Dear Daddy

By KAREN MARIE MASON

Dear Daddy,

Mama told me your were dead.

Except that was way before you actually died.

But when I started acting up around age 16 or so—you know, the age when girls start “feeling their oats,” as Mama used to say—you suddenly came alive again, and next thing I knew, I was talking to you on the phone and not much later, I was on a plane to see you. I’m not mad at Mama any more for doing that. Mamas have all kinds of reasons for lying about the men in their lives. I don’t know, maybe she did it to protect me. I mean you walked out on her. Maybe she felt you would do the same to me. (At least that’s her side.) But I’m old enough to know there are two sides to every story. And then there’s the truth. Too often, people lie—first to themselves and then to their children and then to everybody else. I just know that I would never do that.

Anyway, I wasn’t sure what to expect the first time I met you. No one gave me the blueprint. Mama didn’t know what to do with me. I think I was messing up her relationship with her men. Don’t get me wrong: Mama didn’t have a lot of men. But I had a problem with the ones that she did have. So there I was at your doorstep. Unsure. Frightened. Awkward. I could tell that you felt the same way too.

You seemed confused—unsure whether to treat me like a little child or a young adult. You let me do what I wanted, even smoke. At 16, I thought that was so cool. I don’t think that’s so cool any more. I guess that was your way of making up for being absent my whole life. We both tried hard to forge a relationship out of nothing. No history. Only DNA. It was tough.

I went back home not sure if I was all the better after making your acquaintance. But I was glad to at least be able to say I “know” my daddy. We wrote, talked some more. But it was difficult. I tried. We would skip a couple years and then connect again and then skip a couple. This was not the way I thought it was supposed to be. But it was the way that it was. The tears are pouring down my face as I write, daddy. I guess I watched too much TV. I expected more.

And so I tried harder. Called more often. Made promises to visit soon. Then you went and got cancer on me. The kind that left a hole and a different voice in your throat—a stranger’s voice talking to me. I was so mad at you—couldn’t understand why you had to go and do that.

I think you knew that you would eventually die. Soon. At least that is how you acted. You acted like you didn’t care anymore. Like you didn’t care about me. That’s how I felt. We grew apart instead of closer together. I thought death or the threat of death was supposed to bring people closer. I was wrong about that, too.
But there was something I wanted to tell you while you were here with us, Daddy, and it is this: Every girl needs her daddy. By her side. I know things were difficult between you and mama. But so what? You should have made it work. You should have been there for me. You should have been at my first recital, at my graduations, at my suspensions, and at the birth of my daughter. That’s what little girls want—to look up and see her daddy smiling. We don’t ask for much. You should have tried harder.

Maybe if you were around, I wouldn’t have been molested. Maybe I wouldn’t have stayed out late at night and partied a little too much. Maybe if you were here I would have made better decisions about relationships. Maybe if you were here, I would have been a straight-A student instead of holding a B average, because I would have wanted to make you proud. Maybe if you were here, you would have sat your grandbaby on your lap and schooled her about life’s lessons.

Your grandbaby and I still made it, Daddy. You’d be proud. Your daughter kept her legs closed and only opened them up when love was present. That love gave birth to your first grandbaby, Kenya Jordana James. I went on to graduate college, got a big job in the music industry and then left to be a mother and entrepreneur. I know you’re smiling right now. I know you would love that part,‘cause you always went against the grain. Hell, now that I think about it, that’s where I got it from.

I understand, now, that that life sometimes takes us on twists and turns that we didn’t plan for—that time flies and there are things that we’ve all wanted to do that never got done. I’m not mad anymore.

I am still here.

And I’m working on making myself better. Still working on releasing the thoughts that could cripple me, kill me or even give me cancer. Still here making a better place for your granddaughter, whose father was killed when she was 3 years old. Know that while Kenya no longer has her biological father physically with her, she has been fathered by many who have given her what you were not able to give me. I made sure of that.

As for me daddy, I have decided that I’m not gonna give myself cancer or let these damn fibroids get the best of me. And I’m gonna let go of the pain and the past. The bitterness, too. And I’m gonna let you run free in the ancestral world so that you can be a daddy to me again.

As my angel.

Love,

Your daughter, Karen

Peter Tosh and ME.......

Peter Tosh and Me.

