Lessons learned from a G
In honor of my dad (Daddy-Joe, Afro-Joe, Half-fro-Joe, the Italian Stallion) I bring you lessons from a G. In case you are confused by the title, I am writing about lessons I learned from my dad, who’s clearly a G.
My dad never had lots of rules, but the ones he had are stuck on repeat in my brain. Every time we left the house he’d yell out, “Wear your seatbelt and keep your pants on.” I am not positive if these are supposed to be separate commands or if it’s a weird double mandate. (Anyone who has ever changed in a car can testify that it’s, in fact, a lot harder to take off your pants with your seatbelt on. Ford should market the seat belt as modern chastity belts, “The seatbelt, it keeps your daughters safe in more ways than one”). Tangent aside, I fell in love more times than I would like to admit, but, no matter how smooth the talker, my dad’s rule stuck in my head. Looking back on my life, I realize that I was saved from a lot of wrecks by just listening to my daddy. What can I say, without a ring, a preacher and marriage license, this girl’s seatbelt stays on.
My dad has a nose like a bloodhound. I remember in my wilder days, I would sneak in late at night and tip toe past his door. He never moved. Lying in my bed I felt naively victorious. Next day… “so you were smoking last night? Don’t lie to me; I smelled you when you walked through the door.” Caught. Like a normal, terrible, adolescent, I would start spewing a list of lame excuses. Joe’s response? “St. Peter doesn’t care.” And that was it. When you die you are apparently met at the pearly gates by St. Peter, who, as all good Catholics know, doesn’t care. If you are dead, you are dead. There’s no talking your way out of it. Of course I would like to argue that there is no evidence declaring that Peter leads the reception line in heaven, but I guess that wasn’t really the point. The point, the excuse doesn’t take away the consequence, and it doesn’t justify the action. In the end, an excuse is just an excuse.
It was summer, 2005, and my aunt was having work done on her super fancy lake home. She offered me big bucks to sit all day and wait for the workers. I spent the afternoon swinging on the hammock, drinking coffee and watching movies. Closer to the end of the day the men finally arrived. I let them in, they started working, and I returned to the couch. That evening, as I recounted my day, Joe got super angry. “What do you mean you didn’t talk to the guys working on the house?!?” He gave me no funny pithy saying, just a look of disappointment that cut like a knife. The message was clear, by not speaking, I was acting superior. I, the daughter of a UPS delivery man, the ancestor of Italian immigrants and indentured servants, had deemed someone else as invaluable, not by my words, but by my silence, and silence can be deafening.
I always idolized my dad, but it was much later in life when I realized that I wasn’t the only lady infatuated with the Italian Stallion. The southern ladies just couldn’t resist this smooth talking, Yankee Italian delivery man, and who could blame them. I guess he got confused, but he decided to exchange a life of diapers & PTA meetings for something more exciting. To help him pack, we decided to throw all his possessions on the front lawn and change the locks. It was a busy time for everyone. A lot of daddies leave, but mine was one of the few who came back. In the loneliness of his guilt, God found him. As he says, “there are no atheists in foxholes.” When he had nothing, God finally became his everything. He repented and gave his life to Jesus. Tail between his legs, he came home. For years I never heard an “I’m sorry,” I just saw him reading his Bible (a first in our home), washing the clothes, and serving my mom. I saw a humble and repentant man longing to redeem lost years. Close to a decade later, after I started college, he wrote us all an apology letter. For the first time I read the words, “I’m sorry.” It was a beautiful letter, but my daddy had already taught me that “I’m sorry” can’t be captured in words.
“A real G can be defined as someone who is true to themself and stood the test of time as a robust individual, whom did not change under rough circumstances.” – Urban Dictionary
“Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it.” – God
My dad never had lots of rules, but the ones he had are stuck on repeat in my brain. Every time we left the house he’d yell out, “Wear your seatbelt and keep your pants on.” I am not positive if these are supposed to be separate commands or if it’s a weird double mandate. (Anyone who has ever changed in a car can testify that it’s, in fact, a lot harder to take off your pants with your seatbelt on. Ford should market the seat belt as modern chastity belts, “The seatbelt, it keeps your daughters safe in more ways than one”). Tangent aside, I fell in love more times than I would like to admit, but, no matter how smooth the talker, my dad’s rule stuck in my head. Looking back on my life, I realize that I was saved from a lot of wrecks by just listening to my daddy. What can I say, without a ring, a preacher and marriage license, this girl’s seatbelt stays on.
My dad has a nose like a bloodhound. I remember in my wilder days, I would sneak in late at night and tip toe past his door. He never moved. Lying in my bed I felt naively victorious. Next day… “so you were smoking last night? Don’t lie to me; I smelled you when you walked through the door.” Caught. Like a normal, terrible, adolescent, I would start spewing a list of lame excuses. Joe’s response? “St. Peter doesn’t care.” And that was it. When you die you are apparently met at the pearly gates by St. Peter, who, as all good Catholics know, doesn’t care. If you are dead, you are dead. There’s no talking your way out of it. Of course I would like to argue that there is no evidence declaring that Peter leads the reception line in heaven, but I guess that wasn’t really the point. The point, the excuse doesn’t take away the consequence, and it doesn’t justify the action. In the end, an excuse is just an excuse.
I always idolized my dad, but it was much later in life when I realized that I wasn’t the only lady infatuated with the Italian Stallion. The southern ladies just couldn’t resist this smooth talking, Yankee Italian delivery man, and who could blame them. I guess he got confused, but he decided to exchange a life of diapers & PTA meetings for something more exciting. To help him pack, we decided to throw all his possessions on the front lawn and change the locks. It was a busy time for everyone. A lot of daddies leave, but mine was one of the few who came back. In the loneliness of his guilt, God found him. As he says, “there are no atheists in foxholes.” When he had nothing, God finally became his everything. He repented and gave his life to Jesus. Tail between his legs, he came home. For years I never heard an “I’m sorry,” I just saw him reading his Bible (a first in our home), washing the clothes, and serving my mom. I saw a humble and repentant man longing to redeem lost years. Close to a decade later, after I started college, he wrote us all an apology letter. For the first time I read the words, “I’m sorry.” It was a beautiful letter, but my daddy had already taught me that “I’m sorry” can’t be captured in words.
“A real G can be defined as someone who is true to themself and stood the test of time as a robust individual, whom did not change under rough circumstances.” – Urban Dictionary“Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it.” – God
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