Dear Claude

Hey,

I couldn’t write about it last year, when you passed away. I guess I think about you everyday but I don’t even try to count, you are just around in my head, somehow.

I wanted to tell you thank you, my first dad. My first male figure. And I can’t really think about a better one.

You came to Paris to get me. I was assigned to your foster home. A nice, calm baby. I imagine that after raising five white children having a brown one with nappy hair was exciting and cute.

You took me back to your place, in the sweet French countryside. You took care of me like I belonged, as your children and grandchildren. I’m the dash between them.

2 years! 

I remember the sound of your electric razor in the morning, your brown tobacco smell when you licked my face to gross me out and make me giggle, sitting on your lap, I remember playing with my little cars following the rug lines while you were watching Formula One. I remember watching the liquid running through the little rocks and the salads you were watering. I remember following you often, going to your perfectly organized workshop where you would drink "un p’ti ballon d’rouge/d’blanc" with your friends or family or fix some stuff while whistling brilliantly. I remember you teaching me how to ride a bike, challenging me to get rid of the training wheels, and boom! I totally succeeded. I was so in love with you.

Once I did a very bad thing, I threw a metal can in the face of a younger girl. You caught me doing it and before I could enjoy the neatness of my long distance headshot, you were grabbing me and making my bottom taste the leather of your belt. I went to bed, woke up for a cookie, and that was it. You never hurt me before and after that. It was like, perfect, unaltered Justice: you don’t do shit to people you wouldn’t like them to do to you or else, you’ll pay for it. The harder you do, the harder you pay. I pretty much never employed force or physical advantage unless it’s allowed, to win an argument ever again.

You were mad when I had to leave for my now 26 year old family. I didn’t see it but she told me that you wanted to commit suicide, you were probably drunk that time. Thanks to my parents not listening to what the state was saying, I was coming over often. It felt good, the city is so full of shit sometimes it was great to be with you, fucking around and simply enjoying a simple life.

When I have been able to come over on my own, you were the one following me everywhere. Retirement is a bitch. But it was great to see you, chatting about "l’autre enculé de Hongrois", our current president. That time I had the Jaguar and we rode around? You wanted to ride again and again and I would drive you as long as you want now.

Then you got sick. I immediately knew that it would kill you. Your family is a cancer fest and you drank and smoked for decades. I probably do a little of both because of you. I learned to not give a fuck with you, too. I also learn to care and do things, and work hard. My now dad added a layer of the same thing in a different flavor so I guess it’s printed and hard-wired in me.

Cancer took two years to get you. It was hard for everybody but you know my grandfather, Raymond is a vegetable now and it’s just excruciating. I think that it was better this way, though a few more years would have been great. I just wish you didn’t have to suffer so much.

The world is sad. People say that we can all live together despite our differences and we both know that. You did it. We so did it. I was your "petit dernier" and you were asking what I was doing and you were so impressed by this music and computer game thingy. I would ask about how you would fix this thing in the wall and would be as impressed and everything would be all right. People talk. We did. And if today I have identity issues, it’s not our fault. It’s just that the world is too damn slow and dumb and forces me to dream about joining my black and brown people so I can stop feeling awkward. The city is making all of us crazy.

I was with her this week so that she wouldn’t be alone on the first anniversary of her husband’s death and I wanted to have her in my arm all the time but you know how she is, stronger and harder than a rock. She’s doing OK, your dog helps a lot. I wanted to have her in my arm all the time also to say thank you for all she did for me. I wanted to have her in my arm all the time to thank you, as I would have loved to at least once in my life kiss you and say that I love you.

Summer 2009.

I don’t know why but this song really makes me think about the picture below. Sun and fun memories with you. I love you man, thank you again and forever.

 
End 80s.