For the last four or five years I have thought about writing something about my Daddy on the day that is commonly called Father's Day. This is apparently the year, but the few words that I type will not come close to describing my father. But I will try.
My father was a self made man in the truest sense of the word. He grew up in one of the most racist counties in Texas. He became ill at 11 years old and missed a whole year of school. When it was time for him to go back to school, he told my grandmother he was not going to school. She said that he would either 1)go to school or 2)get a job. He got a job at 12 years old and worked continuously until he reached retirement age. At sixteen years old he headed out with my grandfather to a city which offered better opportunities. They immediately found work, and slept on someone's porch for awhile until they could save enough money to bring the rest of the family down. The rest consisted of my grandmother, 3 of my aunts, and two of my uncles.
When he was of age he was drafted by the Army into the Korean War. Not only did he get sick overseas, but he found out AFTER his discharge (everybody thought it best not to tell him when he was overseas) that one of his best friends was murdered by racists in my hometown because he was on the wrong side of town after hours. And he was only on that side of town because he was a cook at a cafe and was asked to work late. My Daddy was very bitter about this and spoke of it often.
My father was a man who gave it to you straight-no chaser. He did not take any mess. And He loved to dress. What's that phrase-cleaner than the board of health? That was my father. He spent more time getting ready to go ANYWHERE than almost anyone I have ever known.
He was an honest man, and as a result he always had keys to almost all his worksites. He once worked at a laundry and happened to be the only man. I called it his harem. I would often go to visit him after school and I could tell that he was really running the place. And even I could tell that there was some flirting going on. For all the years that he worked there all of my clothes were dry cleaned and starched. Even my blue jeans. They might have been old, but they were always clean and starched.
My Daddy loved to work with kids. He had softball and basketball teams that consisted of those boys who could not for whatever reason make the school teams. It was an ideal match, because they were a little rough around the edges as was my father. My father only had two girls and of course he wanted sons. I'm sure that these boys were the sons that he never had. Actually I know they were, because they were always at our house. And they called him what my sister and I called him-Dadee.
I might as well admit that because my father wanted a son, he allowed me to do lots of things he would have taught a son to do. He let me get away with a lot. Nothing illegal or immoral, of course. I dated some bad boys and dared them to cross the line because if they did "I would tell my Daddy." I learned how to drive at 14, and at 16 when I got my license he bought me a car. He had a cousin who could fix any car (this was before cars had computers) so he always bought used cars and fixed them up. When he asked me what color I wanted, I said pink and white. And I got it. It was only when I was in college that I realized he had outsmarted me. How? There was nowhere I could go in our small town where that pink and white car would not be recognized. It was the old school version of a GPS.
Even though my father did not finish junior high school, he was a very smart man. Almost all of my aunts and uncles were college educated and were in fact teachers, and many people probably thought my father was also. He never lied about it, but he just carried himself regally. When my sister and I both were away at college, the mayor of our city appointed him as a Recreation Center Supervisor. He was responsible for a brand new 20 acre, half million dollar facility. He had the power to hire and fire, and the facility was geared towards the young men and women he was previously working with for free. Unfortunately, with this new responsibilty came more paperwork, and from what I found out later he could not keep up with the paperwork. That would have been something my sis and I ordinarly would have assisted him with. It lasted for a few years and then I guess he was "demoted". He still got to work with the kids, but he was no longer the Center Supervisor.
As with a lot of African American men who had seen some of the horrors of the segregated south, my Daddy had some demons. When he was able to retire at 65, he did. He stopped working with kids (because they had become more problematic and disrespectful) and drank more and more. He became reclusive.
He died 18 years ago at age 69 and had all of his teeth, and not one strand of gray hair. He lived a full and mostly happy life. I completely lost it at his funeral and only was present for the very beginning scriptures. I had to be carried out and could never calm down enough to go back in.
Happy Father's Day, Dadee. Rest in Peace and power.
