Nate Dogg: The Heart of a Warrior

First of all let me start off by saying that I’m from Long Beach.  I use to get my hair pressed on Alamitos where the road veers to the left and turns into Orange.  The sista had a mustache.  She could press some hair. 

I sang in the youth choir at church.  I was painfully shy and not as experienced as some of the young girls who seemed so confident in themselves.  They were so taken aback by my shy demeanor as we sat in the pulpit on Wednesday evening choir practice that they insisted I must be sneaky.  “It’s the quiet ones you have to watch,” one of the older teenagers surmised.

The elders in my church sat in the front pews.  They were great singers.  One gentleman in particular was a giant, very tall, although he stooped from working all his life.  He would sometimes lead the choir from the front pews reaching down deep in his throat to throw out a spiritual as he testified to the goodness of God.  He had a son.  He was a gangster.  I knew him or I guess I should say I knew of him.  Like most of the teenage boys, he sat in the very last pew wearing some brown Dickies, tall, even sitting down.  Except it was more like leaning.  Suffering  from profound boredom, resistance was written all over his face.

But when he was at school, he smiled.  Sneaking around, macking to girls, kicking it with his homies, and getting in trouble, it was always such a shock to see him at church.  Most boys on the brink of manhood, would experience this divide, being offered a value system that didn’t seem to fit with the realities of the street.  The connection to the church was there, but it was like parent and child lived in two different worlds.

Nate Dogg’s voice would make me think of this poignant contradiction.  Also raised in the church, he represented the essence of manhood raised in the streets.  His voice evoked the church, and the gangster’s you knew in the neighborhood who ironically could be as sweet as peach cobbler to a sista, chilvary that took your breath away. 

It hurts to know that this voice of soulful masculinity has left the earth.  It’s a voice that makes you think of your daddy and the boy with the blue dickies and the tight jheri curl that you had a secret crush on. You’re torn because you know you shouldn’t date those kind of boys, but you’d probably never have to worry about trespassers if you ever snagged him. There’s at least two sides to a soldier at all times, a protector and a warrior. 

It seemed that his voice would be classified as a baritone, very deep, smooth, strong. A distinct departure from many of the voices you hear on the radio.  Listening to it made me feel somehow protected.  Like he’d be that kind of guy.  A don’t f*** with me or mines kind of bruh. 

And his soul.  I believed we must’ve liked all of the same kind of music.  Because every hook he sang seemed to come from a song I loved.  “Closer than Close.”  “I Keep Forgetting.”  He also seemed to sing for the soldiers in the street.  His vocal delivery of “Never Leave Me Alone,” actually put me in the holding cell with so many brothers on lockdown that had families on the outside.  I could see the inmate talking to his wife, reminding her to keep his picture with his son so he wouldn’t forget.  It’s some sad poetry that he really could bring to you through his voice. 

I recognized his reflective power of singing for so many of us.  Those raised in the church, that would sing songs connecting us way back to deep ancestral sorrow and pain.  Those of us who ever floated down the street in an old Cadillac with a Kenwood sound system  bumping “mind blowing decisions causes head on collisions.” 

I really appreciated him. Really appreciated the strength coming through his voice.  Really appreciated his use of language, the black syntax, the proverbial sayings many of us heard all of our lives, and that would serve as a foundation for some common sense lessons. 

I was raised by a soldier.  He wasn’t much on feelings, or so I thought.  Always preaching that I dumb down my emotions.  I know he was trying to make me strong.  Make me survive.  I would joke to myself that dad was never a little boy.  He must’ve came out a mean grown man.  My mom always insisted that my dad had feelings, but none of us believed her.

 But then Nate Dogg started singing.  Through his music I got a glimpse of the heart of a true warrior.

Internal Travels: Finding the Right Balance

There’s an indescribable delicate balance between the male and feminine principle, which often, but not solely, we attribute to a man and woman in that order.  Or in other words, men and women are still finding ways to get along with one another in the modern world and we’re doing so in a shifting environment of roles, expectations and even traditional institutions that influenced male and female behavior.

