#3: Hold me closer, tiny dancer
An essay in honor of my dad and 10 Father's Days without him. Welcome back to the GRIEF AND MEDIA PROJECT!
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The first time I remember crying uncontrollably without being able to identify why was at my family’s one and only family reunion in August 2014. My dad had died eight months prior. There were dozens of family members from my dad’s side of the family all together at someone’s house outside of Denver on the first night, and we were listening to music and singing, or something? I don’t remember the scene too well. All I know is Elton John’s Tiny Dancer was playing on the speakers, and it felt like everyone around me was singing along, and I started crying, no, sobbing, and I don’t think I stopped for 45 minutes.
Now I have the understanding that, girl, that’s what grief does to ya, but at the time I remember being so embarrassed that I literally couldn’t do anything to stop the tears that were rapidly streaming down my face. It was like I was a fire hydrant that burst in the middle of the street, except at the time I felt like 18-year-old fire hydrants who are about to start college next Monday should maybe have their shit together a bit more.
I wish I could tell that little fire hydrant that once these bursts start coming, they don’t stop coming. (That’s what Smash Mouth went on about, right?) Most recently, two weeks ago, I sat down to record a Father’s Day podcast episode, and seven minutes in, I burst. Uncontrollably, once again, just like in August 2014 and many times after that. I couldn’t control my tears, and I’m not even quite sure why.
I hate the idea that time heals or you’ll be okay or this too shall pass, messaging that says, sure, you’re doing horrible now, but your grief won’t last forever. What if it does, then what? And why wouldn’t it? It’s not like there will be a point where my mom and dad will be back in my lifetime—they will still be gone, and their being gone is the reason I’m mourning in the first place, so how could it ever get better? After 10 years without my dad, it’s not getting better. He’s gone, now my mom is too, and that will never be something that shall pass.
Tiny Dancer wasn’t a song my dad and I listened to together. It would come on our favorite San Diego-local radio station Magic 92.5 on occasion, or maybe on a few CDs in his rotation, but it didn’t hold significant meaning for me, for us. I think at the time of the family reunion, it struck me as ethereal and timeless, that if I’m listening to it, it could be anytime—1999 or 2005 or 2013. So, logically, my dad would and should be here as I’m listening to it. I mean, right? He’s timeless, too.
I love music. It sounds so elementary to say, but so much of growing up, and specifically growing up with my dad, involved music and the act of loving it—it was background to all our best moments, our greatest hits.
Every Saturday morning, we danced. Each of the two houses I called home as a kid had designated dance floor areas. My earliest memory ever was spinning around with my stuffed animal monkey as my dad danced alongside me. There are home videos of my dad, mom, sister and dog doing the Macarena. I remember one particular morning dancing so hard that I swore my ankles lost weight in the two-to-three-hour dance marathon. My best friend told me that she would wake up after sleeping over and my dad would be putting on music (and I often would be asleep still). Bobby Brown’s My Prerogative, Janet Jackson’s Nasty, the Cupid Shuffle, the YMCA—the songs of my childhood, the soundtrack to our Saturdays. The other day, My Girl came on my Spotify DJ (my one use-case of AI) and I was transported to my elementary school gym, dancing to it with my dad during the school’s sock hop.
I grew up with instruments in the house—my mom played violin when she was younger, and it was displayed in our dining room. My dad came from a musical family too—my grandma died when I was a toddler, but one of my favorite stories about her was after she immigrated to the US from Italy, CBS discovered her and wanted her to sing for them, but her dad said no. Whenever my dad sang, I would say the good singing gene skipped a generation—which looking back feels so bratty for an 11 year old to assert, especially an 11 year old who is convinced she’s as talented as Miley Cyrus. I remember at one point my dad started taking piano lessons. He wanted to learn Beethoven’s Für Elise, but the instructor told him that’s too advanced. So he quit lessons and taught himself Für Elise. At various points throughout the day, week, I would hear the da-da-da-da-da-da-dun-dun-dun. I can’t imagine a childhood home without the sound of a piano.
And perhaps my favorite story about my dad, one that I deeply under-appreciated at the time—he wrote lyrics to my high school’s fight song. I was a cheerleader, and at football games, the band would play the fight song at every touchdown, and we would do our choreographed dance. My dad was hugely proud of his high school, Brockton High School—in front of its giant football stadium stands an even more giant statue of Rocky Marciano, if that tells you anything about the level of hometown pride. My dad would go back to visit his high school for the giant football games, where the whole community would cheer and sing along as the giant band performed. As a result, he loved going to my school’s football games too and decided to write fight song lyrics. He was excited by the whole songwriting process. When it was his week to give a speech at his public speaking group he went to every Tuesday, he talked about the process of writing the fight song and performed it in front of everyone, tapping my childhood friend and me in with our cheer uniforms and everything to do the dance on either side of his podium. It was so fun. I’m finding myself grinning ear to ear with tears in my eyes just thinking about it. Being his daughter is so fun.
My husband never got to meet my dad, an unfortunate fact in an infinite number of ways but especially because I know they would both love to be in each other’s lives. Jack reminded me of a time when Tiny Dancer came on right as we parked at my mom’s apartment, but we stayed the extra six minutes, 17 seconds in the car to sing along. The same way Tiny Dancer reminds me of my dad, Jack says I’m Tiny Dancer to him. I guess this is how music allows loved ones to live on.
My dad is music. I love music. I really love music.
I’m sitting here listening to Tiny Dancer on repeat, the music escalating in the last minute and a half of the song, finally ending with the slow fade of vocals and instruments. I feel myself exhale, and I want to look up from my screen. Because as it’s ending, I want to look up and see my dad’s reaction. It feels like he could be here, and it could be 2013. But as the song ends, reality hits, and he’s gone.
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