Angels Are Watching Me (They're Watching Me)
To the dads and father figures in heaven, and their babies down here sifting through it all.
Today’s hard.
On Monday, I picked up my father’s ashes and death certificates. The week prior, we held his wake. And two weeks before that, on a Friday morning, we said goodbye to one of the sweetest people I’ve ever known.
My dad — Sacha Sebastian Jenkins.
I’m blessed to have had two fathers: my biological father Djinji, and my dad Sacha, who entered my life when I was a little one. I never differentiated between the two. Having two dads was always the greatest joy. Two amazing Black men to guide me. To love me. To hold me. To offer their support. Two beautiful Black men who waved their red, black, and green flags high. Who fostered my creativity. Who would move mountains to ensure my dreams became reality.
Last year, for the first time ever, we celebrated Father’s Day together. Though he was already sick, we ventured out to City Island to our favorite spot. Sat outside, listened to music. Cracked jokes, and crab legs. It was a scene I never thought I’d see, but how beautiful for it to live in my everlasting memory.
On days like these, I think about my dad, and all the dads who are no longer here. I sit with a pain so indescribable as I wade between gratitude and grief.
Gratitude for all he’s bestowed.
For being a firm shaper in my tastes, from film to music. For always making sure I had outlets to express myself as an artist. For reminding me it was cool to be the awkward, alternative, different Black kid from the ‘hood. For buying me my first skateboard, Avril Lavigne and Green Day CDs, and arm warmers.
Gratitude for all the sacrifices he made for me.
For all the morning school rides, where we’d listen to Michael Jackson or Paul McCartney, The White Stripes or Eric B. and Rakim. For trekking to Syracuse and Boston for college tours in the middle of winter. For sitting through my piano and voice recitals, and children’s theater shows.
Gratitude for all the times he’s made my belly ache from laughter, like when we’d play Wii tennis against each other, or hit choreography in Just Dance.
Gratitude for his radical acceptance of me. For raising me as his own. For being there, for all of it. For my ugly and my beautiful. For my raggedy parts.
Grief, that I’ll never see him in the physical again.
That he won’t get to walk me down the aisle, or celebrate another birthday or holiday. Grief over knowing he won’t be there to clap while his son graduates eight grade or high school. In disbelief that he won’t see his grandson get older.
Grief, because I know his transition was the most merciful end to a most merciless disease. Multiple Systems Atrophy, or MSA, a rare, aggressive, and unforgiving disease that affects about 15,000-75,000 in the United States.
Grief, at the realization that wanting him to have lived just one more day in the agony he was suffering, would have been selfish.
Grief, that I’ll never see him laugh again. Or eat ice cream together. Or watch him perform. Or make art together.
The pain of losing a parent is the deepest heartbreak I’ve ever experienced.
This has been a season making Death’s acquaintance. Within one calendar year, I’ve lost my grandmother and my father. With the transition of my dad, a part of me has died, too. A part I’ll never get back. Coupled with the death that accompanies the transition into motherhood, a lot is being compounded.
I don’t know what to do with this.
I am sorting, and will be for the near future. And certainly, for the rest of my life.
Light, peace, and progress to Sacha Sebastian Jenkins—my dad, my forever mentor, my forever friend.
May all the daddies, granddaddies, and father figures Above continue watching over all of us down here—guiding our paths, drying our tears, holding our hearts.
