Unruly

by Ja Rule

  “Jeff! Let’s go. Let’s go. I can’t take this!” And we left.

  Although I had accepted the invitation, I realized that I was completely unprepared to deal with him and all the years of pain and anguish that he had caused me. I had buried the pain so deeply, hoping that it would never resurface.

  He stepped towards me and said, “I’ve missed you, son.” My feelings of abandonment, being alone and unloved, were all jumbled up in my heart. Throughout my life, each violent blow that I’d dealt held a little piece of him. Not knowing what else to say or do, I embraced him like a young Black man caught off guard, but who had finally found what he was looking for. Plus, offering a hug is my normal way.

  MY FATHER AND I awkwardly “kicked it” at first, both of us commenting on how much we had both changed and how good it was to see each other. My father was awkward. His body moved slowly and he was no longer in good shape. He had fattened up. His face was different but I couldn’t pinpoint what it was. His face was fuller and less handsome.

  He gently patted my back as if to confirm, for himself, that I was real. My mind raced trying to find the right words to say to him, but I couldn’t get them out of my mouth. Uncle Walter watched the two of us from the corner of his eye. When he realized that we needed some privacy, he put his hand on my back and led me and my father to the back bathroom.

  “Y’all can sit in here, it’s not so noisy,” Uncle Walter said with a slight Southern drawl as he started to close the door on us.

  “Thanks, Uncle Walter,” I said as the door shut.

  My father sat down on the commode. “Say what you need to say. I’m ready.”

  I sat down uncomfortably on the edge of the large bathtub. I detected that although he was supposed to be clean, he may not have been. I sat across from him, trying to collect my thoughts. We both studied the tiny cracks in the tile.

  My heart raced and my skin tightened as I was able to muster, “You’ve missed a lot.”

  “I know, son, and I’m sorry for that.” His hair was graying and his skin was a similar dull shade. Although the years had formed an intricate gap between us, he seemed comfortable with me, as if we were once connected in another life.

  “I have a wife and two children now. My wife’s name is Aisha and Brittney is my daughter. She’s eight. Jeffrey Jr. is my son. I call him L’il Rule. He’s three.”

  “Wow! Man. That’s real cool. I hope to meet them someday. I hope to be a better grandfather than I was a father,” he said, hoping that it wouldn’t be too late. He sat up a little taller and said, “I’m real proud of you, son.”

  “I’ve been through a lot,” I said. “A lot of the shit I’ve been through has to do with you, I think. I forgive you, man, for most of that shit, but what I can’t forgive is you hitting my Moms and walking out on me. You can’t leave your kids.”

  “Jeffrey, it’s so hard to explain. Sometimes I don’t understand it, either. I was so fucked-up on drugs. I didn’t know if I was coming or going. I wasn’t myself. My next hit was all I cared about. I hurt anything that was standing in my way. It didn’t matter who it was, what it was or how hard I hit.”

  “I don’t need you to explain. You think I don’t know about that shit?” I could feel myself getting mad.

  “Too bad you don’t remember your grandfather. He was like a wild cowboy, himself,” my father said, smiling at the memory. It was nice to see him crack a smile. My father’s smile was familiar and I was able to feel what I felt back then, when I thought he was going to be my father.

  “Jeff, you know my father wasn’t there for me, either,” he said somberly. “I know how you feel. It’s a shame that I followed in his footsteps as much as I planned to never do to you what he did for me. Life takes you by surprise,” he said, shaking his head.

  His mouth still formed that same smile that I loved as a child. Listening to him speak about his own father showed me that for all of us, our fathers are often our reason for being or our excuse for not being.

  “You know, it’s cool to be a father. It’s the greatest reward you can have as a man. To raise your children to teach them to be respectable,” I said.

  As I sat across from him, I could feel the anger draining out of my heart. I didn’t have to be mad anymore, because I had survived. There would never be enough time to deal with it all in one night, there was so much and so little to say.