Our society may still be generally, patriarchal, but within these boundaries, there’s a shift going on in the universe.  Going out on a date with a man who was 23 years my senior really allowed me to explore these differences and the way things have changed (and remain the same).  He spoke the entire time about himself.  Yes, I was interested, very much so, because I found the man to have so much wisdom and intelligence, but not once did he ask me about me.

It’s more than that though.  Perhaps fifty or more years ago, there were expectations of women that dealt with cooking, cleaning, sewing, and perhaps obeying their husbands.  I witnessed some of this first hand in my own household with this paradigm.  However, there was also lots of verbal, emotional and sometimes physical abuse in the home.  There was a feeling of abandonment.  Egos went unchecked.  Adult insecurities seeped into children’s psyches as we clung to traditional notions whether they were fulfilling or not.  The family unit that was supposed to secure us, snuffed us out. 

But hey, we’re just being human beings the best way we know how.  I get that.

This is why I don’t think being single is such a sin.  Some of us are not sinful.  We’re just ZENFUL.  We want to understand our mate and love him or her on that higher level.  Yes, it does take great sacrifice, as some of us traverse the land for years without a mate to come home to.  It’s tough to raise kids single since it’s pretty darn hard raising them with two parents. I admit, though, that I’ve been able to grow in ways that I wouldn’t have if I was married and I’ve pass down that growth to my kids.  Life is more experimental, but with that unorthodox approach comes new ideas, new ways to communicate, more consideration of the children’s emotions.  Everything isn’t about agreeing with a mate’s political position just to keep that person happy at the detriment of your children’s self-esteem or healthy development.

And yet, you’re still the parent.  You have to know that just because you’re son didn’t make the basketball team at his middle school, doesn’t mean you can’t insist he play for his local parks and recreation team.  Even when he says he doesn’t want to play basketball anymore.  Yeah, his emotions are relevant, but a parent has to be able to properly read those emotions, which for kids a lot times involves fear.  But I digress, back to relationships.

I, for one, am glad for the progress women have made as well as appreciate the protective energies of a man.  But it’s true, I’m an artsy, progressive, cultural fan of the alternative ways of life, and am holding out for a fellow new-ager.  You won’t catch me on CNN complaining why I ain’t got a man, because I’m pretty sure when the time is right, we’ll meet somewhere in this galaxy.

My New Year's Eve "Undate" or Do Not Underestimate the Power of Triple A, A Mild Mannered Police Officer, and Your Gut Instinct

Location: Eastside Long Beach

Destination: Westside Long Beach

So, I’m feeling fly, even if I have poured myself into some close fitting Calvin Klein jeans and am now wondering if I’ve compromised breathing for fashion.  I wanted to look good ringing in the New Year. With my matching boots and faux leather jacket, I prepared for an evening of adventure.

I take off to the freeway blasting my Dru Hill greatest hits CD and wondering my van is pulling to the right.  This old van of mine has been good to me.

“Maybe it’s just getting old,” I think, since I just had the car re-aligned.  Moving into the right lane, I rev off the exit, listening to an unmistakable low hum, which I suspect is the engine.  It isn’t.  It’s a flat tire.  Whaat?  A flat tire on New Year’s Eve?!

Quickly my instincts kick-in.  I know there’s a tire shop on Santa Fe.  Somehow, though as I drive down the street, I miss it.  I end up on a corner whirling my head around like the exorcist lady looking for someone to help.  I spy a straitlaced young white police officer making a left-hand turn and I honk frantically.  He responds by methodically raising his right hand all the while gazing forward to complete his left turn. “Thank God,” I think, “he sees me.” I won’t have to walk 10 blocks to my Mom’s house filled with the stench of chit’lins.  It is New Year’s Eve after all and some black traditions die hard.  And this is exactly how I explain it to the officer.

