Dad,

It’s been six years. Six years of living with a pain I knew was inevitable. With the inevitability of it, one could hope to prepare but the magnitude of your presence made that impossible and I knew that too.

For twenty-three years, you were the best dad. As cliché as it may sound, you were. A single parent to a strong willed, sharp tongued little girl, or as most would say, just plain mean, you ensured I had everything I needed, patience, love, and understanding…along with the material things. Looking back, your resourcefulness is astounding. I remember you calling into radio stations, winning tickets to see ballet troupes such as, Les Ballet Africains or concert tickets for groups like the Wailers. You wanted to expose me to as much as possible. I had the privilege of going everywhere with you, including your job. Every day. By the time, I was fourteen, I had traveled to over fifteen states, and none of your colleagues would be surprised to see me at your annual conferences. You put me in tennis and dance classes, and would stay up all night helping me with homework and consistently gave me satirical approaches to biased essay assignments.

While everything you did for me was remarkable, your exceptional character left the indelible mark. Being an educator and organizer, I observed you at many podiums. The well being of people was your priority. It was exhibited in you letting your students borrow your personal laptop so they could complete assignments and in your organization of events attended by thousands fighting against injustices. You were known for closing out conversations, meetings, and speeches by saying ‘Forward!’ The full version being, ‘Forward Forever! Backward Never!’

Growing up, I had an acute awareness that you likely would not live an extensive life due to the work you did and the society we live in. I constantly stressed about how I would live in a world without you. I would remind myself that wasn’t my reality, ‘cross that bridge once we arrive’ and I hoped to never get there, but then you were diagnosed with cancer at stage 4 and after fighting several years, we arrived at that bridge.

I’ll never forget being the one to tell you and I apologize for not delivering the news with the tenderness I know you would’ve if the roles were reversed. Three weeks. That was the prognosis. In the proceeding days, I grabbed a pen and yellow pad, but that wasn’t enough. I opened the voice notes app on my phone and pressed record, prepared to soak up as much knowledge as I could. Most of my questions were met with an “I don’t know.” I was frustrated but I recognized that while you were dying you didn’t have the ability to write the story of how I would live. You never did. You always told me my life was mine. At the end of the day, I had to be happy. “I don’t know” wasn’t the only answer I got that day to my endless list of questions. You also told me to maintain my principles and when asked what I should keep in mind at all times when life got hard and I needed you, you said remember all the happy moments. I didn’t know what to do with that or so I thought.

About a month after you passed, I reached out to the advisor of the academic journal for my graduate program about returning to the editorial board for which I had served as an editor the year prior. I was simply asking if I needed to apply to the position again. It was fun and I was no longer a caregiver so I figured I didn’t have a reason not to. I received an unexpected response; she emailed back letting me know that she would like to discuss me becoming the next co-editor-in-chief. Given my social anxiety, I thought the logical response would be to respectfully decline like I did the undergraduate valedictorian speech where you were quietly disappointed. There was no way I could oversee a board of my peers and be a primary voice in publishing a publication that reflected them along with an academic institution, but I knew to identify the voice that was saying I couldn’t, fear. You always repeated the quote “There’s nothing to fear but fear itself. ” So, despite my fears, I took the position. I asked us to define our objective because everything should be done with a purpose. Most importantly, it should be done together. You taught me that the world should be left a better place than we found it. We should leave something for the next generation to build off. The only way we leave something substantial is by working together so I blurred the lines of editors, managing editors, and co-editors-in-chief ensuring that all decisions were made collectively and objectively. You encouraged and nurtured critical thought. “You need to think at all times.” I remember that coming to me the night before our most important meeting where our shortlist would be finalized and I jokingly thought ‘what interesting ideas would be mentioned to increase readership that weren’t in line with our objective’ so I could prepare. However, I ended up coming up with an idea that did align with our objective, to have a panel at the annual research symposium, which the board was excited to create. A month before we published, I received another unexpected email, I was the co-recipient of one of the department’s annual awards, for making the greatest contribution to the student association and publication. They went on to detail what I mentioned above. My goal in defining our objective, fostering a democratic environment, and developing ideas for growth wasn’t to win an award but lead the creation of a body of work people could be proud of. Not just those actively working on it but those who entered the program after us. That was you.

Three years later, I was seeking a job opportunity where I could grow and develop my skills. I came across a position at a prestigious university. For once in my life, I didn’t overthink it. I applied. During my third interview, walking around the campus, the interviewer asked if I thought I could oversee a student staff of seventy people. Without hesitation, I said “yes.” So much so, he responded, “yes?” and I reaffirmed. In that moment, I honestly shocked myself. Before eventually accepting the position, the largest staff I oversaw was that of about twenty people. I didn’t know how I would do it successfully. How I would make sure they not only succeeded in their responsibilities of the position but I nurtured their talents and skills in preparation of them entering the real world, how I would lead meetings, present to large audiences and stakeholders on their behalf. Nine months into the position, on my birthday, I got a text message, a two-minute video of more than twenty students sending well wishes and saying thank you. Two months later when our seniors graduated, I received messages and cards expressing similar gratitude.

I thought I didn’t know how to live in a world without you, but in continuing to just move forward, one step at a time, I think I do. Thank you.

Love,