  But, I said nothing. The inimitable silence between estranged family members filled the space. It was drowning us in silence.

  The bright lights of the bathroom allowed me to really see the sadness that lived in his eyes. I could see up close what drug addiction had done. I could see that as much as he may have wanted to do right by me, he couldn’t. Drugs had eaten him up. His weathered face told the story that I knew all too well.

  Strangely, seeing him again made me understand him better than I wanted to. I could finally see the two sides of the story. I could finally forgive.

  “Son, I’ve waited years to be able to sit down with you and apologize. I often wondered what I would say to you. I just want to tell you that I am so proud that you are a family man, taking care of your children and your wife.”

  “I love them. I couldn’t do anything else,” I said.

  “You’re a good man, son. You’re a better man than I was. I sit here and look at you and you know what fucks me up the most?”

  “What?”

  “That you had to do it all by yourself.”

  “It wasn’t easy. But it wasn’t impossible.”

  “Keep doing what you’re doing, son. The world needs to see more examples of men being fathers and husbands.”

  “I hope that I will be able to tell my son Jeffrey that he is a better man than me, someday.”

  “That’s it. That’s how we break the cycle. One father at a time.”

  My father cleared his throat. “Son, I want to give you some advice.”

  I stopped him in his tracks. “With all due respect, pops, I made it this far. I think I’m good.”

  “I understand.” He said it again after all those years.

  His gaze revealed a father’s greatest secret: that no man is ever ready for the weight of fatherhood. My own children taught me that a father has to do one thing, which is stay. The children will do the rest.

  There was a knock at the door. It was Aunt Dell.

  “Come in,” we both said in unison.

  Aunt Dell was flustered. Her apron was soiled with flour. She smelled of melting cheese. “Dinner’s ready, you two. Now it’s time to eat. Jeffrey, I made your favorites.”

  “Okay, Aunt Dell. We’ll be right out.”

  “Don’t take too long, the cornbread is hot.”

  I looked at my father and heard myself saying, “Can I call you sometime?”

  “I’d like that,” he said. “I’ll give you my number.”

  I pulled out my phone and punched in the numbers carefully as if my life depended on it. Once I got the numbers in, I didn’t know how to label it. I hesitated and then my fingers typed the letters “D-A-D” and I pressed SAVE. Having a father acknowledge me, and become a part of my life, was validation. It increased my self-confidence right there on the spot.

  I felt an overwhelming shudder of relief shooting through my whole body. I wished I could have left out of the back door to unravel these feelings instead of going out there to make small talk with a family that I had lost in the shuffle of life.

  My father came over to me and gave me a long hug that I’ll never forget.

  I said, “I’ll call you sometime.”

  “Jeff, I know how busy you are with your work. I’ll understand if you can’t find the time,” he said, ironically preparing himself for abandonment. “Just know that you’ll always be my son. And that you do have a father. Human relationships come in all shapes and sizes. This is just ours—it’s no better or worse than anyone else’s. Remember that.”

  “I will, Dad.”

  “You’re living your drea
m. Most people can’t say that about their lives. That’s real good, son.”

  “What was your dream?”

  “To open a bakery.”

  I wished I had known, but it was probably too late, I thought.

  My father was an accomplished baker. He baked for the Queen of England. Rumor has it, according to my relatives, my father invented fat-free cheesecake.

  “I want to come see your kids. My grandkids. Would that be all right?” he asked.

  “Yeah, man. They’d like that.”

  “Now let’s eat before Aunt Dell gets mad.”

  When we walked to the table the whole family was looking at us and smiling like Cheshire cats. No one said anything about what had happened. We tried to act as normal as we could, although a lifetime of pain had been lifted between the two Jeffreys that sat at the table.

