So. Much has happened, and is still happening in this great country of ours. Obama is in the White House (nearly). The Senate numbers are looking good. We are still grumbling and complaining about everything from Obama's cabinet picks to the Wealth-Wickedness of WalMart, which is good, since that means we haven't become too complacent. In the midst of all this, I've been pretty focused on watching my dear old dad.
James A. was born in June of 1929. He was raised primarily by his grandparents, who, when my dad was 6 years old, took care of him and 16 other grandchildren while their sons and daughters traveled the country looking for work. Old Sam and Josephine Watkins were sharecroppers, and my dad talks about their strength and fortitude in the face of The Great Depression and virulent racism in Virginia. He credits Old Sam for his work ethic which, up until he fell out of bed and nearly broke his neck 5 years ago, was legendary. Today, after learning how to walk again at the age of 74, he has weakness on his left side that makes mobility challenging. And his memory isn't what it used to be either. Sometimes I can see he is frightened by what has occured in his life. His position as caretaker has changed to being taken care of,and he doesn't like that at all.
Throughout this election season I've seen him in every emotional state: angry, happy, fearful, indignant, pissed-the-*&^%-off--everything. I've watched my doting daddy rail at his former favorite Lou Dobbs, and say some things about the governor from Alaska that would have you in stitches. At the age of 79 he has become quite a fan of the internet. He was so happy the night Obama won, he just sat there and cried, his eyes red-rimmed and owly behind his glasses,and seriously overcome with the emotion only a black man born in the south in 1929 can truly appreciate.
He thanks me everyday for moving him to Atlanta: "In New York, we had to pay double what we pay now to live." Two senior citizens who've worked and contributed to this economy for over 50 years had to figure out how to pay over $10,000/year in property taxes on a fixed income. Ridiculous. He still rails against the stuff on TV, but it is punctuated by, "That boy is smart." (Obama), and "We've got a whole lotta work to do." (The American People).
As the youngest of his eight children, I am Daddy's Little Girl. Even though I am 43 years old, he still provides for me, and anything my little family needs is there for the asking. He is a retired school superintendent, rising from a life of ne'er-do-wellness in the 40's: ("I used to tell my students that I was an outstanding student, and they would say 'Mr. W--, we thought you said you were a high-school dropout.' And I'd say, "I was out standing--out standing on the street corner, out standing at the pool hall, out standing at the club.")
But this dropuout rose from there to travel the world at the age of 16 as a merchant marine, then joined the Navy in 1948, got his G.E.D. in 1949 and exited the Navy honorably in 1952.
Fresh out, he and a friend went down to Katherine Dunham's dance school in Manhattan to "meet some cultured girls." After Charles stole my mother's wallet, my daddy returned it to her, and the rest is history. Nearly 57 years, 8 children, 23 grandchildren and 15 great-grandchildren later, I bet he's glad Charles stole that wallet.
I write this diary as a tribute to my dad, for all he's done for our family, our community and this world. (Eddie Murphy, Public Enemy, and countless other unknowns were touched by my father's hand. Getting off a train in England, he ran into a former student. That's worldwide influence. Smile) But seriously, though.
Before going into education, he worked as flight-line inspector for JFK's plane whenever it came into Idewild (Kennedy). After Kennedy's assassination, my dad says he couldn't bear to work there anymore. He went into education full-time as a substitute teacher, simultaneously pursuing first his BA and then his MA in Education at NYU, while working another part-time job and taking care of a wife, mother-in-law and eight children. They don't make 'em like that anymore.
So, after the election, when he became so full and had to tell the Lord how thankful he was for Obama, for his family("I started off with one half-brother; now look at my beautiful family."), and for living in Georgia, he cried. All I could do was grasp his hand and hug my face to his arm; I didn't want to acknowledge his tears, lest he think I thought him weak, because that is exactly what he would have thought. So I just held on to Daddy's hand and gave thanks for having such a strong man as my father.