Tapestry 05: “1-800-Daddy”
The realization that there was an actual male involved in my creation was an interesting curveball for me.
I was so consumed with unpacking the myriad of observations I’d gleaned about this existence over the past 7 years that I really didn’t recognize a gap in parental support. After I peeped at the naming situation here, I knew to lower my expectations.
One of the most poignant essences of the chanteuse is that while her saunter isn’t a loud swing, her moves are strategic, quiet, swift, and effective. She knew she had a bunch of kids and she knew there would be a lack. She got me a “Big Brother” to fill the space that she anticipated would need attention. Joe. 43. White. A well-respected surgeon with a beautiful lakefront home in Pompano. Just a few light palms. He recognized me immediately. Instant traction and a whole new file of forensics for me. He was the island on the other side of the globe that I never knew how to reach. He was extremely instrumental to a 6-year-old architect trying to find his way in this poorly lit world.
I knew about 1-800-Collect, but never had to use it.
I’d mastered resourcefulness and bravely figured things out without the expectation of others by this point. No one had acknowledged the depth of attention I warranted aside from Joe. I addressed George on the call the way I’d addressed the tallest of adults, direct.
“Are you my dad?”
Silence. Weirdness. My eyeballs.
“What’s your name? What’s your mom’s name?”
I provided receipts and awaited answers.
My dad has never raised his voice, been obnoxiously defensive or distasteful a day in his life. I had no idea what state he was in, but it didn’t matter because I had 1,117 questions and several pieces I needed to put together. He obliged as many questions as he could, didn’t confirm or deny being my dad, but offered to call me back later that evening.
The chanteuse simply confirmed if we talked, I said yes. There was meatloaf that night. I made a significant note to explore if there were other options for vegetables that weren’t in cans.
My mother and grandmother returned from the Olive Garden.
Upon Bess’s tiptoe into the study, she found me cradled in grandaddy’s arms at complete peace. She simply asked, “Do you know who that is? It’s his birthday tomorrow.”
“Yes. I’ve prayed over him and washed him with love. He’s family. After you take Veronica home. I need to go to the hospital.”
My grandfather died a few hours later in the early misty hours of May 7, 1987. I loved our time together.
If it isn’t blazingly evident by now, I’ve been clocking Veronica since my second breath, and I know her movement the way you know the texture of your own skin. But, what gets me about the chanteuse is how she has folks shook! She’s good. Very good. I don’t deny. She’s not a lot of fuss. She’s silent action. Not the “silent treatment” that you hope lands as threatening kind. Nah, she’s slicing thin so you don’t see the incision. She’s a dangerous mix of a pretty, thug, heels and baked goods. Gorgeously she’s evolved to prefer diamonds over brass knuckles.
Veronica and George began co-parenting seamlessly from my immaculate point of view. Yea, there were some silent squabbles he’d dare not try to confront her about, but given the backstory they cooperated well and explained not enough to me. But, I persevere.
That plea for beauty in a weeded field…. It was delivered by my father. Now, it’s confirmed that God is an artist and I am the art. He’s for sure sensitive about his shit.
Not too long after the invention of daddies I received a humongous UPS box in the mail. I’d never received a package, let alone one of this magnitude. I come home from after-school interests to find the chanteuse making her signature lasagna with an unfamiliar attitude I couldn’t quite place. The box had clearly been opened and rummaged through, but she brought it to my attention that it was for me. I kept my comments to myself and proceeded to explore.
The father had sent me a package.
I instantly sensed the luxurious chill of retail. I hadn’t touched a thing and knew this was significant to me and how I see the world. My aesthetic up until this point was generally a two-piece monochromatic or horizontal striped print a la Sears or The Swap Shop. Yes, I’d had several comments, concerns and requests about it all, but I knew there wasn’t much opportunity for change. I’m strategic on how I play my cards with the chanteuse.
I pushed the box in my room to the glare of my mother’s eye roll on my back. I closed the door to the deepest exhale because I could feel the cells shift in my body. I could feel my skin recalibrating to a new sense. A robust backlog of notes on “structure, architecture, colorways, palettes, lighting, quality and self-worth” all started rushing to my forefront. There was a key in this box and I needed to take my time to experience it.
I didn’t know who Ralph Lauren was. Do you know where I live and what my circumstances are? How could I? Every amethyst colored polo, coral colored chino, tartan patterned belt, and satin-lined jacket said “Ralph Lauren” and accompanied that little horse thing.
Now, something finally makes sense to me. Finally. Something I don’t have to question. Something that feels consistent and doesn’t require explanation because it’s not lacking anything. Something that felt intentionally constructed for more than utility. There was an essence in each of those garments that centered me. I was able to track the origin of each color, stitch, pattern, cut, and texture down to the how and why it existed in my hands. You can feel seen through clothing? Noted. Open new forensic file.
Joe carried my soul for 20 years.
Restaurants that have tablecloths. Ice Cream shops that felt like Ralph Lauren. Leather couch. Jeep and Porsche. Pool at residence. Calamari. Football games are not only on TV. My own box of Krispy Kremes. People can own computers in their homes. He gifted me one. Color printer.
God works in ways you could never. If you pay attention.
Purchase some cuticle oil and then continue…
Christopher.
