Creases in jeans always make me think of scorched bedspreads and how much I hate to iron.  Aside from being an oxy-moron they beg you to believe that the person wearing them is so accustomed to dressing well, that even when he dresses down he’s in vogue. This was the look my father used to portray years ago. I remember thinking, “Daddy works in a cigarette factory. Why does he have to look like a GQ centerfold just to go to work?”  He even commanded my participation in this would-be fashion show.  Every Monday night I had to iron everyone’s clothes for the week, a chore I despised.  Looking back I used to think my dad was delighted in seeing my disgust at having to stand over endless mounds of tops and bottoms pressing them as though my family made regular trips to the dry cleaners.  With each heavy sigh I released, my dad would add another garment.  When I protested by asking (part whining) why I had to iron everything at one time, he’d reply that an iron was the one appliance that used more electricity than any other.  So to avoid having the iron “run up” our electric bill throughout the week, I had to iron everything we planned to wear for the week at one time.  Now, this posed a problem for me because procrastinators don’t plan that far in advance.  But sneaky teen-agers will always attempt to out smart their parents.  So ultimately, ironing became a game between my dad and me.

Every Monday night I would place a few of my clothes underneath all the others, not many, just a skirt and maybe a blouse or two.  Most times my dad wouldn’t ask about any clothes other than his own.  As long as he could see his jeans being creased he was fine.  Throughout the week I would devise ways to iron my wrinkled clothes.  Mostly I would just wait until my father was sleeping or in the shower.  Then I would sneak the iron from the hall closet and press my clothes on my bed, singeing my bedspread with nearly every stroke.  However, there were times when my dad would be hip to my antics and actually hide the iron. If I came to breakfast looking like I’d slept in my clothes the night before, he’d make a snide comment that my outfit sure could use ironing.

During my teen-age years, that is how my father and I co-existed.  He pulled and I pulled harder.  Often times we struggled with our father-daughter tug of war.  But when we dropped our respective ends of the rope, we had a grand time.  Being a Black woman in this day and time I am truly blessed and fortunate to have a strong relationship with my father.  Growing up in the direct presence of my dad has been essential in preparing me for this life I live today.  In a society and a generation where fathers are becoming a nearly endangered species, I can say my dad was there when I needed him. To this day I can call him and talk about whatever is on my mind.  I don’t always know if he will chastise or praise.  But I can guarantee he will listen.  And when it comes time to give advice my dad gives the saying “straight no chaser” a new meaning.  If it is shit, he will tell me; no sugar added. With time I’ve come to expect, accept and especially, appreciate that.  Undoubtedly, my dad’s fatherhood style has played a huge part in molding me into the woman I am today.

These days my dad is in a different state of health.  Because of that we’ve had to learn each other all over again. Together we have lessened our pull at that tug of war.  I listen more. My dad is not so quick to be as critical.  I try to be more patient and keep in mind that he looks at his life differently now.  I concentrate on being empathetic not sympathetic.  I know he doesn’t want or need anyone’s sympathy.  Our roles have switched a little.  Now I preach to my father about meditation and how it can help him change the effects of an unhealthy lifestyle.  And it’s warranted. I’ve endured years of his preaching.  Though I’ll never get in as many sermons as he has, it feels good to stand in the pulpit every now and then. 

In watching people react to my personality I see that many of my mannerisms are a direct reflection of my dad: my somewhat twisted sense of humor, my taste in music, my opinion of current events and even my unique way of reasoning.  I believe many of the decisions I have made in my life are the same decisions he would have made.  Whenever we talk my father wants to know how I am living.  I assure him that I’m doing well.  He’s relieved to know that I can take care of myself and that I am experiencing things and places he hasn’t.  When we’re together we sneak peeks at one another to see for ourselves if we’re really doing as well as we both say.  If I’ve gained weight, he comments.  If he’s lost weight I do the same.  We tell each other “I love you” more.  He spends more time reminiscing and re-telling stories.  It’s taken years, but finally I have accepted that my father is who he is.  Neither of us has lived a perfect life, but we’ve made it a point to be a part of each other’s lives because we believe that’s the way it’s supposed to be.          

Recently, a friend of mine commented on a few family photos.  She said: “In all these pictures of your father he’s got this look like he’s saying, ‘Watch out there now!’. You need to get some pictures of him in a suit or something”.  I responded that those pictures were the perfect representation of my daddy’s spirit.  Even in his creased jeans he was never stiff or pretentious. Quick witted and crazy, he introduced his daughters to a little of everything, from the funk of Parliament Funadelic to the understated messages of Bob Dylan.  I am grateful to have him. But more importantly, I can say honestly that my dad is the first man I’ve ever loved or cried for. I am proud to be the direct product of a Black man’s love.