-justin

-justin

September 14, 2006

Searching For Daddy

I was a sparkle in my Father’s eyes the first time he looked at me. I was his first baby boy. Though, not less important, I do not think my birth held the same excitement to him as with my oldest sister, Cristi. Cristi was the first born preceding my only other sibling Jayme. But, I was the first born son, I am sure having a boy changed the sort of father he was. With my daughter, the change was almost instant, a feeling that I knew with an absolute certainty, that I would literally die to protect her. That saying is not to be taken lightly, yes I have said that to my girlfriend’s of the past and other select few that I thought I would give my life for. Nevertheless, until you have a child of your own, you will never know the bearing it has. When you say that and you know it’s real, you can almost feel the ballpoint pen scratching the prophecy onto your heart.

Becoming a father has more rewards than just father’s day; there are test drives, late night clandestine operations (spying on your kids), and being a 24/7 ATM. To me, I value the lifetime of questions. There is nothing more pleasing to me then having my daughter ask me a question. It makes me feel like the smartest person to ever hold a conversation with a three year old. I researched my answers with precision, wondering when and what she would ask me next. My answers often went on a confusing tangent that most parents wouldn’t comprehend. I remember her asking me once,

“Daddy, why is the sky blue?” I drew my lips to the point of breaking with pleasure. Having just researched the question two days before, I felt confident that I was well prepared. I walked her outside to the edge of our lawn, pointed to the blue sky, and explained it to her.

“When the light from the sun enters our atmosphere it filters though the water vapor that composes about fifty percent of our air. When the light passes through the water droplets the blue wavelength scatters more than the red and green wavelengths scatter.” I stood proud knowing that my daughter knew exactly why the sky was blue. Like I embarrassed her, she shakes her head and runs to Aunt Cristi who promptly tells her that it’s because God’s favorite color is blue.

When I was young I always wanted the answers but was always told a variety of kid answers. If I asked about the thunder, my mother told me that God is bowling. When I asked about quarter moons, she would simply tell me that it was God’s thumbnail. As a young boy who was I to argue with grownups? When I was old enough to go to school I soon found out with a feeling of treachery that those were not the answers. When I learned how to read, I spent a lot of my time in the library looking up anything I could think of, like a family of mice searching for a breadcrumb in the Atkins’ house.

A search could have many meanings for many different people. Some may search for answers to questions that they are unsure of. Many may search for things that are lost, car keys, cell phones, wallets, an old friend, a misplaced computer file, an address or your car in a busy parking lot. The busier your life the more you can lose. Others still, may be searching for intangible things such as a lost love, childhood memories, or an idea that has escaped you. I am twenty-six years old and my search has taken me through twenty years. It began when I was six. How many can remember exactly what they were doing on a particular day when they were six? The day I remember was on a Sunday. November 23, 1986.

Since that day, I had been desperately searching for something that had been lost to me when I was too young to realize it. Sometimes, people do not even know what they are looking for. When they find it, it’s a revelation.

 I am my father through and through. His name — Franklin Benjamin Schley. He was a very smart and caring man. My dad was basically not your typical man. This however, is not why I am my dad. I say this because we have very similar interests. Everything I did as a child, or still do now, reminds my mother of his mannerisms. Although he had no formal education after graduating from Middletown High School; he worked hard and eventually got his foot in the door at IBM. He worked his way up to become a systems engineer in the mid-eighties. He was a man of mammoth proportions, standing 6’3” and being as thick as a bus. Memories are often still brought to the dinner table of when he lifted the back of his 1972 Volkswagen Karmen Ghia off the ground! There were even more stories of how he ever fit into that miniscule car. Stories aside, sometimes families go through problems.

After that Sunday, my family went through a small civil war. Being that my father was African-American and my mother was White, my father’s family eventually withdrew from my mother’s family. They never spoke to us or acknowledged our needs as a single parent family. At the time my grand-father was an ordained minister in a Baptist church so we were obviously expecting some kind of saving grace. However, like many things in life, sometimes backup plans do not always work. In actual fact, they did the opposite of what they preached. My mother’s side of the family was thin to say the most, not to many cousins or uncles. This left me no father figures, so in quintessence I had nobody. I was raised by my mother and my sisters. In my opinion, I think they did a fine job. On the other hand, no woman can bring a son up like a man can. In the undying expressions of Tupac Shakur,

“Your mother cannot calm you down the way a man can. Your mother can’t reassure you the way a man can. My mother couldn’t show me where my manhood was. You need a man to teach you how to be a man.” (Shakur)

Not having a father or father figure brought me to search out for a father in different avenues. When I was still young my mother remarried to a typical man, essentially the complete opposite of my father. When I say typical, what I mean is that he knew nothing other than mowing grass. He couldn’t fix or figure out anything. Although I was still left without a father who could understand what I needed, or was interested in what I was, I still looked to him to teach me how to be a man. I came to an assumption that someone can not teach you something that they do not know themselves. For me my stepfather was a good provider, but a son of a bitch. A belittled man who was searching for the same thing I was. Discovering this, I packed my “emotional baggage” and moved on with my search. 

To this day, I never discount my friends, many of my best friends have guided me through some of the toughest times I ever had. I got by listening to the advice that their father’s gave to them. I was still struggling with it through high school.

