50

My Faja, Thomas James Vander Well, turns 50 today.

Cheers to the man who wears many hats (literally and metaphorically). I am mind blowingly fortunate that he’s my father. I seriously think about that…a lot. Like every week at least, because I get a cute little post card from him at that frequency. I am always in awe of his creativity, love, wisdom, and how much fun he has with life. He has, and always will be, my favorite man.

Here’s a little throwback post:

https://love-taylor.com/2014/06/13/when-dad-meets-daughter/

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!

Love,

Taylor

When Dad Meets Daughter

There is this cassette tape I have. If you listen to this cassette tape you will hear a recording of my birth.

If you’re wondering…yes, it does feel strange to listen to labor.

But I get over the strangeness quickly when I hear a voice say, “Hi Taylor. Hi little girl. I’m your Dad.”

I am listening to my dad speak his first words to me. We’re making introductions. My mind is blown as I imagine this; this moment before all the moments to come. In this moment the only thing my dad knows about me is that I’m 7 lbs, 8 oz. and 21 inches long. The only thing I know about him is the sound of his voice…a voice I will grow to recognize instantly; a voice that I will always love to hear.

In my tiniest form I am not yet aware that-

This is the voice that will sing ‘Once Upon a Dream’ while he spins me in his arms and then tosses me in the air before I land, giggling, on my mattress. Then he will pull out his guitar and sing ‘Forever Young’ by Bob Dylan a million times.

This is the voice that will whisper in my ear before the sun rises to wake me up for a special breakfast.

This is the voice that will make me feel safe.

This is the voice that will direct my sister and I in home-made short films such as ‘Misson Possible’ and ‘Maddyella’.

This is the voice that will read me epic adventure stories out loud, character voices included.

This is the voice that will make me cry when it’s raised.

This is the voice that will pray over me.

This is the voice that will tell me I’m lovely (even when I have missing teeth, thick glasses, and bangs that are far too short).

This is the voice that will ask me questions. Constantly.

This is the voice that will make me laugh until my sides ache.

This is the voice that will give wise advice when asked.

This is the voice that will cheer me on through successes and failures.

This is the voice that will appear in countless postcards, Bible margins and wax-sealed letters addressed to me.

This is the voice I will trust.

I will always love this voice.

Love,
Taylor

 

 

 

 

Juvie Jamz

Every week at work we go into the juvenile detention center and do a one hour art or writing workshop with youth there. It’s a great way to briefly spare them from boredom and recruit kids that are interested in participating in our programs once they’re out of detention. Sometimes it’s fantastic. The kids are engaged and happy to be there. Other weeks feel like disasters. The past couple weeks we’ve been expanding on the idea of home. We’ve encouraged them to come up with similes and metaphors for home. To think about what home is or where home is. To explore unique ways of describing where they come from. For one person it’s grandma’s house. For another it’s the basketball court. Or Chester’s Chicken. Or the neighborhood park. Or Liberia. After hearing/reading what emerged, it felt good to know that everyone could at least think of some place or someone that felt like home, even if the connotations weren’t great. On the other hand, my heart still sank into my gut. It’s hard to wrap my head around these homes I’ve never entered. But I think what they write exposes a lot. I learn a lot about them and where their heads are at without having to outright ask them and without them having to outright tell me. There’s this strange paradox I see of kids having to grow up way too fast, but never actually growing up. I’m not sure if that came out right or makes sense. Anyway…here’s an example (from a kid who wouldn’t perform his rap in front of me because he said my ears were too precious):

I come from a broken home, shattered dreams and stained mildew floors

Crawling around on all fours in my drawers

My dad always high like my ambitions to grow and survive

I went from not knowing when I’d eat to having so much, I’d throw away half my plate

I went from a rental property to a place I’d learn to call home

My dad smoked so much meth, he done lost his dome

But my mom, cold as stone, took me away and said he’d have to live on his own

Not always the best, my whole life’s been a test

I’d have to learn a lot of things on my own because my dad left me

On Father’s Day I used to cry

I’d wish death upon my dad in my own eyes

Through all the deception, all the lies, he left a son who would have to find his own will to strive and survive