Spinning the Block

I wrote the following on Monday.
My father passed away today, June 17th.

My father is dying, and there’s nothing I can do about that.

He’s 91; that’s a lot of life, and I won’t hold you, this is wild surreal. He has led an amazing life for a kid from Bed-Stuy who literally had to cobble together the bootstraps, secure them with faith and some grace to get it up out of the mud. I couldn’t fathom what 1935 Brooklyn looked like, what the zeitgeist was — to have lived through that level of societal lack, all the systemic and endemic isms, and hella unknown generational extra shit, to “make it,” and by making it, I’m not talking generational wealth. I’m talking surviving far too traumatic traumas, the Marine Corps, wars, raising 5 kids, putting most through college, and at one point swallowing your pride enough to work 2 jobs — which meant being the boss by day and a security guard at the same damn job by night. sheeeeeeeeeeeeeit - Clay Davis.

hard nah…

Factually, I get my work ethic and love of music from my pops. The camera bug, the need to create, the tenacity to dare a motherfucker to outwork me — that’s all him. Pops also had a penchant for fashion (shoes for me), eloquent cussing, and being the life of the party. Le même champ, le même.

He’s been in and out of the hospital since December — 2 strokes, 2 seizures. The former, he rebounded from. This latest one, though, has wiped him out, and currently, what has me in a space is going from hope to hospice.

I can’t say whether it’s a good or bad space. It’s just space; there is a looming hollowness that has supplanted my usual sense of being full, and to keep it a solid bean, full doesn't mean fulfilled; it’s more akin to occupied. I’m really good at occupying myself and my time, especially during the valleys of life. But I’m not occupied at present, I’m letting the busy-ness of life loose from its tether. I’m not feeling like being busy is a necessity at the moment; busy doesn't have a negative connotation in this paradigm either. I have found intention in being busy, just not this time. This time, I think I’m letting time, space, and the lack of substantive shit to do be ok. That, irrespective of what is happening with my dad, which has the unfortunate timing of being concurrent with what feels like the spinning wheels of a career in which, at present, I am currently spinning every plate at my disposal, and trying to borrow both sticks and additional flatware from the universe in hopes that these jonts pay off, type shit… I’m absolutely and unapologetically going to lean in to letting it be filled with the feelings and the gravity of it all. I’m not sad or depressed; I’m in acceptance, and part of this gravity is understanding that an essential star in my solar system is fading out, and that a black hole will be in its place. That the light that emanated from that star will no longer be at its origin, though the light it casts will be seen as long as I’m here, that presence in my particular universe will be missed. It began with my sister's transition, and inevitably, Joe Black done spun the block.

I’m not feeling particularly creative at the moment, though I am still making time to create; a commitment between the god of my own understanding and me, a promise I made over 3 decades ago when it was about just needing a sampler to make manifest the dream, and slim, thank bob for the blessings heretofore. May marked 8 years without a full-time day gig, the day I opted for liberation, and though I’m in need of a steady check right now and have been applying for all the things, the regular 9-to-5 my dad always said I needed isn’t here. I have skills — have created grant programs, assisted in managing them, done graphic design, worked in strategic partnerships and consulting, and worked in TV, film, and theatrical scoring. I have decades of law firm experience doing word processing, etc. — all the fall-back-on tings, covered. As an artist, I remember those late-night, midday, early-morning conversations with my dad about not having that “thing to fall back on” — a degree, a certificate, a job — and now, on the precipice of his transition, I’m glad we arrived at an understanding. The understanding was I’m a do me, like you do you, slim.

He knew that my fallback plan was founded on obstinacy, gall, and belief, and was contingent on forever falling forward —not failing or flailing, but on betting on myself after decades on the grind of practical fund-gathering—via my art and steady employment at the time. He knew I had made the stubborn decision to bet on me. My philosophy about having a job was simple: if I give these bammas 8 hours, I’m giving myself 8. Every job was temporary until I could work for myself. I wouldn’t be beholden to PTO or 401(k)s. I would do my damnedest to be financially literate, but I wouldn’t be coerced into a false sense of security by a steady check, which was sometimes lived on until the next biweekly stub pulled up.

There were plenty of times he admonished me for not getting my degree. Full-blown beef, things said, later regretted, from two folks with short fuses and bad intentions. The apple and the tree. He knew the games corporate plays when you have all the skills and none of the paper — that they’ll try to pay you less because you don’t have a BA or an associate’s. No paper meant low paper, and it took a special set of skills (holla at me, Liam) to puncture glass ceilings, especially when you’re Black. Pops insisted the world owed me not a gyat damn thing, save an opportunity, and that once given that opportunity, the onus was on me to give my 200%, so that my work ethic and KSAs had to be so solid that they had no choice but to acquiesce and respect my hustle.

He and I butted heads as two fire signs who stood ten toes down on what we believed, respectively and respectfully. For most of my life, I wanted his acknowledgment and acceptance of my choice to pursue art, his understanding, and —keeping it funky—at that time, it didn’t happen. It made me more determined to prove him wrong, to succeed without his support, and to divorce myself from the feeling that his opinion mattered. That decision, that led to an emptiness I battled with for years, that void was there because the one dude who I got my whole style from, who could snatch melodies from thin air, whose music taste was on par with his fashion sense, couldn’t see it, for me, more so because he never saw it for himself, which I realized far later.

That was, until one particular December 8th, when he surprised me with a birthday gift I’ll never forget. It wasn’t the keyboard that made me cry — it was when he said he was proud that I never gave up, in spite of all his pressing about doing things his way. He told me he respected both my dogged determination to make it and the art I was making. The tears that flowed and the healing and mending of that void that day make me misty just retelling it. 21 years have passed since that day. During that span, I’ve received apologies for misunderstandings and context about choices he made as a parent, which, having 2 kids of my own, I now completely understand. Time and memory are crafty, and you have to be careful how your brain translates your past as you learn, and with that onus of care, keep honesty and grace with you at all times.

At present, my pops is my biggest fan, and my hope is that he truly understands and feels that, for a long time, I was his.

k

about:

KOKAYI

Artist | Author | Speaker | Producer | Preeminent Improvisational Vocalist, GRAMMY-nominated musician, and multidisciplinary fine artist, is a Guggenheim Fellow for Music Composition (the first emcee to have achieved this distinction). Host of the Interledger Foundation’s Future/Money podcast. Author of You Are Ketchup: and Other Fly Music Tales, creator of HUBRI$ and Blackness and the Infinite Potential Well, whose artistry and work reflect a rich tapestry of life experiences shaped by DC and the cultural innovations of the Black diaspora—an enduring legacy that continues to shape the world, often without the proper recognition. Here for all the panel discussions, podcast yakkin’, DJ gigs, and keynote addresses, should you need me, holla.

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