When he was with us my father was a deeply religious man. He was at church three to four times a week. It was my assumption that like me, he wanted to go in his father’s foot steps also. I eventually let my heart forgive, and started attending my pop-pop’s church in search of my father’s touch in faith. This had led me closer to God but even further away from his family. I felt guilty sitting in his church with the speaker being the man who disowned my sisters and mother. I felt I was betraying them, and since they were the only family I had, I quickly moved on. My search started to come to an end when, at nineteen, I was told that I myself was going to be a father. My definition of being a father is the essence of bringing a child into the world and taking distinct responsibility in the nurturing and caring for the child throughout there life. Fatherhood extends for the child long after their father has died. A good father passes their principles of love, caring, responsibility and character to their seed.  Unfortunately, the responsibility of being a father in modern times is in short supply.

About that day I will never forget, Sunday November 23, 1986. That day was the day that at only thirty-six my father passed from this world from a brain aneurysm. Although I did not know him very well because of my age when he died, I wanted to be like no other person. Now I know that I had to be my own person, and when I had my daughter on March 22, 2000; I felt a transformation within myself and started to realize that what I had been looking for was inside of myself. I was looking for a father, although deep in my soul, I did not need to be told how to become a father. My father was with me all along. He is with me to this day helping me raise my daughter. Learning to become a man is something that most fathers discover along the way.

Work Cited

          Hoye, Jacob, and Karolyn Ali, Eds.  “New York 1971-1984” Tupac: Resurrection 1971-1996 New York: Atria, 2003. pg. 23

On a cold crisp December day when I was unpacking, I found to my surprise a leftover. It was a special treat that was left behind by the previous tenants. From the looks of the box, it did not contain anything of importance. I walked over to the dilapidated box and cautiously lifted a rippled cardboard flap open. Inside the stale smelling box was an old typewriter covered haphazardly with old books. The spine on most of the books was beyond repair. As I reached for the top book, the wind blew hard against the plate glass windows sending a chill up my back. The tip of my index finger touched the canvas cover as the chill met the nape of my neck. In gold lettering was the familiar name of T. S. Elliot. Digging deeper into the box I found other notables like Faulkner, Emerson, and Frost. The books immediately held a primary significance to me as the thought of my macaroni and cheese was burning on the stove. At the bottom of the box was a large green book holding the same canvas cover and broken spine. This book was different though, it had papers jutting out of it. On the papers were typed poems. I delicately fumbled through them taking great caution not to rip the aging pages. One poem stuck out to me as if screaming to my memory. It was about a surgeon, at the bottom there was the name Emily Dickinson inscribed into the papyrus. My heart was pounding on my rib cage and my arterial walls were straining to keep it together. I was in Amherst, Massachusetts but how could I be in her house? The cold must be getting to me; maybe it was the house of a mysterious lover? Maybe she was not a social recluse after all. Like Sylvia Plath’s writing I found Dickinson most intriguing. I sat down and began reading the poems like you read a parachute manual. All the while I had forgotten about the typewriter.

My heart is vacant, cold and shut;
Pain left it shattered with shards everlasting.

In my memory she remains,
A short glimpse of a grin and the way she laughed.

The uncomfortable morning, my promise,
She still waits with sorrow upon her face.

Her sallow skin drenched in the moment,
Leaving her wanting, when will I love her again.

Sad hopeful minutes pass by,
I could call her but my heart won’t be hurt again.

But in my heart you linger,
Maybe you are my love’s medicine.

She comes to stay but I hate her persistence,
Her insistence makes me push harder.

My knees bruised, breath in small bursts,
It’s been weeks since she hurt me.

So I sit alone and she wonders why I never stayed,
I’d rather false, tainted, dying love

Over being played

For each foul woman that I meet,
The residue of their aftertaste is haunting.
Their forked tongues lick my soul dry,
They whet their appetite for destruction.
Barbed wire surrounding my heart,
The sharp steel of seduction slides across my being.
The incision cut too deep to hasten love,
Squeezed slowly down to the very last drop.

The final death in relationships put forth,
A toe tag for each year I’ve wasted.
My life stolen without remorse,
Behind shiny tables I linger forever.
A dark night cold winters eve,
Bones shake in utopian chaos.
Welcoming a just reprieve,
Forgetting this pain I ask for your name.

She is scooped up,
thick beard scratching her face.
Her deafening screams now heard
I act quickly
Stumbled into action,
instincts take over.
Swift feet crumble the ground,
the air smashing against my face.

Waiting in anxious solitude,
waiting to catch up.
He is too fast.
as I fall to my knees,
I utter a lowly plea.
“Don’t take my daughter, She’s all I have!”
Life still flowing from my nose,
my worst fear realized.

I hear a distant scream,
and my heart explodes.

Moral of the story, sometimes it’s not worth it to get all upset and throw obscenities left and right. Sometimes, just sometimes, you get lucky! If you don’t, then Fuck it!

PEACE,
Justin

But then,

I started thinking what would the world be like without Hip-Hop? What if Grand Master Flash and his “band” The Furious Five never got together in the midst of mid-1970′s? To most Grand Master Flash or Flash to most of his friends was an innovator of his time, an inventor of the art for what we now call the DJ. This form of altering music was experimental in those days. He learned a lot from the great Kool Herc and also his father. His method was different though. He would take duplicate copies of vinyl records and manipulate them with his wrist and elbow to move them back and forth. Since 1971 he has been demonstrating and making new forms. “The Quick Mix Theory”, which came from “Cutting” which later became known as “Scratching” were all forms that he along with other “greats” came up with. “Doubleback/Back Door”, “Phasing”, and “Backspinning” were also well known in the DJ scene then and now. He was a great DJ before his time. His often elementary ways of marking breaks in records were often done with Crayon. This was dubbed by him as the “Clock Theory”. This often live manipulating and rearranging of records has easily led the way of the DJ as a remixer, editor, and producer. PEACE