My Daddy, The Muslim Immigrant

My dad has been gone exactly four years now, buried in the hard earth on a bitterly cold day in February, I nearly fell to my knees as I watched that plain pine box getting lowered into the ground.

You see, he was the smartest man I've ever met; his brain working at the speed of light to compute numbers and figures. He was always reading and absorbing information; talking (or shouting) to his friends and family members when discussing policies, politics, and statistics. I feared him as much as I was enchanted by him. I was born the year my father turned forty-two. He had a whole big life before I even took one breath in this world.

At nineteen he was saying goodbye to his friends and loved ones in Lagos, Nigeria, bound for Howard University. Before he could return to his house and embark on his voyage to America, my grandfather collapsed and died; my daddy never got to say goodbye.

He never spoke to me much about his childhood and adolescence. I knew that school came easily to him as it often did for me. (Though his love for mathematics was something he neglected to pass down to his children.) Instead of attending classes at HU, he often made the journey from D.C. to New York to party with friends; returning to class only to ace his midterms and final exams. I found his diploma for his Ph.D. in mechanical engineering folded and stuffed into dusty filing cabinet the summer my sister and I sold our childhood home.

He moved to Chicago at some point, and lived in a pristine apartment on the north side; at least that's what my mother told me he was doing when they met. Though he was always a practicing Muslim, he became more devout as I got older; beer disappeared from our fridge, and his prayers, coming from our TV room often comforted me on early mornings or late nights when I tossed and turned in my double bed. To this day, the music and sounds from the five daily prayers coming from the mosques in Harlem often put me at ease on warm summer days when my windows are cracked, and my anxiety threatens to get the best of me. It's as if my dad is there holding my hand.

We got along mostly he and I, until we didn't, having major blow up fights once every other year or so, his stubbornness and my disdain for authority clashing viciously; threatening to set our home ablaze. (When I was 12, he drilled the door to my room close; my punishment for lying. When I was 14, he tried to spank me for defying him. When I was 21, I told him I would never forgive him for how he treated my mother, her loss, so painfully crippling and raw even now. Her final diagnosis was perhaps the one time I ever saw my daddy cry.

He was so grand, and so big, at only 5 foot 9 or 10 (though he swore he stood six feet tall). Like me he often retreated into himself, thinking and observing; his calm scrutiny running parallel to my frantic energy.

Born in the late ‘40s, daddy had his work cut out for him raising two little girls on the South Side of Chicago during the ‘90s. Education was his top priority, and during the week, it was all about books. However, many Friday nights during my adolescence were spent perusing the shelves at Hollywood Video store; arguing with my sister about what films we’d rent for the weekend. My daddy sparked my love of film, one that has shaped and transformed my life.

He was and still is perhaps one of the most God-fearing people that I've ever met. He painstakingly taught himself how to read Arabic and took The Hajj in the fall of 2010; the same year my mother drew her last breath.

He didn't become as US citizen until 2008, grasping on to his Nigerian roots despite his forty long years in America. His roots and story are things I know too little about. The two times he voted in a US Presidential election were for a man who looked like him, a man whose name Barack, feels as foreign to many as Segun did and as Aramide does.

Though I've known what it means to be Black in this country for well over two decades now, I have never been more disgusted than I am with the US as I've been in the past year. As the election results rolled in on November 9th, my stomach rolled in horror; that sinking filthy feeling has not yet left my body, but at that moment, I did thank God, Allah, and Jesus that my father was not here to witness such an atrocity.

He was 64 years old when he died, colon cancer shrinking his body down, taking him peacefully in the dead of a wintery night, his mind sharp until the very end.

He was not a perfect man, he was hard and unyielding often, but he was my friend and my teacher, he taught me how to pray and he gave so much, though sometimes it was not enough. He was not simply just a man, or a father, or a Muslim, or Black or Nigerian and he deserved much more than what this place has become.

On the First Anniversary of My Father’s Death

On the First Anniversary of My Father's Death

Death,” she said, “is a great teacher. It reminds you, almost mockingly, that everyone is stamped with an expiration date.”

 

One year ago today, I got a phone call that I'd been expecting. It’s a strange thing, expecting a phone call like that, expecting death. You can feel it, its been hovering around and you think about it constantly. You try and fight thru it; smile even but there's no escaping it. One year ago today, I sat in a classroom bored out of my mind until I looked at my phone and I knew. It was the third phone call I'd received like that in three years.

 

My dad was a vivacious man, stuck in his ways; some would even label him inflexible. But I understood him. I feel like I understood him in a way that often no one else did. He was stubborn and he expected a lot, but he laughed too, and he danced, and he listened and understood. He never told me what to do, not as an adult anyway. He simply made his suggestions and it was up to me if I decided to go along with them. He always allowed me to make my own decisions, to be grown up. He expected nothing less.

 

I've always thought it was interesting how we don't see our parents as people. During our childhoods they are these powers at be, not really human much more like superheroes than anything else. As you get older you begin to see the chinks in their armor. The cracks, the mistakes, the experiences that have exposed them, and that have worn them down. My dad wasn't easily worn down. (Years ago his doctor informed him that at some point in his life he had a heart attack. He hadn't even realized he’d had one.  He probably just felt a pain and decided to sit down and listen to NPR instead of carrying on with whatever he was doing.)