By Karen Marie Mason

I always had a zeal for this business of music. After graduating University where I majored in communication and minored in the Music Business, I jumped right in as a promotion assistant at Epic Record~and a short time later moving up to a product manager at Columbia Records (Sony) and eventually landing as head of the Black Music Marketing department at East/West Elektra Records under the guidance and tutelage of the only Black woman at that time to head a major record label, Sylvia Rhone. I was living my dream~working and developing the careers of artists once unknown ~ to superstar status. But I also had another parallel passion. And that was to take the music of my heritage, reggae, and position it in the international/mainstream arena. So my journey took me far and wide in the musical spectrum. For instance, I worked with a little known group from L.A. named Cypress Hill; two little boys who liked to wear their clothes backwards and the entire Ruffhouse label that later produced the Fugees and so many others. But I also worked with a DJ(that’s what we call MC’s in Jamaica) named SuperCat who we positioned to a mainstream audience without ever losing his foundation. I later went on to work with Ziggy Marley (this came some years after the encounter described in this blog), Terror Fabulous, Snow (don’t laugh), Nadine Sutherland and many others.

To say I was “ready” when I got “the call” from the wife of Peter Tosh…is an understatement. I can’t remember what his wife (Sister Pauline) was working on at the time. It could have been a foundation~or possibly a release of some catalog material~possibly even developing her own career. I don’t remember. All I remember was that I scheduled a meeting with the wife of legendary Wailer, Peter Tosh. I remember preparing a small portfolio of my work. I remember being in AWE of the possibility of meeting the “Stepping Razor” himself. Almost everything else is a dreamland fog. Prior to this, the closest I came to a Wailer was Madison Square Garden when Bob Marley opened for the Commodores. My brother and I sat on either side of my Mother and watched with binoculars a spectacular show while trying to enhale as much as we could. So the idea of actually coming close to Peter Tosh (via his wife) was all I needed to send me into a state of utter excitement. Now I must remind myself (as I get excited just writing and thinking about it), my appointment was NOT with Peter Tosh. I didn’t even know if he was in town or even in the country for that matter. My appointment was with the wife of a legend but my mind was firmly on him. My imagination was colorful and sent me deep into the abyss of …”what ifs”. And there I went ~”What if Peter was there”, “What if he wanted to talk about the music business and me managing him” I always dream big. What if, What if, What If.

So armed with a bag of “what if’s” I proceeded to his apartment on West 90 something street. It was one of those apartment buildings where you have to be announced by the doorman or clerk. The doorman called up stairs. I wanted to KNOW before I went upstairs if Peter answered. I wanted to know if he was home. But I didn’t want to be mistaken for some stalker of overzealous fan as I am sure this doorman has dealt with many a time. So I said nothing.

So the doorman said “its okay to go up”. I can’t remember the floor. But I remember how I felt. Great anticipation. By this time in my life I had met or worked with or interacted with or personally learned from some of the major cultural/historical icons of our times. But this is the closest that I had come to the Bob Marley and the Wailers legacy.

So there I was. I rang the doorbell and his wife Sister Pauline answered. We walked into the living room and sat. I looked around coyly for some sign of Peter. I listened for other footsteps and heard nothing. So we talked. I can’t even remember what about. Cause you KNOW where my mind was. Lord please forgive me for not being focused. I did my best. Then as if out of nowhere. Came this giant of a man. He had to be close to 7 feet. Seemed like he had to duck just to walk from room to room. Sister Pauline introduced me as a record company exec and radio personality and with little expression but with a feeling of deep love he nodded and walked into the other room. He may have said something. I can’t remember. I was wide awake in a dream. The epitome of quiet fire. I would hear the fire side in a few minutes. So Sister Pauline and I continued our meeting and the doorbell rings. Peter answers the door. I hear a deliveryman uttering something about his TV. Within a matter of a few seconds I heard Peter talking about “bumbo clat TV, and how dem better have it fixed properly, etc, etc.” From where I was, I could neither see Peter or the deliveryman. I could only hear the conversation. If you would call it that. A few minutes later I heard what sounded like the running feet of the deliveryman racing to the elevator. It was obvious that Peter was not the one that you wanted to argue with.

Few minutes later peace returned and the smell of the good colli weed filled the air.

Everybody Should Have An Aunt Daisy

Everyone should have an Aunt Daisy. You know. The Auntie that was mother, sister, friend all in one. The silent observer who looked beyond your faults; never changing her way; never judging. The one who knew just what you liked to eat and always seem to have it on standby whenever you showed up. The one whose house you could always show up. Any time. Any day. And be welcomed. Door always open. That’s my Aunt Daisy. 83-years young. Quick on her feet. Always with a look of concern on her face. Full of love.

My Cycle Has Come Again!

