DADDY
by Jalondra Davis
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You have reached the voicemail of Jeffrey Davis. I got my phone off, right now, to save the battery, you know. Leave a message. I’m out. Gangsta Movement.
This is what I hear when I call my father. I am strangely proud of his OG status (Original Gangsta) of Eastside Crips. His sign throwing when we drive through the neighborhood, his love of anything blue.
Jalondra, dammit, just go read a book or something. I didn’t realize that having a Crip father and a mother from the projects and splitting my time between Inglewood and Compton had any meaning beyond kicking it with my adopted uncles on the porch and catching butterflies in my grandmother’s backyard. I grew up protected and oblivious, with no street smarts whatsoever. I accepted my role as the dingbat, the book smart one, because it meant I was left alone with the stories in my head. She’s reading. She’s studying. She’s going to get out of here and make us some money. When you publish those books and make all that money Baby, buy Daddy a hoopty. Royal blue 54 Chevy on dubs. Early realization of my academic potential combined with awareness of my lack of common sense gave me a certain freedom from obligation to the reality around me. My family managed to protect my dreamy world from almost anything-of course, except from them.
