My son's gone jazzy. Sending me obscure Duke Jordan cuts from Blue Note albums I've never heard of, reminding me not to sleep on Pepper Adams, pushing my nose into Phineas Newborn Junior and saying, "here pops, smell this!" It's shocking because he had rejected jazz outright. An act of rebellion against the old man. But now he's super into it; using Wikipedia to connect the dots, delving into cats I didn't discover ‘til my 50s. It's his own personal Birth of the Cool, but he isn't just reaching for musical nourishment, he is reaching for me. Reaching for me and forgiving me, and this is good for I need to be forgiven and even more importantly, he needs to forgive.
I've always been this hip, older, fedora wearing dude, the cat that wrote that movie, the man who cooked him more good meals than he can count, but the idea that I could be some kind of actual father before it’s all said and done is a revelation to both of us.
Just to give you some context, I was a heroin addict when he was born. But the day he arrived, the heavy truth of parenthood descended on me and I knew I had to take action. So, I started smoking crack as well. I set that up as a punchline but it isn't funny. Not for him or for me. He was born in 1998. By 2000 I had put the crack pipe down, but the dope wouldn't quit me and I wouldn't quit it. Lost in my addiction I'd make my morning run, come home, fix and then lie in bed with my two-year-old son, him holding me more than me holding him. We would watch Bear in The Big Blue house and PBJ Otter. I can still hear the voices of the characters, feel the sickening ache of abandoning my boy and myself.
He was raised in a house with dark secrets. Bad shit going down behind the bathroom door. He wasn’t using old syringes as toys or being babysat by the dealer, but his young, delicate psyche was exposed to a lot of bad juju. It wasn’t all demonic, there was plenty of warmth and love and beauty, but the overall effect was a free-floating anxiety that swirled inside him like a gale. If our dog would bark, he would panic, scared the neighbors would call some mystery authority and have her taken away. He was waiting for something terrible to happen, knew his father was running up a heavy tab and one day it was going to come due.
That day came in 2007. Eighteen years of dope finally caught up with me, an infection of the aortic valve that required open heart surgery. But it was the bleeding ulcer nine days later that left me on the brink of death. Obviously, I made it, but it took sixty-six days in Cedars to get out of the woods. I can’t imagine what nine-year-old Stanley was feeling the one time he came and saw me; broken and bloated, this wild stranger he had grown up next to, tied-down in a web of tubes. I almost left him with a ghost, any chance at healing to be done on his own. But that's not how it happened. There were still new and different kinds of pain to be experienced. Fresh wounds and abandonments to add to the old ones. Heavy resentments left to fester. Murderous rage at the father, that if he wasn’t careful could easily be turned on himself.
And turn it on himself he did. I'm not here to talk about his addictions, they are his business, but I will say they are different from mine. He has coping mechanisms that I can empathize with but don't share. A voice in his head that tells him awful shit and never gets tired of talking. He gets hopeless and forlorn, his gleaming soul overrun by the ghouls of self-loathing. I know from my own experience how thick the tangle can get. No one could tell me anything, nor help me in any way. Any good suggestion that was made was met with the fierce pushback of the addict defending what’s his.
But that doesn't keep me from wanting to just shake his ass and say “Will you just do what I fucking tell you and get your shit together! Have you learned nothing from what I went through?! I know shit, motherfucker, just do the right thing, you stubborn little fuck!" I get so frustrated and these kids with their fucking phones and by the time I was your age I was this and that and we did it this way, and grow the fuck up already will you, what you are doing is clearly NOT working! As I write that I sound like Sam Kinison in my head, but these moments are brief and when we actually talk, I’m mostly calm, my own twenty-year struggles with addiction a tight leash on any “just do what I say” delusions.
A year ago, the pain became bad enough for him to take action, and he put in some serious time and effort toward his emotional well-being. I was impressed by his willingness to make a long-term treatment commitment, something I was never willing to do. But I was also skeptical, knowing how diabolical and mysterious addiction and mental health can be. But when your kid wants to help himself, you just say yes, no matter what you think. Especially when you missed the first twelve years of his life due to dope. “You slept through kindergarten" was one of his favorite teenage jokes.
One of the components of the program he attended was family therapy. It began with individual sessions with each parent. The first thing the therapist shared was that Stanley had been terrified at the prospect of getting in there alone with me. But he got over it quick, taking the opportunity to tell me just how he felt. I kind of knew, but that didn't make it any less painful. No one wants to hear their kid say "I hated you" or "I was considering never talking to you again." He told me what I’ve done that he’s found hurtful and humiliating. A couple of times I came back hard, my shame and anger getting the best of me. But mostly, I just listened and took my medicine, and by simply being there and allowing myself to be vulnerable, good things started to happen.
I want to be clear and say I didn't really do much. Yes, I was honest and open and we got deep into it, but that's not what made the difference. What made the difference was his willingness to forgive. It was his program, his therapist, his healing. He felt safe and seen enough to allow grace into the room and it has taken us all the way to jazzland.
I was at an AA meeting a long time ago and this girl who had really struggled said, “The one thing we are all entitled to is the dignity of our own experience.” That line has always stayed with me and it’s what I need to remember about Stanley. That whatever he does or doesn’t do, and whether I agree with it or not, his experience is uniquely his and must be honored.
I had no idea what I was going to write. I just knew I wanted to talk about being an addict, having your child be an addict and being powerless to do anything about it. A few weeks ago, I wrote that I’d been sad. Eventually it got bad enough that I called my old shrink, who I hadn’t seen for a long time. He knows me well and had me talk to my shadow, who in my case is an abandoned little boy. Then my shrink asked how Stanley was doing. I told him he was struggling and that I wasn't quite sure what to do about it. He said “close your eyes and ask your shadow what Stanley needs from you.” I closed them and after a moment I heard my shadow say "Just love him... Just keep letting him know you love him.”
While I was writing this Stanley sent me “Pony’s Express” by Pony Poindexter, a saxophonist I had heard of but never heard. I just listened to Pony’s version of “Salt Peanuts,” which is killer. The healing continues.
Thank you for sharing this. My dad is a recovering alcoholic and music is and has always been our primary connection. Maybe it is appropriate that a father and son must first bond through a medium that is not dependent on language and let the words come later.
The only guaranty fatherhood comes with is that we won't get it right, and that our regrets are all earned... but we keep trying... or at least good dads do. With you on that...