and, when every other staff was giving me the bullshit about "using your words" and "tell staff" when the other kids would beat on me, he finally said, "Stop being a victim- Hit them back!" I was amazed. Permission to fight back? You mean fight? We weren't supposed to fight. He looked around, made sure no other staff were listening then reiterated, yes, he meant what he said, hit them back. The staff say don't hit back but they don't expect you to listen, get what I'm saying????!

 So, I did. I gave as good as I got. I learned to fight pretty damn good too. All my life I grew up being beat. From infancy on. That is what I knew. To turn around and start throwing punches back was a huge deal for me. That was at about thirteen. I would still get jumped, but I didn't always lose, and kids would move on if they didn't think you were easy pickings. But I continued to have to fight up to the end of my group home stay. Mostly I stuck to myself, kept my head down, and my fists up. 

I never did develop an attitude that made people not be rude. 
You know, the kind of ladies that carry themselves like Queens or princesses. I was never a Queen, I was always a warrior. I know it and that's fine. I like who I am.

So for those who have had a hand in making me who I am- for giving me the tools to survive- 

These two songs are for you.