A Tribute to My Father

My father, Orlando Otey, passed away yesterday morning and I thought I would share some thoughts I have of him with you. He was a man of great emotion, as evidenced by the way he played the piano.  He was gentle, but could have loud outbursts of anger when something provoked him.  Those times were few and far between as I remember, although my mother may say differently.  He was also a man of great compassion, but he didn’t really feel comfortable showing emotion and would remain quiet if there were things that were extremely upsetting going on.

When I was in high school, I wrote a poem, which I had a friend who knows calligraphy write up on a large poster.  I had included a picture of him conducting at the Wilmington Music School and decorated it with some press-on designs.  I think I may have had it framed, or maybe he did, but he displayed it in his studio ever since I gave it to him.  That meant a lot to me, even though I never really said anything.  It hangs there still.  Without looking at it, I don’t remember the words, but it was about his music, which was the one thing that really defined him.

I never felt I really knew my father; his nuances, his likes and dislikes, but I guess it wasn’t important to either of us. He was my father, and I his daughter.  That was all that was really necessary.  I knew him enough to know his views on things were drastically opposed to mine and rather than fight about the reason for the world’s problems, political issues, women’s rights, or social injustices, it was more important for me to have him believe that his views were shared.

Only one view we really did share, and that was his love for God.  His was a spiritual person who dedicated his life and his love of music to the Lord whom he thanked each day for the talent he was given.  A talent that transcends all others and one that will be missed by anyone who ever heard him play.  Under his fingers, the piano keys became a life on their own coaxed by his feel for the music.  Whether it was Chopin or Otey, Scarlatti or Bach, the notes emanated from the keyboard with a tone unmatched by others.  Others could play the same composition, but it never really sounded the same.  I was constantly amazed by his ability.

The one thing about his music that astonished me the most was his ability to take three notes and turn them into a composition in any style in an instant.  He would joke and say that Steve Allan, a comedian and musician in the 60s, did it with four.  People would try to make it difficult for him and chose three notes that were wildly apart from each other.  But he was never stumped.  He always just created something right there on the spot.  

But overall I learned a sense of determination from my father.  Maybe it was stubbornness, but he was constantly pushing forwarded, willing himself to live.  That’s probably what kept him going this last few months.  He was just too stubborn to die.  I keep joking with him that he had more lives than a cat.  My step mother would call my brother and me and say he was near death and we would all rush to his bedside only to have him rally the next day.  He may have been slightly dramatic about it and it may have taken a long time, but he never gave up and kept on going until it was right for him. Peace be with you now, Papi. 

Killer Son

The first thing I remember knowing,
Was a lonesome whistle blowing,
And a young un's dream of growing up to ride;
On a freight train leaving town,
Not knowing where I'm bound,
No-one could change my mind but Mama tried.
One and only rebel child,
From a family, meek and mild:
My Mama seemed to know what lay in store.
Despite all my Sunday learning,
Towards the bad, I kept on turning.
'Til Mama couldn't hold me anymore.

And I turned twenty-one in prison doing life without parole.
No-one could steer me right but Mama tried, Mama tried.
Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading, I denied.
That leaves only me to blame 'cos Mama tried.

Dear old Daddy, rest his soul,
Left my Mom a heavy load;
She tried so very hard to fill his shoes.
Working hours without rest,
Wanted me to have the best.
She tried to raise me right but I refused.

And I turned twenty-one in prison doing life without parole.
No-one could steer me right but Mama tried, Mama tried.
Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading, I denied.
That leaves only me to blame 'cos Mama tried.

I heard the song, Mama Tried sung by Merl Haggard the other day and it reminded me of the horrific fate of young Skyler Kauffman who was brutally raped and murdered in Souderton, PA a while back. When I heard the news of that crime, my heart went out to her family. It was a tragic story.

An article appeared on the NBC New website shortly after the crime talking about the case and the memorial that has been built for the young girl and the man who was arrested for her murder. In this coverage, the news station attempted to interview the parents of the young man. The news people were rebuked rather harshly by the mother and father as they walked down the street. Why did they try to interview the parents? I am sure they are going through as much pain as the victim’s family, but in a different way. I am sure they are wracked with guilt over what their son did.