Long before I became a location scout, big city record company marketer, artist manager, promoter, radio disc jockey, writer and the most important role of all MAMA, I was a little brown eye girl raised in Jamaica and East Flatbush eager to break into the music business. I had no conception of the word “no”. There was nothing that I didn’t feel like I couldn't accomplish. Nothing. I moved around hardcore reggae circles with an enthusiasm and determination that made many a man adopt me as their little sister …reluctant…but still willing to show me the ropes. After all, I was a woman and this was their world. Or so they thought. I became both a student and practitioner all at once. Learning and doing while holding steadfast to my dream of becoming a powerbroker in the music business. I figured out how to get my own radio show and I got it. I researched who all the top radio dj’s were in the city and I got to know them ALL. I linked with all the key record distributers and kept my collection up to date with all the latest and whenever I could …I sat at the feet (or more so at the record counter) of the top record stores and listened and learned in what was to become my new classroom.

And then I released my first record. I arranged studio time. Worked out the track. Linked with the artist, Empress Akelia, and we went and recorded the first record that I produced. A track titled “Raggamuffin Girl” on Superpower/World Enterprise imprint, Live and Love. If you look closely you will see my name as producer and arranger. I love that! That was 1988.

Wow. I share this because life is a cycle. That was 20 years ago. And now 20 years later I am once again the student and practitioner all over again. Greater things are yet to come. Stay tuned.

This Is MY Song. Sing A Long.

I've revealed alot about myself writing these blogs. Probably more than I've ever talked about. I know many of my friends and family are like. What? I didn't know? But so what. These blogs are for me first. They are my release. And they are my practise. I am writing a book on motherhood and the I've always been told that not only are the best writers great readers but the best place to start writing a book is to just write. But I want to be able to write with honesty. I want to be able to share with you from the gut...my journey in motherhood. My successes and my challenges. I want you to be able to learn from my journey as much as I am learning from my own journey and those of others. So that honesty has to start with myself.

I don't know what the big fuss is about anyway. When was the last time you listened to the radio, XM or your favorite artist. Do you HEAR some of thing that they talk about in their songs. You know how we can SO relate to their pain, their joy, their challenges and their praise as expressed through the words and melodies. Damn. "They been hurt", we say to ourselves. Or wow, " I want to wake up to that song", or "that's the song I want on when my King comes home". Their songs MOVE us. Make us laugh. Make us cry. And sometimes some of them are just plain corny. But we sing along anyway.

I don't sing. So these words...this blog... is my song. Sing along with me.

No. I'm Not Afraid

I sat there filling out page after page of medical forms. I usually get a little annoyed at the quantity and redundancy of some of these forms in the Doctor's office. I mean really. Didn’t they just ask me on page 2 what they are asking again on page 6? But today, I don’t feel so annoyed. After all, I had been through this quite a bit lately. Let's see...there were the forms for my physical, pap smear and blood work. Routine check up. Of course the pap smear was a little uncomfortable for me. Things are kinda closed in down there. Not much activity. LoL. I requested the baby clamps and the nurse laughed. "That's the smallest we have", she said. Ok is said, crinching at the thought of anything going between my legs except....Well anyway everything checked out positive. And then there were the forms for that special procedure to examine and take photos of my fibroids. The offices where this procedure was done is right next door to my GYN. I wondered why they didn't just go next door and duplicate the same paperwork. Well that procedure was very uncomfortable. Ouch. That hurt. All that poking around to get the right camera angle in my womb.

Now today I had another appointment for my breast. I had a sizable lump mass removed from my left breast a couple years ago. That was scary. I wrote my last will and testament before I went in for the procedure. I can laugh now. But then...What can I tell you? I was scared. Recently they found some "suspicious" looking calcium deposits in the x-rays of my right breast. So I kinda new the routine. So I filled out page after page with little to no emotion. My name was called. Oh hum.

I walked robotically to the back behind Ms. Rita, a 50 something nurse with sprinkling gray and a nice enough disposition. I could tell she felt my distance and tried through her natural pleasantness to enter my world. But there was no entrance or welcome mat extended to her. I wasn't cold. Just far away in thought. Afterall, its not much they can really tell me. I knew deep inside that the doctor’s office would not be the answer to my healing. I am my own healer.

So I sat waiting for the doctor. Waiting for him to explain the abnormality in my right breast. Waiting for him to explain the biopsy process. And then waiting for him to schedule it. All without much emotion. I ask him if he thinks that all sickness begins mentally and emotionally and if not dealt with it eventually manifests itself physically. He says no. He explains iconology is different. It’s not like alcoholism or smoking or other diseases where the patient knowingly causes the problem. He goes on to say, "No one wants to give them self breast cancer". I wonder to myself what about drinking yourself with pain, smoking ill thoughts and disappointment. Is it any difference when the outcome is the same? But instead, wanting to change the subject, I say. "I hear even men get breast cancer".

So I continue to go through the routine with him. All the while my mind is on "heal thyself". But I still schedule the biopsy appointment. Plan B. I will go through the motions just incase I get weak, distracted, overcome by pent up emotions and can’t muster the strength to follow through with the discipline it takes to heal myself. Just in case.