  My family wanted to talk about having someone famous in the family. “What is R. Kelly like?” “I heard you met Minister Farrakhan.” “I don’t like that 50 Cents!” I listened with half attention. I couldn’t take my eyes off my dad. As I watched, I noticed how much I looked like him. How we held our fork the same. I noticed how quickly we ate, as though we were both racing against time. I was amazed at how funny he was. Moms always said he was a funny dude and Aisha says that about me.

  I don’t care what nobody says, young men always want to love their father. I realized then that I’d always loved mine. I’d always wanted him in my life. A boy’s father is the only person who can hold his son accountable for his actions.

  I kept my promise to him. I called him from time to time for the next few years. We were slowly building a rapport that made me feel whole. Mostly, we spoke about news, sports and music a little bit. I was surprised that he knew so much about hip-hop. I never talked about his leaving again. I didn’t want to bring up old wounds.

  The years seemed to fly by, speckled only with my occasional calls to see how he was doing. In 2008, he told me that he was having some health problems and he was scheduled to go into the hospital.

  The whirlwind of my life was pulling me in so many different directions. I planned to go visit him in the hospital. I wanted to and until I got there, I called him almost every day.

  The last time that I spoke to him he said, “Son, you have a sister in Queens.”

  I didn’t know what to feel but I said, “That’s great. How old is she?”

  “She’s about your age,” he whispered.

  I didn’t want to react. I didn’t want to remember the pain that my father’s womanizing had caused Moms.

  “You should go see her sometimes. She has a son, too. You are an uncle.”

  I wasn’t sure about that. It would hurt Moms if I got involved with the child that my father had when he was married to her. Married to us.

  “Yeah. I’ll try,” I finally said.

  My Cousin Corey called to tell me that my father had passed away. I regretted that I never got to Florida in time to see him one last time. I was saddened by my loss and angry at the speed at which time flies.

  I thanked Corey for letting me know and got off the phone with him, quickly. I didn’t want to believe it. I called my father’s number one more time with speed dial. The phone rang and rang and rang.

  The least I could do was give my father a place to stay—with me. If I couldn’t have him in life at least I could have him in death. His ashes rest in my home office.

  *

  July 26, 2012

  Well, here I am sitting in my 4x10 cell, just a few days over a year to the day that I arrived at Midstate. I’m hot, with my little fan that’s blowing just enough air to keep me breathing in this mother fucker. As I listen to my Walkman while the radio is playing a throwback of the Fugees “No Woman No Cry” through my headphones that I made into speakers. What a life. Thank God this shit is almost over. It’s been a Hell of a ride. But I’m looking forward to getting off this train. Next Stop Home. It hasn’t been all bad, though. You’d be surprised how much you can grow in a year. I’ve learned a lot about who I am and who the people around me are. I’ve always thought about what it would feel like to see my life from the outside looking in and I guess I’m getting that chance except I’m actually getting a glimpse from the inside looking out. What I’ve seen is not the person I envisioned. I use to think only I knew what was best for me but I’ve put myself in situations I wouldn’t allow my worst enemies to be in. So does that make me my own worst enemy? From where I’m sitting writing this right now, I would assume so.

  *

  TWELVE

  My Wife

  FAME GIVES YOU AN UNREALISTIC VIEW OF YOURSELF AND the world. I admit, sometimes, I took my fame too far. When you’re famous, everyone caters to your every need and want. Everything is done the way you want it without exception. It can give you a crazy way of thinking and seeing things, mostly yourself.

  Everything was incredible during this period. I was winning awards and traveling all around the world. I was able to buy my family homes. I was proud to tell my Moms that she could quit her job. In 2002 I won a BET Award for Best Male Artist and an MTV Award for “I’m Real” with J-Lo. Everyone was calling me to write songs for them. Labels were restripping albums to add a song written by me. Artists like J-Lo, Mary J, Enrique Iglesias and even Fat Joe. I was the first rap artist to be asked to write records for R&B and pop artists. At the time, I didn’t understand what it meant to be nominated for any of those awards. My dream was to go gold. I never thought or knew about what it would mean to have a number one record. Today, I look at an artist like Jay-Z and his first number 1 record was “Empire State of Mind.” This let me know how big it was to hold that spot. There aren’t many rap artists to hold the number one spot. I was even number one in the UK. These kinds of accolades were for pop artists, not rappers. When I was number one, I was ahead of artists like Britney Spears. On an occasion, I had either three or four records in the top ten at one time. That hadn’t been done since the Beatles.

