My Father

The ghetto is full of stories from men who have never known their fathers.

I don’t have one of those. I’m Danny B’s Son. I’ve always loved him, and I’d like to personally welcome him to my blog.

We talk a LOT these days. I’m happy about it. For a stretch of ten years or so, we didn’t speak very often. I think we probably needed time to heal from my terrible teens.

Back in those days, he was a strict, and difficult man. My impression was that he could never admit being wrong.

I was as stubborn as he was and that was a custom-made recipe for more confrontations and conflicts than games of catch or lessons in auto repair.

Religion, and business. That’s what we talk about. It’s always been the case, and now I wouldn’t change anything about that.

He took me to a Lakers game once. In Kansas City. The Lakers spanked the Kings, but I’ll never forget it. I think it’s the only sporting event we’ve ever gone to watch together.

Yesterday, I took my son to watch the Washington Capitals beat the Tampa Bay Lightning. I couldn’t care less about hockey, but I hope he remembers it and writes about it someday in his blog.

There are a number of memories that I owe completely to my father.

The most important, was in March of 1998, I think.

I’d traveled from Tokyo to Baltimore to attend some training. My wife and I had just decided to divorce.

I was devastated, but coping.

I called Pop to tell him I was in country, and ended up swallowing my pride and telling him that he’d been right about my decision to get married when and how I did. I was expecting the kind of tongue lashing that I’d always silently accused him of enjoying.

It never came. For the first time in my life ... he got quiet on me.

"Where are you, son?"

I told him.

We did a bit more catching up, he told me that he loved me, and hung up the phone.

I don’t know how much time actually passed, but it seems like the very next evening I got a knock on the door.

My father had caught a bus from Omaha, Nebraska to Laurel, Maryland just to be at my side.

We spent a couple of days just talking and catching up. He never judged me, he never gave me the "see I told you so" lecture that I expected. He just talked to me ... and listened.

To whatever degree my spirit has stayed intact, I'm not sure I would have survived that personal crisis without that gesture, and his silent support.

I doubt I’ve ever told him how much that meant to me. I’ve always loved and admired him,
but in that week he became my hero, again.

When I think about it now, it reminds me of how he’d earned that position over the years.

We both remember the best summer of my life.

His job was transferring us from Kansas City to Omaha. It was the summer between my sixth and seventh grades. Our job was to travel to Nebraska to scope out the new situation and find a place to live.

We were partners.

We stayed in a motel, looked at real estate, and got to know the city. I remember him putting a bid on the house that is STILL my favorite, and not getting it. (Do you remember Belvedere, Pop?)

I remember Mary Ellen, the real estate agent, promising him that she’d find us a perfect house and coming through on that promise.

I remember the 10¢ sodas in the real estate agency. I remember that it was in a strip mall, and that there was a toy store three doors down. I remember leaving the office when I’d get bored to visit that shop and dream.

I remember falling in love with some toy I’ve since forgotten, and that one day he was probably as bored as I was and asked me where I always went when I left.

"Where do you go, son?"

I told him. He asked if he could go with me.

It was my little sanctuary, and part of me wanted to keep it to myself.

But I said yes. I don’t think he saw the point of the toy, but he bought it for me.

He was already my hero. Even then, I wasn’t materialistic. It was a practical toy, but I still remember that moment.

My dad is an ex-Marine. I remember being four, or five, and him deciding that it was time for me to learn how to fight in our second floor flat on Kingsbury Avenue in St. Louis.

He spent most of the morning teaching me "how to fall."

That brought the normally quiet Ms. Davis upstairs to find out "what the hammerbrand" was going on.

A few weeks later, we were visiting one of his customer's houses. Their little roughneck sons had
just gotten a punching bag and set of gloves for a birthday or something, and couldn't wait to invite the preacher’s kid to box against them.

I was terrified.

I remember my dad rescuing one of those poor thugs from me punching the shit out of him on his front porch. (Never give a scared little kid the means to hurt someone. He probably will.)

