Pray and Work for Protection

During the 1970s, my Dad drove a Ford Thunderbird. He would pick us up in that big car with the plush comfy back seats, cover us in warm blankets, and begin to drive. Always there was music playing. We would listen to the peaceful hum of the engine along with the soothing tunes of The O’jays, The Supremes, The Temptations or some other band. Gladys Knight and her pips would take us on “The Midnight Train to Georgia.” I learned the words to all of those songs as we sang and rode. I’d listen until I fell asleep. And always like magic, I’d awake when we had arrived at our destination.

Once we were driving at night on the freeway. The back door opened. My bare feet scraped the surface of the ground as I almost slipped out of the car. Dad yanked me back inside. I recall the strange sensation of my feet scraping the ground. It didn’t hurt. I also remember Dad wrapping me in his arms and kissing my bare feet. He was so grateful that I was not harmed. I was fine and wasn’t in any pain. I didn’t realize the extent of the danger that I was in at the time. I just remember being rescued.

On one of our trips to the Pacific Ocean, I swam out far into the sea. I didn’t realize how far away I was from the shore. I just remember that I could no longer hear my Dad’s voice. I saw him waiving at me to return to shore. So I began to swim back to him. Unfortunately, every time I swam forward, the current would pull me backward. Suddenly, Dad swam out to meet me. He grabbed me and threw me toward the shore. Swam to me again and threw me forward. He did this repeatedly until we had once again reached the shore. He said, “You kept swimming but your little arms weren’t making any progress. I knew that you would get tired soon.” I looked at the waves and felt their awesome power. My heart was filled with gratitude that Dad was there to rescue me.

On another occasion, Dad, my older cousin Johnny, my brother, sister, and I were driving in Los  Angeles. Dad made a wrong turn onto a one way street. When he realized his mistake he began to turn the car around. By the time the car was righted, we were surrounded by the police. The officers forced us out of the car at gun point. We were in front of a Carl’s Jr sitting on the curb, when we were handcuffed.

Then we were separated from Dad and Johnny. No longer were we sitting in comfortable seats covered with blankets. The seats in the back of the police car were hard and angry. Bars separated us from our captors. The handcuffs ached as they dug into my wrists. We were not charged. But we were jailed. My sister and I, because we were female, were locked in adjacent cells. My brother, who is one year and a half younger than me, was placed in a cell with juvenile boys in another part of lock up. He was away from our father who was placed in adult lock up.

We worried so very much about it all. We cried uncontrollably. We then decided to console ourselves by singing songs that we had learned during those car rides. We began to sing. Our jailers must have felt some pity for us after hearing us sing. They told us that we could come out of our individual cells and remain in a larger cell together. We asked if our brother could be placed with us. We asked for our phone call. We asked for our Dad. We were behind bars for hours. Our requests remained unanswered. My cousin, Jackie, came and saved the three of us from jail because she had received a call from Dad. They did not release Dad. He remained behind bars.

When Dad was released, he found out that his mother, Ida Mae, had died the night we were arrested. Dad said, “All of my life it was her prayers that protected me. I had never been incarcerated because she was praying for me. It was the day that she died that I went to jail. Her prayers lifted when she passed away. I am going to pray for you the way that my mama prayed for me. I am going to pray hard that Allah protect you and that you never have to suffer and no harm touches you.”

Prayers of protection have the power to heal our wounds and trauma. I have heard a lot of people say that they are tired of requests for thoughts and prayers because the government remains inactive. My Dad prayed for me. But he also rescued me, kissed my wounds, wrapped me in warmth and security. My brother, sister, and I were blessed by our Dad’s prayers and his unconditional love. His prayers and unconditional love worked. He made me feel secure and like my life mattered. Dad made me feel safe.

Racism is real. It is a cancer. I think my grandmother’s prayers covered my Dad all the days of his life. That doesn’t mean that he didn’t have to deal with the hardship and pain of racism. However, it was her prayers that helped to heal him from the pain so that he could show us the love he did. And I know Dad’s prayers continue to cover me. I have not been made secure from racism. However, I feel blessed because of the love that my family has for each other. It helps us heal from the trauma of racism. I pray for protection for my children. I also work everyday to make them feel loved, secure, and safe. I pray for protection for the children being separated from their families at the border. Prayer alone isn’t going to end racism. May our prayers cover us and may our work strengthen and unite us in this fight.

Perfect Pitch

My Dad, Musa Al Rashid passed away ten days ago. Dad died after battling with a brain injury for over a year. During this time, his memory and physical ability deteriorated. Earlier today, my husband and I were walking in Golden Gate Park. As we walked, I began to cry because I had a sinking fear that I would forget my Dad. When I told my husband about this, he asked me what I thought I might forget. I said, “I am afraid I will forget little things. Like when my Dad yawned he’d say, ‘ho ho hum’ that tickled me. I am afraid I will forget how it sounded when he yawned.”

I am committing myself to this blog as a space for grieving the loss of my father and to reminding myself and others of what a great man my Dad was. Each day, I will post a memory and a photo. Something that reminds me of Dad and connects to what I am doing that day. Today, when we walked through the park, we sat in front of a bust of Beethoven. There was a brass band playing music in the amphitheater. My Dad loved music. He especially loved jazz. He had a great ear and would often sing songs that he liked. Many of them were obscure to me. Sometimes, he would break into song and sing show tunes, jazz songs, spirituals, or R&B tunes.

One day, I asked Dad who his favorite singer was. I explained to him that I loved Ella Fitzgerald because she had such clarity in her voice. It was unlike any other voice I had ever heard. He said, “Julie Andrews.” I couldn’t believe it! I laughed so hard. I mean, Julie Andrews??? He said, “She has perfect pitch.” I wanted to know more about what Dad meant. So, I watched Andrews sing, “Sound of Music” on YouTube. I could hear the pitch, the clarity, the brightness in her voice. I liked it too. She was not my favorite, but I understood why Dad appreciated her as much as he did.

When my Dad first became ill, he lost his memory. I told him that I thought he needed to connect to things that were in the recesses of his mind. My hope was that listening to music and stories would connect Dad to his memories. I brought my laptop and played, “The Sound of Music” for him. My Dad began to cry. He hadn’t been able to speak for  weeks. All of a sudden he said, “perfect pitch.”

Today, when we walked through the Park and listened to the band, I too remembered, perfect pitch. I am grateful today for the “Sound of Music” because it reminds me of Dad.

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