My Super Cool Totally UnCool Dad

And How I Wish I Could Dance With Him One More Time

When I was adopted in 1971, my father was 42. His biological son was 15 and halfway out the door. He had no business bringing a baby into the house. That didn’t stop him. He says I grabbed his nose and he was hooked. He also took my brother and sister, to let my biological father, his youngest brother, to get his life right.

As the story goes, I was off the table. But my brother and sister, older than me, had a relationship with bio dad. What he didn’t have when my mother died was a job or any prospect of a job. Big bro stepped in, allowed him to go to school and get a trade and get his kids back. Two of them.

I quickly became the apple of my father’s eye. I was his sidekick. Where he went, I went. Saturday shopping trips to the city, I was there. Sure, he had to pound a few white fellas for saying smart stuff, but whatever. I got more toys. We went everywhere together. We were, as Forrest Gump would have said, “like peas and carrots.”

Well, until I became a teenager. When I began to stake out my own identity, my daddy struggled. I wasn’t his little girl anymore. He wasn't sure how to relate to the odd, moody little person in his presence. So he did what any parent would do, he schooled himself in the music of the day and embarrassed the living hell out of me! And he did it with treats!

My friends would come over and he’d proudly talk to them about the music of the day, that McDonna, the “Ack-dool” girl and “Corey Hart, the Canadian Boy.” He’d put on the radio and dance around, singing at the top of his lungs to whatever was on. And he knew the words!

He loved Whitney Houston! Every time I Wanna Dance With Somebody came on, he’d say the same thing, “I’ll dance with ya, sweetie!”

She was beautiful. I’m pretty sure anyone would have danced with her.

He danced badly. So, so badly. He didn’t so much dance as he did stomp. And he couldn’t sing either. He just yelled with the music. So if anyone tries to feed you the stereotype that Black folk can all sing and dance, it’s a lie!

Then he’d start with the rhymes. He loved to make up little rhymes. Mostly to make fun of whatever I liked. For example, I loved Corey Hart, so he’d say, Corey Hart let a fart and tore the world half apart.” And he’d say it right in front of my friends! I wanted to die a quick, painless death.

Of course, he plied them full of pop and treats. Oh and regaled them with stories of his days as a boxer. They thought he was cool as hell. I wanted nothing more than for him to go away and leave me be.

In my final year of high school, I started to appreciate him a bit more. After a quadruple bypass and a kidney transplant, I came way too close to losing my hero. So 1989 was our year!

ABC used to play the Hot 7 at 7 at 7 am, and we’d jam! I got up at 6:45 am to get ready for the bus and that whole semester before I graduated, I took the fastest shower on the planet, slapped on my hair and makeup and made sure I was ready to get down for the top 3 songs. It was the year of crossovers, and as a huge country fan, my father loved him some Randy Travis. Forever and Ever Amen was huge in 89:

And then there was that “Ack-Dool” girl, Paul Abdul. Straight up was huge and he loved that too. I’m not sure if you’ve ever seen a large man nearing 60 trying to tap dance, but try to picture it. Then, try to picture it all happening in front of your friends that came to get you for the bus.

Then, of course, there was the “Ashley Boy,”| Rick Astley, who my father figured I could do worse than. Not because he was trying to steer me away from anyone in particular (like the love of my life), right? But Rudy was Rick Rollin’ before it was a thing:

I was horrified pretty much every second of my life! And then at my graduation, he stood there, proudly as his baby girl took all the awards. And then, he invited himself to our graduation river cruise (the mayor, who also owned the same boat was his friend, because, you know, that was my life). And there I was horrified again! But everyone else loved it! My friends, my enemies, they all loved Rudy. Somehow, he became our mascot.

Looking back now, I smile, but also feel a twinge of sadness. 1989 was really his last healthy year. He lived until 1994, but his last years were full of pain, suffering and hospital stays. I often wonder if somehow he held on, just to see his job done, to see his pride and joy through those 18 years.

I didn’t appreciate his intrusions into my world then. Some days I hated him for it. Even when my friends loved him, I didn’t. It’s funny what you miss, isn't it because now every time I hear Randy Travis, Paul Abdul or Rick Astley, there’s something missing, and it’s his huge stomping footsteps and terrible singing. There are a lot things in life that are worse than a father who wants to know.

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