There is always the chance that something else dramatic will happen in my life or I will relive the drama of yesterday thereby blocking the natural healing process that fresh thoughts, a sunny disposition and forgiveness ultimately brings. I'm not too sure. So I take my chances. There is also the chance that LOVE will grow stronger and healing will be a natural growth of that process. Who knows.

So Ill go through their process. But I will also work on my own. A process uniquely connected to the spirit world. A process led by divine intuition. A process nurtured and advanced by self love. Yea. I'm work on that. And no. I'm not afraid.

I Am Not Kenya's Hair

I AM NOT MY DAUGHTER'S HAIR

By KAREN MARIE MASON

I've watched my daughter go from precocious child to confident teenager. I've watched her take near perfect direction and instruction, and give the same to others. I've watched her listen keenly to my advice and adhere to it. And now, she gives me advice. Good advice. Our relationship has blossomed from mother-daughter, to best friends, back to mother-daughter, and along each step, we’ve always been each other’s protector. She’s listened carefully to my thoughts about the boys in her life, and I shake my head and laugh when she warns the men I date that I’m her mother and “you better bring her home at a reasonable time.” Last night’s date responded with an, "Oh, she’ll come to like me.” I laughed to myself. Wrong. None of them know my daughter Kenya. She has never liked any of my choices in men (friends or otherwise) and I've never agreed with hers either. For sure, at any time, our roles reverse. Completely.

And yet I often forget that she will turn 20 in July. My little baby has blossomed into a beautiful flower—come into her own. And now she makes her own choices regarding what to wear, what to eat, where to go and, most difficult for me, how to wear her hair.

Kenya has worn her hair natural from birth. Or should I say, I have kept her hair natural from birth. At first, I kept it covered with turbans and the like. At that time, I adhered to the more strict interpretation of Rastafari: modest dress, head covered, etc. Then later, I platted it, chiney bumped it, pony tailed it, and my favorite, let her wear it in two afro puffs. Though I have worn locks on and off for the last 20 years and would have loved for her to do the same, I didn’t force it on her. She decided on her own to grow her natty, and grow they did.Even when I no longer had locks, Kenya Jordana's hair flourished. I was proud. She took care of her locks and had it conditioned regularly. So imagine my dismay when she hesitantly asked me one holiday she spent home from school if she could trim them. “Lord have mercy,” I screamed on the inside. But out loud, what could I say? She was 19 years old. They were her locks. Not mine. So I choked out, “If that's what u want to do…”

I thought it would end there. But no. From there she went on to perm it, and now she’s got extensions. (since I wrote this piece...she is back to natural) Each time she changed it up, I acted as if she were changing up my hair. I showed great dismay and spoke with even more disappointment. I complained without end about the perm not agreeing with her. And I made disparaging remarks whenever I could squeeze them in under the false guise of advice.

So immature. Who’s the mother here anyway?

And yet, being the mother that she is to me, she would hide her disappointment and keep on plodding. She would try not to freeze-frame my negativity and hold strong to the decisions she’d made for herself. Just today she told me, "Mama, I've been natural all my life. Let me see what else is out there. I'm not you. Let me be me." She added: “You are more attached to my hair than I am.”

You know, she was right. She and I both know that a perm may not have been the best thing for her hair. But she accepts her decisions and stands firm. No hiding. Head erect. Damn. That’s my girl.

I love her independence. I love the way she meets her challenges head on. She doesn't run from adversity but embraces it and turns it into increased confidence and a greater sense of self. She has manifested everything I hoped for her to be.

So what the hell am I upset about? It’s not my hair. In fact, I’ve worn my hair just as nappy and unkept (though clean) as a sista could—the very antithesis of how Kenya likes her hair. And she’s never asked me to change it, cover it over, or even uttered, “I don’t like it”—all things I’ve said to her. She let me be me.

It is this I keep in mind as I learn to let up a little—you know, release from my spirit the things I can't control (like my daughter’s hair) and allow my baby’s spirit to grow, just as I’ve allowed mine to. After all, as India.Arie says, "I am not my hair."

Relax, Karen Mason. Breathe and give thanks for the flower that continues to bloom before your very eyes.

About our MyBrownBaby contributor:
Karen Marie Mason left her rapidly rising career as a music industry executive to become a stay-at-home/home-schooling mom when her daughter, Kenya, was a young child. Kenya is now a second-year honor student at Howard University; her mom now manages recording artists, hosts a radio show, promotes shows, is active in her community, and is finishing up her first book about motherhood. She blogs about motherhood and her life at Honor Music Group.