 

Growing up my dad worked a lot. It was very rare that we got to spend the day with him. There were special occasions, Christmas Eve, New Years, anytime something related to Harry Potter came out. And then there was the summer I graduated from college, the most time I can ever remember spending with my dad.

 

He came to NYC for my graduation; we talked a lot, laughed a ton and walked around what is now my neighborhood. I take comfort in knowing that he's been here, in the area that I now call my home.

 

Last winter I was visiting him in the hospital, he liked to joke and laugh and keep things light despite what was occurring. And he told me two things, two things I'll remember forever. My dad told me about the day his father died. He was leaving for the States and he had gone around the neighborhood to say goodbye to his friends and relatives. By the time he returned home, his father had passed. A couple of days later he got on that plane and came to America. (That tells you a little bit about the stuff I'm made off).

 

And then he told me something else, something that broke my heart. He said, "Just continue to be a good girl, that's all I ask."

 

I have been a good girl, for the most part... I hope. I've made some really big grown up decisions lately and I hope that he would be proud. Or, he would suggest otherwise and then leave me to my own devices.  

 

Its been one whole year since I received that phone call, and I’m very different and also very much the same. Death has been a great teacher, but so was my dad, I wish now more than anything that he was here to give his two cents.

 

Chocolate Girl In the City

In my Mother's house, there's a photograph of a day gone past...always makes me laugh.

Home

Once again like I always do, I will ask that you excuse me for slipping into oblivion. I have a legitimate excuse this time.  a lot has happened, much has changed, things have shifted. By the skin of my narrow Black ass I manage to finished my Master's classes with A's and B's (some I deserved and some I didn't). Once again I find myself back in my hometown. The the place where I grew up is forever changing and yet, always the same. Its strange being here again, surrounded by memories, and moments just out of reach in this empty house. I'm not alone, not really, my sister is ever present, my family is in and out helping us pack up and purge and reminisce. But its not the same as it once was,not really. My dad isn't in the den on the green leather couch watching Pride and Prejudice on an endless loop. Its Sunday today, so my mama would have been making pancakes, loudly laughing on the phone, gossiping with some sister or some friends. Its not quite noon yet so I would have just been waking, the smells of butter and sausages would have assaulted my senses drifting upward into my third floor lair.

Instead, I've been up for hours. It cold here and silent. Though my favorite season is rapidly approaching I've been fiddling with the thermostat this last week or so. When I yell up to my sister about this thing or that the echo of my voice beams through the house. An echo that hadn't been there before. Its empty because they're gone. They've left this world.

I remember before my mom passed nearly three years ago I had a lot of fears. Like small anxieties that would burden my heart (I randomly developed a fear of flying and I was scared to drive on the highway because I was sure that I was going to get hit by a truck.) After she passed none of those fears consumed me anymore. There wasn’t much left that could hurt me, that could affect me so drastically. My dad passed just over three months ago. Ironically, I’ve been on more planes than I can think this year and its only May. My reactions to both of my parents deaths are strange and honestly I feel like I don’t speak about them much. My mom passed and I had to be be back at school nine days later. I was going into my junior year in college. I got the call about my dad in between my two mandatory three hours Master’s film studies classes. I hopped on a plane shortly thereafter. It was a Tuesday, I was back in class Monday. I didn’t really cry with my dad, still haven’t shed too many tears. Maybe its because I feel that funerals are these contrived things, like people carry on and on and act so upset but I think to myself, where was all this emotion when the person was living.

            I guess the real reason that I'm writing this post is because, people go through things, but the world keeps turning, The city wakes from its slumber, holidays and birthdays and heartbreak and vacations and the whole still come and go year after year.   What's left behind after a person leaves is just their stuff. I've pulled out trinkets and china sets and clothing from the eighties and pictures of my mom's old boyfriends and sing-along from my childhood. And they've stacked up. In the kitchen, living room, dining room, basement.  Things long forgotten about or things simply meant to be displayed, never touched, or handled or really seen.  These things just become stuff, some things sentimental and worth saving and others better off with someone who really needs them. Some family that could really make use of them.

I've been dreading coming back here, probably since my mother died. My parents were mini- hoarders and the house is large enough to hold a lot of stuff without it outwardly appearing cluttered. In these last two weeks My sister and I have waded our way through the books and the paintings and the nick knacks. Strangely, though its been difficult, we haven't felt the need to keep much because I guess we know that this wasn't them, not really.

A part of me is itching to get back to New York, to my life and my apartment away from the things left behind. And another part, albeit a smaller part never wants to leave this place, the laughter and Christmas parties and the teenage standoffs between my mama and myself. My dad praying in the background or reading his Qu'ran. It was always home even when it got really bad.  It'll never be the same though.  I just bag things up and wrap the fragiles with care. And as this old life fades, this childhood days, these memories, I think how lucky I've been and all the experiences that have yet to come.  I try not to dwell in sadness or negativity, because that's more crippling than the empty house and the cold spaces.

