When it comes to our parents, we know everything there is to know, and nothing at all – at the same time. I know my dad used to make a mean corned beef (bully beef) and rice.  He used to let me keep the key.  I know that my dad’s other go to dinner for me was salmon out the can that he cooked up in the cast iron skillet with onion and “tohmahto”  – served with rice, of course.  I know my dad thought my eyes were the best feature I had when I was small, and he still, as of February, gets really close to my face and cups his hands around them, just so, so that he can focus on them.  I roll my eyes to the left, roll them back to the right, and then he laughs a hearty laugh that takes over his whole body.

I know that he thinks I’m hilarious.  I know that he used to think that the way my belly blew up after meals transforming me, with my short stature, skinny arms, and skinny legs, into somewhat of a tadpole.  I would come around to his seat at the table every night after dinner for him to examine “mih belly,” laugh until his shoulders shook, give me my goodnight kiss and usher me off to bed.

He never talked about his family much. I know a lot about him as it relates to me and my life, but after interviewing him briefly for black history month, I was able to learn a little more.  He couldn’t understand why I was even interested in the past, his past. He told me stories about how he got to America, how his family dealt with the move, what motivated him to move… He told me about his friends, past jobs, successes, failures. It was fascinating.

He told me how he didn’t pass his exams in high school, and how he went to work with his dad, who was a brick mason.  I always knew my dad to build things, but during the interview, he shared with me that it definitely wasn’t something he wanted to do for a living, and he did everything he could to go back and take his exams, which he eventually passed.

One day, after I had completed the first video for AT&T that featured his interview, I got a call from my dad. He told me that he was very proud of my work, and that he always knew I was an intelligent child.  I managed to keep driving through the happy tears, thanks to Bluetooth, infamous DC traffic, and many many stop lights.  THEN he says, “I forgot something about my first days at Howard. The day before classes started, I got a call from back home telling me that my mother died.”

It was like the tears ran back up my face and back into my eyes, traveled down my throat, and settled there in a giant lump. It finally hit me. I have no idea who my dad really is. He had friends, a life, and a family back in Tobago. He had a grandmother who loved to carry him on her back. He had a mom that probably squeezed his belly after dinner and thought his eyes were funny. He knows what it means to lose before you even get a chance to win.

I love that he calls me and greets me with a “hello counselor” and a laugh that sounds a lot like when he used to squeeze my full belly or when he looks at my eyes. I know that his shoulders are moving… he laughs with his whole body. He asks about his grandchildren and then about my grades, but I know that he doesn’t REALLY care what grades I got.

He’s mostly glad that I am still there, the kids are fine, and that he is here to see it all. His mom didn’t get a chance to make that call to ask him how his first day of college went, come to his graduation, see him become an attorney, or meet any of her grandchildren.

When I told him I was going to Howard Law, he told me that I had to go and look for his class photo. I had never been on the campus, but I told him that I doubted that it was still there. He laughed in the phone, and says, “oh it’s there…. just check.”  I went to turn in some paper work during the summer, and the first thing I did was ask the security guard where to find the class photos. I felt silly asking because I figured that it would be crazy to have class photos up on the walls from the 70’s and that I was making a ridiculous request. I told him that I was only looking for it because my dad told me to.

As we went up the elevator, I realized that the guard hadn’t flinched. It was like my question was totally sane. I found out that day that every class picture going as far back as the 1800’s was on those walls. Thousands of faces and names, many with names of Caribbean countries printed under them, indicating that they too had the courage to leave home and pursue their dreams. I know that he probably looked at those class photos in awe just like I did.

Every day that I am at school, I go by to see his class photo.  Every single day. It reminds me that no matter what you think you know, there’s still more to know, and I am determined to learn as much as I can.

*****

If you would like to submit an essay for Caribbean American Heritage Month, please email soca (at) socamom (dot) com for more details.