straight. He had changed his life for that little girl. From the moment he had laid eyes on her, he realized his life would never be the same. He had ceased to be a criminal, just like that.
His daughter upon her birth had skin the color of a chocolate-brown mink, with shining bright eyes. Her eyes shone like new money, as they used to say. He had considered her a prize, and had treated her like one.
The instant she had looked at him the bond had been set. It was he, not Tawney, who had gotten up for her feedings at night, changed her, cradled her in his arms, and sung nursery rhyme songs to her in his off-key baritone.
He hadnât wanted his daughter to grow up without a strong male figure for support. There were too many black kids who grew up without ever knowing their fathers, or having any type of positive relationship with them.
So he and Tawney had virtually switched roles. He had become the stay-at-home dad, and Tawney had pursued her career. Tawney was not the domestic type in the slightest sense of the word, so it was all good.
He had decided then and there that he wouldnât be in the streets when his daughter needed him. Nor would he be in jail, where her first glimpse of him would be like looking at a caged animal. He vowed that she would never see him through the vertical bars.
Or view his body in a casket, because of some street mishap. The only way he could ensure that was to get out of the streets and get out for good, and so he had.
After settling debts, putting cash aside, and severing all street connections, he had become in every sense of the word a daddy. In truth he had been both Daddy and Mommy to Jazz in many ways, because Tawney was always busy climbing the corporate ladder, career building or networking, trying to reach the next rung on the ladder.
However, it was an arrangement that made them both happy, and one that worked well for their small family. He loved being there for his daughter. He realized with another sharp pain that Jazz had been the only thing in his life that he had ever loved purely.
He loved the shine of her eyes, her twinkling smile. The way she threw her arms around his neck at night when he read her stories. He could still feel the soft, warm bubble bath smell rising up from her childlike innocence.
Hell, he had even learned how to braid her hair, make ponytails, and tie red ribbons in it. The two of them loved red ribbons. Jazz had been his image of the perfect little girl, almost like a storybook fantasy come true, and he had been a part of creating her.
Dear Jesus, how he missed her.
An unbidden image floated into his mind, as he remembered noticing that one of her ribbons was missing as she lay on the white hospital sheets, in a pool of blood, lifeless. He remembered thinking that the figure lying there couldnât be his child. But it was.
How ironic that he had lost his only child to the streets, after fleeing the streets so he wouldnât lose her. The sins of the fathers visited upon the children. Oh God, if he could only take it all back.
With that thought a flood of tears rolled unstoppable down his cheeks. No one would have believed it. At one time he had been considered one of the most dangerous, lethal criminals on the streets. No one dared cross him. He was what the old-school rappers called an Original Ganster, an O.G. in every sense of the word.
On this night he was a man with a dead child, lost to him forever. A howl of wounded anger, frustration, and loss echoed across Central Avenue. It sounded like it came from a stranger. He sat on the curb, hugging himself, rocking and crying like a baby. He couldnât believe she was gone. Not his Jazz. She couldnât be gone.
He was a man who had survived gunshot wounds, stabbings, gang beatings, the police, the system, and any number of contracts that had been put out on his life.
For the first time he wondered if he would survive the death of his daughter. This was the one thing he
His daughter upon her birth had skin the color of a chocolate-brown mink, with shining bright eyes. Her eyes shone like new money, as they used to say. He had considered her a prize, and had treated her like one.
The instant she had looked at him the bond had been set. It was he, not Tawney, who had gotten up for her feedings at night, changed her, cradled her in his arms, and sung nursery rhyme songs to her in his off-key baritone.
He hadnât wanted his daughter to grow up without a strong male figure for support. There were too many black kids who grew up without ever knowing their fathers, or having any type of positive relationship with them.
So he and Tawney had virtually switched roles. He had become the stay-at-home dad, and Tawney had pursued her career. Tawney was not the domestic type in the slightest sense of the word, so it was all good.
He had decided then and there that he wouldnât be in the streets when his daughter needed him. Nor would he be in jail, where her first glimpse of him would be like looking at a caged animal. He vowed that she would never see him through the vertical bars.
Or view his body in a casket, because of some street mishap. The only way he could ensure that was to get out of the streets and get out for good, and so he had.
After settling debts, putting cash aside, and severing all street connections, he had become in every sense of the word a daddy. In truth he had been both Daddy and Mommy to Jazz in many ways, because Tawney was always busy climbing the corporate ladder, career building or networking, trying to reach the next rung on the ladder.
However, it was an arrangement that made them both happy, and one that worked well for their small family. He loved being there for his daughter. He realized with another sharp pain that Jazz had been the only thing in his life that he had ever loved purely.
He loved the shine of her eyes, her twinkling smile. The way she threw her arms around his neck at night when he read her stories. He could still feel the soft, warm bubble bath smell rising up from her childlike innocence.
Hell, he had even learned how to braid her hair, make ponytails, and tie red ribbons in it. The two of them loved red ribbons. Jazz had been his image of the perfect little girl, almost like a storybook fantasy come true, and he had been a part of creating her.
Dear Jesus, how he missed her.
An unbidden image floated into his mind, as he remembered noticing that one of her ribbons was missing as she lay on the white hospital sheets, in a pool of blood, lifeless. He remembered thinking that the figure lying there couldnât be his child. But it was.
How ironic that he had lost his only child to the streets, after fleeing the streets so he wouldnât lose her. The sins of the fathers visited upon the children. Oh God, if he could only take it all back.
With that thought a flood of tears rolled unstoppable down his cheeks. No one would have believed it. At one time he had been considered one of the most dangerous, lethal criminals on the streets. No one dared cross him. He was what the old-school rappers called an Original Ganster, an O.G. in every sense of the word.
On this night he was a man with a dead child, lost to him forever. A howl of wounded anger, frustration, and loss echoed across Central Avenue. It sounded like it came from a stranger. He sat on the curb, hugging himself, rocking and crying like a baby. He couldnât believe she was gone. Not his Jazz. She couldnât be gone.
He was a man who had survived gunshot wounds, stabbings, gang beatings, the police, the system, and any number of contracts that had been put out on his life.
For the first time he wondered if he would survive the death of his daughter. This was the one thing he
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