Jackson Day

BABY JACKSON: Dada.
BLACK HOCKEY JESUS: That’s right little guy. I think Surrealism was overly programmatic too. Dada was fresh and innovative and—
BABY JACKSON: Dada. [and the world exploded]

Let’s get this straight, Jackson. I was just your mother’s boyfriend. I met her when she was 2 months pregnant with you and there was no way in hell I was getting wrapped up with some pregnant chick but she acted like she fell asleep at my place when we were watching movies. She looked like a wayward Goddess who took a wrong turn at some sacred crossroad and got lost in our profane world. So I let her stay.

Then when Bryan hooked up with that job clearing trails in Colorado, I couldn’t afford to rent the place above the tattoo parlor by myself. I moved in with your mom just 1 month before you were born. But, like I said, I was just your mother’s boyfriend. That was the agreement. You were her kid. You were her responsibility.

The capacity for male denial to convince itself of blatantly absurd realities in the face of the contrary is far reaching. In due time I will verse you in its ways.

Without getting too technical, there’s an interesting branch of philosophy that denies the essential existence of things. They don’t believe that the world of things existed first and mankind went around naming everything second. Rather, they believe that the existence of a thing is bound up in language, that, for instance, a tree was called into Being by the word “Tree”. This is tough stuff to get your head around because there’s a place where reason fails you and something else is required. But I know it’s true, Jackson. I know in my heart it’s true.

Because you spoke me.

Do you understand, boy? Please understand this someday. I was a disparate collection of blurry fragments until you uttered me into the world. You spoke me. You said “Dada” and called forth a Dad out of the teeming formless void. The word “Dad” blurred the myriad distinctions in the impermanent march of ceaseless change and instituted my emergence: a somebody, a Dad in service to his Son. You Dadded me. The who of who I am coheres in your word. I am the plaything of your speech.

The mouth of the baby gives birth to the Dad. You made me a man, little boy, with the sound of your newly emerging voice. So this morning, today, Father’s Day is not just about me. It’s about you.

For you are the boy with the magical golden tongue.