From the Archives: A Father’s Day Tribute to My Dad

Reposting this heartfelt reflection from a previous Father’s Day. As the years pass, the memories grow even more meaningful.

All I have now are memories—what I can recall in detail about who he was to me and what he stood for. One thing I know for sure: my dad deeply valued family. He made it a point to keep me included and connected to his side, and because of that, I spent a lot of time with cousins I might not have known otherwise. Togetherness and belonging were big for him. He wanted me to know where I came from—and who I came from.

Even the small things, like eating breakfast and dinner together at the table, were a tradition. I remember having to drink a glass of water before I could reach for the orange juice. Or the time I flat-out refused to eat green beans—I thought they were the worst thing ever. He made me sit there until I ate them, but I held out. After what felt like hours (but was probably thirty minutes), he gave in and let me go. Looking back, I realize he just wanted me to eat my veggies. His way of doing things was structured, intentional.

I truly believe my dad planted seeds in me early on—lessons that didn’t fully bloom until later in life.

I was so proud that he drove trucks for a living. I thought it was the coolest thing ever. I got to ride in those big rigs, pull the horn, and even “drive” one for my 8th birthday. He was a traveler and a photographer, always needing to capture the moment with his Polaroid. I remember standing on a mountain ledge in Colorado with no jacket—just passing through, but still, he had to get the shot. Most of those photos have been lost over time, but the memories remain vivid in my mind. And now, I find myself doing the same—snapping photos, printing them out, preserving the moments.

Quality time was huge for him—and it’s one of my love languages, too. We’d color together, watch movies like A Bug’s Life, and he’d let me play doctor with my little toy medical kit. He was my patient. Those moments might seem small, but they meant everything. They still do.

He was intentional with his words and actions. I remember him telling me, “When you wake up, just thank God for another day.” When I was twelve, I spent part of the summer with him in Oklahoma. Every Wednesday, he’d take me to Vacation Bible School. I was so shy, it made me uncomfortable—but it helped me grow. It was during that time I found out he was diabetic and going to dialysis three times a week. That stuck with me. I now make sure to get checked every year for the same health concerns. In college, I even organized a week of events for National Diabetes Awareness Month to educate others—because of him.

It’s been 14 years since my dad passed, but his spirit lives on. I can still hear his voice, see his smile, and feel his presence in the smallest of moments. He’s the one who named me. He loved the Dallas Cowboys, navy blue was his favorite color, and he had a thing for country music—but he also liked Rihanna’s Take A Bow. He was family-oriented, interested in real estate, a provider, and the one who taught me how to cook (diabetic-friendly meals, of course). He even took me to get my ears pierced.

Three days before he passed, he visited me just to take photos of me playing in the snow. Deep down, I knew he shouldn’t have been out in that weather—but he wanted to be there. He showed up. That’s what I hold onto: the little things. The presence. The care. The memories.

Father’s Day hits differently for everyone. But I do believe this: we need our Black fathers. We need them present, loving, guiding. I learned so much from my dad, and this is just a glimpse into the impact he had. His life—and love—still speaks.