The house will be on the market soon, so these are probably some of the last weeks I'll spend in it. I've only ever lived here (Until I moved for college and grad school). I think what I've learned out of losing both of them is how to let go, of bad memories and meaningless things, and people who weigh you down. Because life is too short and so precious. Why waste it grasping on to what is no longer there or even worse what was never there to begin with.

Instead I'll remember this

I stayed with some beads in my head lol. They even had the foil at the end.

and this

Look at sister!! LMAO she's exactly the same.

and when I hand over the keys to a new family where they can grow and share their memories, it'll be a tough day but I won't regret it.  I've somehow managed to press on, to build a full life for myself and the best thing I know to do for them is continue to live it.

xoxoxox Chocolate Girl In the City xoxoxox

Reading Old Broads for Filth (Or A Day In the Life of This Chocolate Girl)

So yesterday was probably one of the hardest days I've had in a while. (It ended up fine :)). I'm usually a rather optimistic person but due to some psychotic old hags who refuse to stay in their lane and away from me and mine, it was quite trying for several hours. Here's what Occurred:

So grad school isn't really difficult for me, but the amount of work is a trashy bastard. I'm exhausted all the time and it just seems to take me a minute to get focused. Anyway, Tuesday night I stayed up really late putting together a two hour presentation that I had to deliver the next day. When I arrived to work yesterday morning I realized that I had neglected to email it to myself. I let a tear drop, pulled myself together and informed my boss that I needed to run home (I only live 20 mins away thank GOD) to retrieve my assignment.

On my way back to work/campus, my cousin texted me asking me when was the last time I had talked to my father. I informed her I had spoken to him Sunday afternoon, and then I put my phone away nothing thinking much of it. I headed back to my desk and a few minutes later my cousin calls me.

I answered the phone and she informed by that my sister was also on the line. Obviously, this sent me into a full blown panic. In the last two years I've had more horrific and devastating news delivered to me via phone than any person should have in a lifetime.

(I'll take this point to give some quick background. My mama worked with this lady for years and years. We shall call her  Willamina. Now Willamina stays in somebody else's business, but she and my mom were cool for years. To be honest I really don't know why because when my mama got pregnant with me Willamina refused to speak to her because she loves to be the center of attention. As I grown up I realize she is juse generally a complete fool. Anywhoo toward the end of my Mama's life I guess my mom finally decided she didn't have time for it anymore and I really heaven't heard from the woman but maybe once since my mom passed two years ago. Now there's a second woman, we'll call her Betsey, she was my Mama's best friend in high school and college. I never had any issues with her until she told my sister the day after my Mama died that her behavior wasn't any type of way to remember my Mama....Needless to say she's been excommunicated as well. Mind you if I saw or spoke to either of these women I would never be disrespectful, but as I've stated I've barely seen or heard from either, nor do I have any desire to).

Now let's get back into the story, my cousin get quiet on the phone and she says I want ya'll to hear this from me. She says that Willamina had seen one of my Daddy's neighbors over the weekend and supposedly the neighbor told her that my Daddy had passed away over the weekend. Instead of coming straight to the source (ie: my sister or myself), Willamina decides to be an extra special flavor of tea an sends an EMAIL to Betsey (who lives across the country) asking her what she knew. Betsey then, thought it would be cute to call my auntie who lives in Florida who then calls my other aunties who then call my cousin who tries to call my father and when he doesn't answer calls my sister and myself. (Do you see how ish spirals out of control??!!)

Sister and I are both panicking and about 10 people start frantically trying to reach my father . After 20 minutes of my world stopping, my sister texts and says that she's spoken to him. My Daddy calls me shortly thereafter. The poor man was obliviously befuddled because he was in the middle of teaching when his phone went off about twenty thousand times. (His IPhone has the most annoying ring of life and I doubt he knows how to put it on silent) Obviously someone had explained the situation to him because when I pick up my phone he states laughing, "I'm not dead yet". (Sigh, Bless his heart)

Of course this is the day that I just so happen to have a doctor's appointment after work and my two hour presentation :/ I get to the doctor's office and of course I'm emotionally exhausted (it's only 5pm) so I burst into tears when my doctor asks me if I smoke cigarettes. SMH

After my appointment I slink out of the doctor's office dragging my dignity behind me and head to the gym for a quick and pungent 2.5 mile run. Obviously because I am who I am, I slip on the treadmill as I'm warming up. But whateves I still got my cardio in.

As I stumble down Lenox Ave headed home, I'm pondering a hot bath and a smooth glass of wine to drown in the foolery of my life. But alas, Life is a funny funny thing. I look up to see a grown ass man in a purple velour capri pant onesie and I scream with laughter all the way home.

Moral of the story: Please stay in your lane and mind your business. You never know how stirring up some ish for your personal entertainment will effect others.  I learn everyday that life ain't know crystal stair but it surely has a sense of humor.

xoxoxo Chocolate Girl in the City xxoxoxoxox Almost Friday :)