 “You see officer there’s an African-American tradition where something called “chit’lins” is prepared to usher in the New Year.  Only problem is their pig guts and they stink up the whole house.  If I don’t get this car fixed, I’ll have to spend the night over there!” This is a diverse city, so chances are he knows what I’m talking about, but it’s a fun challenge to make an officer of the law laugh.

Sergeant Le Baron is a clean cut white guy who looks like he’s played by the rules most of his life.  He reminds me of one of the nicest and smartest boys I knew in Geometry class in high school, Andy, who was really sweet and a great conversationalist. This makes me comfortable with him right away. He drives me down the truckside part of PCH in hopes of seeing an open tire repair shop.  But it’s dusk on New Year’s Eve, and nobody’s open.  He suggests that the best thing to do is to utilize my Mom’s Triple A, call a tow, and allow them to put on my spare tire.  He puts in a call to Triple A, and we chit-chat.

I ask him about his family.  He’s got a nine year old and he and his wife have a one-year old toddler.  Before showing him my wallet-size family photo, I launch into an anecdote about taking my father to Vet’s hospital.

“He’s such a war veteran,” I insist, “he never sees himself as sick. But I get him to laugh just talking about my dead-end job, how jobs can you literally drive you crazy, and gossiping about mom,” describing my technique for chipping off my dad’s icy exterior.

“He’s so appreciative for a simple ride to and fro to the hospital, that he gives me a gift certificate to a photography studio for a family photo,” I explain.

I enjoy preparing for the unveiling of my family photo in this way.  When I show Sergeant LeBaron, I figure the smiles on my children’s faces say it all—we have joy.  My father’s urging that we take a photograph was an unspoken gesture of pride in his daughter and his grandkids.

I suspect that Sergeant Le Baron is impressed too.  We both, as it turns out, have more than 2.5 children.  He jokes that coming to work patrolling the streets is easy compared to raising kids.  I can totally relate, and we get a good laugh from this realization.  But in a moment of compassion he remarks, “but you’re doin it all alone.”

It’s true for the most part, but I’m proud that this fact or his concern for me doesn’t make me sad.  It’s just me living my life and taking care of my family.  The wound of the past has been healing nicely, I notice.

My mother arrives in her typical fashionable Hollywood ready style in a smart, ankle-length beige trench coat extending her hand to Sergeant Le Baron as if they’ve just wrapped a blockbuster movie and have showed up for the red-carpet premiere.  Soon after, Triple A arrives at my spectacle, and finds, too my surprise, that I actually own a firestone brand tire with quite a bit of tread left on the tire.  New Year’s Eve can finally begin.

I do, however, feel a tinge disappointed that I must leave the company of a gainfully employed family man that loves his wife and adores his kids.  It’s kinda like I had a non-date date for New Year’s Eve.  Perhaps I’ll call it my “undate.”  I can definitely attest to the fact that the experience rocked 100x’s more than the actual date I had about a month ago. 

My “undate” proved to be the highlight of my New Year’s Eve.  I sit in a chair across from my brother at my mother’s house detailing the events from the evening while inhaling small sips of breath to prevent passing out from dank chit’lin fumes.

“I gave him some brown sugar,” joking with my brother about the full body hug I gave to the Sergeant.

“Did you kiss him?” my brother asked.

“No!” I shoot back, “he’s married!” surprised by my tone of propriety since admittedly I did have a visceral urge to plant one on the lips—and then some.  He was my knight in shining armor on a dusky New Year’s Eve after all.

“So.” my brother shrugged.  “I wish someone would kiss me on the lips.  I’m ringing in New Year’s Eve alone, again.”

I understand his forlorn sentiment.  I hadn’t had a kiss from someone who cares about me in a long, long time.

We spend the rest of the evening telling jokes and watching Young Money on BET featuring the young, hot, and fabulous Lil’ Wayne, Drizzy Drake, and the pink haired one, Nicki Minaj.

I didn’t go out, like last year’s Erykah Badu evening (story for another time), but my non-date with Sergeant Le Baron lingered on my mind and kept my heart hopeful for the new year.