Jazz Dad
Of being the off-beat child of improvisation and syncopation.
The following is some roughly hewn origin story, meant for an unborn memoir. It’s been a long pregnancy with no foreseeable conclusion, so here’s some Braxton Hicks contractions for Father’s Day. My forthcoming essay, “A Dog Named Motherfucker”, is almost ready to see the light of day.
On with the melancholy,
—C
I intentionally did not introduce myself by name. I wanted to see how he was going to handle this.
“Hi, I just wanted to come introduce myself.”
“Do you like jazz?” He asked.
“Yeah.”
“Do you play?”
“No.”
“What’s your name?”
“Cabot.”
That’s when he certainly knew. I’d lived almost 29 years and never met another with my name. There are stories, rare accounts from others who claim to know someone with my name, but I’ve never been witness to another Cabot in the flesh.
He was seated at a booth alone on the pier side of the cafe, smoke swirling from his cigarette, a glass tumbler grasped in one of his fat gorilla hands. They were fucking huge. How in the hell could he play a trumpet with fingers the size of hot dogs? There was a pause as he scrunched his face and pretended to recall a distant memory.
“Is your mother’s name…Bernadette?”
“Yes,” I said.
He rubbed his face with his hand and said, “Ah, geez…”
“I was waiting for you to finish your set before I laid a heavy on you,” I said.
“We’re not done, just taking a break.”
“Oops. Sorry.”
That’s how I met my dad.
—
I had been tracking down Dad for a while using public information websites. Addresses in Sacramento, Pacifica, and Daly City were listed as his. He had been listed as a defendant in a lawsuit. I found the email address of the plaintiff and contacted her. I explained that Joseph Ellis was my father and I was trying to contact him. She replied that she hadn’t seen or heard from him for years but that he was known to perform at The Ramp in San Fransisco. She wished me luck.
Synchronicity came in the form of a phone call from one of my younger maternal half-sisters. She had a curious story to tell. Her boyfriend had been talking with one of his fellow musician friends who mentioned they had picked up a fill-in gig in San Francisco playing with a band called Joe Ellis and Friends.
Pier 23 Cafe on San Francisco’s Embarcadero was the venue. So I called the cafe and got a schedule of upcoming performances.
I was finally going to meet my dad.
I told my wife that I wanted to meet my dad alone. This was a moment I wanted all to myself. I wanted it to be as intimate as possible. I wanted the most authentic response from my dad, free from influences and distraction. How he would react was impossible to know. Would he become angry? Would he deny and evade?
I kept my expectations of our meeting low. He had never attempted to contact me so it was pretty clear that I was not a priority. The realism was for my protection. But I left the door of hope open just enough, enough to allow the possibility for a fairytale.
Although I had harbored so much hurt and spite for his phantom, I decided that if I wanted the possibility of a relationship, I would have to be willing to release him from any ill will and allow him the opportunity to start with a clean slate. I had so much pain and sadness wrapped up within this non-relationship, the last thing I wanted was to experience more.
When I arrived, he was already playing. I sat down and listened, waiting for him to finish so I could give him the most difficult surprise he probably ever had.
Up to that point, Mom had been my only historical reference. His name was Joseph Ellis, she said. He was Italian. He wasn’t tall, but not short either. Thick and curly dark hair but quickly balding. Dark eyes and skin. She told me I looked just like him. She had no photos. “Go look in the mirror”, she would say.
They had met because they were both jazz musicians in Sacramento. Mom was a vocalist and drummer. Dad was a trumpet player. He had studied at Juilliard, but dropped out. They hung out with each other for a while, played some gigs together, but she wasn’t that impressed. He bragged about himself a lot.
Mom told it like it was, mostly. A lot of times to my unwelcome alarm.
At a gig in Reno, they smoked pot and had sex. She said it was awkward and he didn’t come. His body had a broad, firm “roundness” that she liked. His penis was nice too, not small or big. But she said size didn’t matter. Then he left to be the lead trumpet player with the Stan Kenton Band.
When she found out she was pregnant, she was sure he was the father but didn’t contact him. About a year after I was born, Mom applied for welfare. Meanwhile, the government went after him for child support. Paternity was verified. He was ordered by the court to pay 35 dollars a month but he paid for less than a year and then stopped. She didn’t pursue payments.
Mom went to his parent’s house in Sacramento and extended an offer to my grandmother to know her grandchild. My grandmother refused. Mom made no further attempts. She did her duty. My dad, or any of his family, made no contact. Ever.
That’s what my mother said. That’s all I knew.
Females governed my childhood. This was good because I was a deeply sensitive kid.
Mom asked me often how I felt about not having a dad. I said I didn't mind. She didn't “work” and I was an only child, so I didn't feel like I was missing out. I had everything I needed. I don't remember looking at my friend's fathers with a sense of longing.
For one reason or another a lot of them were absent too.
Along with my mom, I lived with my mom's sister, aunt Irene. Irene worked at McClellan Air Force Base as a groundskeeper, not far from the trailer park where we lived. Although she was an adult, Irene had the cognitive and emotional capacity somewhere between a child and adolescent. Mom told me she thought it was because their mother drank heavily during the pregnancy. Mom also had her doubts that they shared the same father. While Mom took care of the household and both of us, Irene supplemented with income.
My aunt helped take care of me, and was nothing but kind. She was like a big sister more than an aunt. By the time I had turned seven, I began to eclipse her intellectually.
After Mom married, her and Irene’s relationship became strained. And Mom’s ultimate weapon in relationships was banishment.
It started to matter that my dad was never there when my mother started a new family. The revelation that an older neighborhood boy had been sexually molesting me only complicated an already overwhelming emotional transition.
At six years old, my whole world was disintegrating. My anchors were cut loose and I became a satellite to larger, threatening bodies. Blended families have a lot of challenges. My 24 year old stepfather was ill equipped for the role of instant father. He was naive, immature and 12 years younger than my mother. I felt exposed and afraid. I felt abandoned and betrayed. I felt separate.
I became afraid of the dark. I had night terrors. I started to steal. I changed schools every year for grades 4 through 9.
A growing anger questioned why my real father wasn’t there. I needed him. I couldn’t find security in my stepfather, he was a stranger. Mom had handled my sexual abuse poorly and started machine gunning out babies. I was adrift. Who was I? Where was my place? I had no shelter. I withdrew, turning inward and building emotional walls to protect myself from further injury. My strategies became increasingly selfish so I could survive. I hid in the shadow of others, complementing their realities to find value and acceptance.
Except for a brief time with my maternal grandfather and a couple of Big Brothers Mom had gotten me previous to her marriage, my experience with other men was all negative and it warped me. They were either betrayers or incompetent. They were absent or competition. They were manipulators or brute authority. They were interlopers or indifferent. They were frauds—predators with malevolent intent. They didn’t protect or inspire, they didn’t teach or lead. They didn’t love. I had no faith in them. They failed me.
This lopsided and dark opinion began to define me. This is what it meant to be a man and I hated them for that. I didn’t want to be them, but that’s all I had as reference. I internalized the pain. I punished the only man I had influence over, myself. And I would suffer for their trespasses.
The awareness that blooms with adolescence, the realization that parents are human and full of faults only fueled my rage. I saw the denial and dysfunction of their lives and realized the collateral damage I received while they chased their tails, snared in their own emotional dysfunctions.
Now I was awake to truths that I had no control over and felt even more isolated. I distanced myself further and further from those who supposedly loved me but hurt and abandoned me instead.
Dark days lay ahead for my sensitive and tortured soul.
And on your side you have introspection and self-reflection