An Ode to Yahnamore,
It’s been two brief years since the passing of my father. September 27th marked the day. Two brief years since waking up paralyzed having sensed my dad’s physical body perished. And two brief years since I found myself trapped in a state of delirium, feeling stagnant and unable to confide in anyone about my misfortune.
My father and I shared many interests, but our love for music was never fleeting. A former poet and rapper himself, it Is not farfetched to deem him as a savant of music. In his spare time, my father would haul my younger brother Nahum and me in his Black Saab Sedan to accompany him on his joy rides down Lake Shore Drive. From the condominium I was raised in on 48th and Lake Park to Montrose Beach we’d have listened to a hodgepodge of artists that in a way complimented the neighborhoods we were traveling through. Hyde Park – Res, South Loop -, Lincoln Park – The Brand New Heavies, and Uptown – Bjork.
Despite my young age, I could recognize my father’s eagerness to share the musical gems he’d accumulated over the years, and I listened keenly. I listened with so much intent I subconsciously (consciously) generated an internal jukebox I could shuffle through in any moment of nostalgia. They say food is the key to the heart, but I think music is the ____ to the soul.
The other day as I was browsing Hulu in search of a new series to compliment my basil fried rice from the local Thai spot, I stumbled upon High Fidelity. Not the original film featuring John Cusack and Lisa Bonet, but the rendition headlining Bonet’s daughter – Zoe Kravitz. Right away I felt oddly connected to Kravitz's character (Robyn Brooks) as she too similarly to my father (and me) was somewhat a savant of music. Following a heart-wrenching breakup Robyn curated a lengthy playlist in which she insisted be listened to in the precise order she constructed, to indirectly communicate with her former partner. Such a simple concept, but Maybe the simplicity is why I cowered away from the idea of it.
When my tongue is tied, thoughts are timid, and hands tremble at the motion of writing I find solace in music. I turn to music as a means of expressing myself and sorting through my ideas. It’s been two years since the passing of my father, and for two years I’ve struggled to write a solid piece commemorating his life. Something he’d be proud of. Today I share with you a playlist I’ve been curating for the last 2 years. As you listen (consecutively or not) imagine you’re cruising down Lake Shore Drive starting at 48th and Lake Park.
For as long as I live, I will always write about my father. I will always tell stories of my father. His legacy will carry on through my pen.
Rest In Peace Daddy,
I love you!