I remember that my dad rarely "gave" me money. I always had to work for it. But I always had spending change.

I remember learning about capitalism by having to sell magazines.

I remember my father breaking his rule that "the teacher is always right" by confronting Mr. Fox, my white, sixth-grade music teacher, who insisted on calling my friends and me "his little chocolate angels."

That guy was a racist, and I'd made it a point to never follow his instructions "just right." I'd always assumed that I’d get a whipping for never obeying him. Turned out that it was the right decision, though. I was right, and he was wrong; at least in Danny B's eyes, which is all that mattered in those days.

And my dad backed me up.

He also backed me up when the English teacher at my all-white boarding school insisted that I read the part of Kunta Kinte in the classroom reading of "Roots, the Christmas Story." I wouldn't, and left.

He taught me that you don’t have to "already" know how to do a particular thing, to do it well.

When our church basketball team suffered a humiliating defeat against the very Globetrotter-esque church down the street, he became our coach, bought a book on coaching a game he’d never played, and led us to victory against those same scrubs.

He taught me that its okay to exploit your opponent’s weaknesses by making little Eric (four feet tall at the most) our lead-off batter in a softball game against the best pitcher in the league to throw him off his game. (Rest in peace my young friend. You left too soon.)

He taught me that your opponent is not your enemy by standing at the fence the next week, and talking that same teenager to a 1-hitter against a team he’d never beaten.

When he opened his business, we built a really cool bookshelf. We call it the ark, because it’s got shelves on four sides and fills up the middle of a room. (Do you still have the ark, Pop?)

He taught me that it’s okay to stand alone by always having an opinion he’d thought about, and being willing to say it loudly and proudly in a million different hostile environments. He was the first black Republican I ever knew personally.

The lesson he taught me most consistently was to think for myself, and always be willing to make my own decisions, fully aware of the consequences, and fully willing to accept the worst case scenario.

He supported me when I dropped out of college to join the military, even though a war was starting and he didn’t think it was the best time to be heading off to boot camp.

He’s never been a quiet man, nor shy. He’s never been prone to keep his thoughts to himself. I learned that from him, too.

We don’t agree about religion. He’s a devout Christian, and I fully expect that if there’s a heaven, he’ll go.

But he’s respected my choices, and talked openly about both the parts he thinks make sense about them, and the parts he thinks I’m stupidly naive about.

We don’t agree about politics, although Dubya has probably brought us together more on the subject than any President since we debated whether we should go see candidate Carter in St. Louis.

He’s been married to my mom for almost 35 years. I kept it together for about seven and tried to quit with dignity.

I am a man today. I love to discuss religion and politics. I’m strict, and probably difficult. I’ve been beside my friends on some of the most difficult days of their lives. I try to never say "I told you so" on those days.

Last weekend, I started teaching my son how to fall. He asked me for this noisy firetruck. I bought it.

I work for the money I have.

I'm not what you'd describe as "handy," but several years ago I built a set of shelves that I’m really proud of, even though I don’t see them anymore (long story).

I have no problem winning, and will gleefully find and exploit my opponent's weaknesses to do so.

But I know how to lose with honor, and to give my best effort in competition.

I will shake your hand, and congratulate you on your victory.

I'll mean it when I do.

I’ll help a friend.

I think for myself, and make my own decisions.

I’ve suffered enough consequences that hurt me deeply to know I’m not afraid of tough choices. I’m neither quiet nor shy.

I don’t keep my thoughts to myself most of the time, although I don’t tell just anyone everything, either.

The ghetto is full of stories from men who have never known their fathers.

I don’t have one of those. I’m Danny B’s son.

I love you. Pop.


p.s. If you ever want or need a Bible, Danny B will be happy to sell you one in any language. check him out at:
http://www.internationalbibles.com/
If you tell him that Stew sent you, he might even print your name on it in gold leaf for free. I dunno, you'll have to ask him. He makes his own decisions :)