Parents are often blamed for the actions of the children, and when they are young that argument can hold water. However, when the children are grown and out of the house on their own, there has to be a certain amount of blamelessness given to the parents. Children are sometimes immune to the good teachings that parents give them. Blame should not be placed on the parent's shoulders for the actions of their offspring, and they should not be hounded by the press.

Dr. Norman Hoffman’s wrote a book on the Uncaring Child Syndrome entitled Bad Children Can Happen to Good Parents. In it he mentions that sadly the actions of the mentally ill are hidden. Very often no one can tell if a child is going to grow up to be a sociopath, and unless you know about this syndrome you simply see a child who exhibits a strong will. Often they are given the diagnosis of ADHD, dyslexia, or even given medication to calm their wild ways. But once the grown child is out of the parent's watchful eye the young adult is on their own and their actions become their responsibility. Whether the parents of the man accused of this crime were good or bad parents, this young man could have been an anti-social person from the beginning and has no conscience, empathy, nor have the ability to experience any real guilt of remorse for his actions. His parents may not be the reason he did why he did and should not be blamed for his crime. He alone is culpable for that.

Merry Christmas!

I don't know why, but I am all excited for Christmas. I usually don't get this way, but for some reason I am as giddy as a three year old. It isn't as if I am expecting much; my teenaged boy has been sullen for the last few days and he has told me that he doesn't believe in Christmas and didn't want us to get a tree. But I got him gifts anyway and I hope he likes them. I never know what to get my husband, because he takes back most everything I get, but I did get a few things for him and everything is wrapped and under the tree.

The biggest present that I am giving are two miniature rooms to my parents. Both are pianists and I made music studios for them which are electrified and decorated. I can't wait until they open them. My mother is not going to see hers until Boxing Day as that is when we typically celebrate as a extended family. Every year for the past few years, we have been doing the day after Christmas and having a Mexican feast. We started that tradition because my brother and his wife are musicians and typically have gigs on Christmas which made it hard to get together. I guess I am excited because I am anticipating her reaction to her roombox. I am also anxious to see how my sister-in-law is going to take it as we have this little contest to see who can get my mother the best gift. She doesn't know its a contest, but I feel very competitive about it.

I don't know when I am going to see my dad, but I think it might be next week sometime (they have been divorced for many years and he lives over an hour away). He has not been well, and it's a crap shoot as to how he is feeling every day. A few weeks ago he didn't even think he was going to make Christmas, so we are all thankful he is doing well - at least for now.

So Merry Christmas to everyone and I hope that 2010 is everything you want it to be.

The Finality of Life

My getting older means my parents get older. That’s obvious. My father suffered a small stroke last night and I was wakeful most of the night thinking about it. His health is very poor to begin with and he has been in and out of the hospital since his bypass surgery 10 years ago. Every time he goes in he somehow pulls through, so you would think that I would be somewhat immune to the worry that is accompanies him going into the hospital. However, each time it happens I fear his death. It’s weird as I am not really that close to him.

My father was not an important figure in my life. My parents got a divorce when I was a teenager. It wasn’t a very nasty one and my brother and I did spend a lot of time with our father when we were younger. When I was in college, he got remarried to a woman who is considerably younger than he and only about 15 years older than I. I never got very close to her either. I believe it was primarily because our respective views on life are diametrically opposed, and I never found conversation with them easy. But it was probably more because of the way they treated me after my divorce. I never really forgave them for basically ignoring me when I reached out for support while trying to get out of an abusive marriage.

However, he is my father and his death represents more than the loss of a person. It is means much more to me because he is first of my biological parents to die. My mother’s husband died last year and that was very sad and I miss him a lot, but somehow it’s not the same. I suppose it represents the fact that I am mortal and that I too will die someday too. I don’t think I am really scared of death; I accept it and acknowledge my mortality and am not really freaked out by it. I only hope I don’t suffer.

So we all wait to see what is going to happen this time. Will he pull through again, or will he be incapacitated, or will this be the end?