Reminiscences of Father and Me

When I think of my father, the poet who looked like a prizefighter, I think of a silver-etched profile on a book cover, a bust set of ebony bookends, and his long sculptured fingers, which formed my identity. Pages illustrated with his words depicted inked night skies and glimpses of make-believe; he was a realist who dreamed of a just nation.

His people: one rare evening as brothers and sisters filled the seats of our front room, he confessed our company gave him goosebumps. Outside of a few friends, a Black community was unknown to me when I was young in Hawaii, so my identity sprang sure from his unflinching, matter-of-fact, hard truths about racial equity. He was comfortable with silence but would describe a large, faraway, unforgiving world if asked. He painted a bleak picture of a gray room with shadows moving fluidly with purpose. He laughed widely and unabashedly at the absurd, with dry humor, puns, or ironic scrabble on his tongue.

The precious needle of a record player supported a collection of as many as thirty thousand cataloged 78s and 33s. My parents’ lifelong love was a shared collection of Ellington, Bix, Joe Williams—too many to name. With a roast in the oven, our Sunday afternoons found him almost exclusively changing discs. They danced sometimes and I rode on his feet too. Music ever beneath my surface, unconscious, essential. He told stories of walking far as a youth to stand outside the door of a club to hear a blues great, and later of an adult who worked the night police beat in Chicago visiting clubs.

He loved. After the divorce, he drove across the island every Sunday evening with dinner for Helen. Once, at dinner, I griped about Mom and he set me back on my heels when he said, “Please take care of your mother.” He cared for me with unadorned attention. A practical father who provided the same uncut truth found in his work. Available and accepting and consistent, never insisting, he drove home a belief in my judgment; he trusted me. Imperfect parenting aside, his belief permeated value, and although I won’t share my flaws, I rarely faced the consequences of poor decisions as a teenager.

The poet who looked like a prizefighter: a reference to American boxer Joe Louis. Undoubtedly there were similarities between these heavyweights. Daddy lifted weights in our garage, but he was also a tennis player. Mom claimed his partners could do little with him. Quick, gifted hands, short-waisted and with long legs, he couldn’t drive a Volkswagen or a Japanese-made model. I would be surprised if I ever learned that he used his long-armed advantage anywhere but on the courts or at his desk. He fought for farm laborers, encouraging them to unite for security. He was a champion who battled slum lords, arming tenants with their rights. His deep bass voice spoke up and continues to resound in my ear today. Uncomfortable in a park or beach, and never on a hike, Frank was in constant profile at his typewriter, back facing the door, sitting at his desk. If tapped with a request, he might moan a soft protest but rise with commitment to stand in defense of equity or explain the strategy to solve a math problem.

I spent late nights in my teens watching The Johnny Carson Show, curled at his side, head on his lap, dozing long past bedtime. Often my hand in his. He laughed, shared enthusiasm for the band, a comedic or great mind, and eventually convinced me off to bed. Unmistakably brilliant and unique, my father inked my night skies.