  I think Big said it best: More money, more problems. I remember the minute that Aisha told me what happened. My DJ, DJ Daison, was hanging out with all of us. Aisha was with her girls at the night club. Daison was hanging out with them and he must have noticed that Aisha had an American Express Black Card in her wallet. He lifted it.

  Ish realized right away that the card was gone and called the accountant. When we went to cancel the card we noticed some unauthorized purchases showing up from an online company that sold DJ equipment. Once I spoke to American Express, it all became clear. Someone named Daison Floyd was purchasing the DJ equipment.

  We were on the road. I didn’t say anything about it until the time was right. I was enraged, but kept my cool. I asked the tour bus driver to make a stop, with one thing only fixed in my head. I had always lived by the principle of an eye for an eye. If you steal something you should get your hands cut off. This is how life should be. If you rape someone you should be castrated. I feel if those things were implemented into society, we wouldn’t have all of the troubles that we have with crime.

  Like I said, I never liked sneak-shit-type crimes. We were on the road. I had the driver stop at a hardware store so I could get some tight gloves and a baseball bat. No one knew what was going on, but since it was my show and I said let’s stop at the store, there were no questions.

  I waited until later that night in the hotel. We were in Sacramento, California, and I had a beautiful suite with a big glass window looking out over the city. All I could think was I should whack Daison’s head off right there. I reconsidered because by doing it near the window, I might break the glass and that wouldn’t be good. I went into the bedroom of the suite. Everyone else was in the living room. I summoned Daison to come into the room so we could go over the show one more time. I had my gloves on, which sometimes I wore on stage. I had the bat in my hands and Daison didn’t question it. All I remember is that I blacked out as soon as I started hitting him with that bat. I could hear the bitch whining, “What the
fuck are you doing?” After a few more hits, he was able to run out of the room. I could see the look on his face. He thought I was going to kill him. He probably saw a blank stare from me. He didn’t recognize me. I had turned into a different guy.

  Everyone saw me coming out of the room behind him with the bat in my hand. Daison was holding his head, which was bleeding. I screamed, “Yo, Life, step on that nigga’s arm!” And he did. When I got over there, I was hitting him with that bat so hard that I couldn’t even stop. Even my boys were saying, “Rule, you’ve done enough. You proved your point. You’re gonna kill him, Ja.” My mind was in a different place. I could hear them but my hands couldn’t stop. Someone had to stop me. Later my homies told me that I was yelling at him. “I had love for you, nigga! I brought you into the circle. I fed your family, nigga! You betrayed me!”

  Daison didn’t seem to understand that I was giving him a chance when muthafuckas wasn’t even feeling him. It was like a straight slap in the face. They were callin’ him a pretty boy and shit. They thought he was weak on the turntables. I had always been good to him. I was paying him $1,500 dollars a show. I had over forty shows booked that year. That’s $60,000 plus all meals and accommodations paid. I wasn’t a regular selfish type. I never treated my people differently than I treated myself. If I was staying in the Ritz-Carlton everyone was staying in the Ritz-Carlton. But, if someone does something foul to me, they get what they deserve. I could have beat Daison with my hands. I wanted to break his bones. I wanted him to bear the weight of what he did by stealing from my wife.

  I really wanted him to know what he did was wrong and sit with that while he was in the hospital. He needed to know that he fucked up. I also did it as a message to the others. If another muthafucka in the crew was thinking of crossing me, they would think about it twice. We settled out of court. Daison sued me for assault. I paid him $80,000. I never spoke to him again.