Unruly (14 page)

As my vision blurred, I remembered that I was still a strong-willed, strong-minded person. I knew that I'd gone too far. I was hurting my family, destroying my body and only I could do something about it. I knew I had to pull myself back from the edge for good.

 

WHEN I WROTE THE SONG
“Put It on Me,” I was thinking about Aisha and what we had been through and what we were going through. The only way I can say what I truly mean is through music. When we are yelling at each other through the phone, I know that she can't hear me. It seems like a song is the only way to get through to her. When I wrote “Put It on Me,” I was hoping to get through.

Aisha was going through a lot of shit too. After a while when she couldn't get in touch with me, she just went into “fuck you” mode, which kept her strong. She stopped picking up her phone, too. Aisha isn't a crier.

There were a lot of issues of trust and fidelity or lack thereof. Everything had happened so fast. We'd gone from Aisha having to work a $10.25-an-hour job teaching mentally challenged kids how to comb their hair to moving into a huge house and having anything our hearts desired. And, as much as she enjoyed the new life and the recognition, it meant that I was no longer hers alone. I was public and everything
I
did was public—whether it was meant to be or not. Aisha was trying desperately to make sure that nothing or no one would threaten the relationship that we'd struggled so hard to keep. Now I can understand that shit.

It was like those paparazzi muthafuckas were tracking my every move. Every recording session, every party that we had, every bitch that came near me would be captured in a photo and all over the Internet within hours. As a result, Aisha and I had some lively arguments that sometimes ended up with her being violent. She has swung at me and I've had to hold her until she calmed the fuck down. She has hit me over my head with my cell phone and she has actually tried to take my head off of my body a few times. But, I was never violent with her. I understood.
I
hurt her badly.
I still hadn't learned how to have my family and my art at the same time.

When I was in Miami for the Winter Music Conference, we were just about to drop another album. Since Murder Inc. had always been supported by radio, Gotti and I came up with a brilliant idea for a gift for the programming directors. We hadn't spoken to Ezette from LA in a while, but when Irv suggested we have her as the gift for the PDs we thought it was a good idea. And it was.

When she was called, she was surprised.

“Do you want to come to Miami? We got some money for you,” said one of my crew.

“Who'll be with you?” she asked.

“The usual suspects, all of the niggas you know.”

“Okay, I'll come.”

Irv and I knew it was an evil plan but it made sense. The PDs at the conference would be mostly overweight, balding, middle-aged men who hadn't been laid in months, maybe years. Ezette was the perfect gift. She was happy to oblige. We got her a hotel room with a view. When we got to the conference, we told all the radio guys that we needed that there was a gift waiting for them in Room 3261.

The radio guys flew to the room and Ezette gave them each the time of their lives. And of course, Murder Inc. would have another amazing year at radio.

When dropped at the airport, Ezette was grateful for the generous tip that she got.

“My real name is Karinne.”

This is part of the game—never delivering. To be hugely successful in entertainment, people have to want to fuck you. Women have to want to fuck you and men have to want to be like you. Think about Michael Jackson and Prince. They're enigmas that never delivered on the dream. Here's the dream for fans. I'm at a concert. I love Prince. I can see him, but I can't touch him. I can't talk to him. I can't get to him. This is an example of never delivering. So, the person goes to concert after concert, trying to get closer and closer. This never delivering on the dream made the business go. It made fans come back for more and more. When Usher made his first album, he was a single guy and women adored him. When he got married, his fans' dream of sleeping with him was shattered. I believe this was reflected in the sales of the albums as a result. See, the biggest stars never deliver. They are the dream. But it has all changed drastically now with social media. Now fans feel like they know you. We get to speak on Twitter. Being more accessible lowers a performer's value.

 

I'LL NEVER FORGET
the time Aisha and Dennis and I were in the Range Rover going into the city. We were in the narrow-ass Lincoln Tunnel. Aisha said something that I don't even remember, but I'm almost sure it had to do with women or the fact that I was away or going away again soon. She might have said something about the video I was going to make next week or the interview that was on the newsstands where I had insinuated that I was available. She cringed every time she saw me in a video, sexing up another woman for the whole world to see. “Why did you have to touch her butt like that?”

This time, I snapped. I started swerving the car from lane to lane, recklessly. It was my way of saying that I had had it. That I didn't want to have that conversation again. I was screaming, “I'll kill us all!” I was out of control. I was angry at myself for who I had been to Aisha over the last few years. I was angry at myself for driving her crazy. I was angry at life for being so complicated.

At that moment, perhaps it would have been better if we had hit something to stop the lunacy that had gotten us to that point in the Lincoln Tunnel. Aisha was frustrated, too, but she wasn't afraid.

When I look back on that night, I think I could have killed us. I could have hit the wall or another car filled with innocent lives. I could have killed someone else's family as I swerved in and out of my own problems. God always looks out for children and fools and that is what I was.

PART THREE

Pain Is Love

 

*

April 6, 2012

Today is Jordan's Birthday and I'm happy I was able to call home to tell him I love him and wish him one. He turns 9 today, my youngest and most pleasant child, HA HA. He doesn't really understand all this jail bullshit and it's hard to explain to him why I can't be there for his Birthday and even harder to explain if I wasn't able to call due to this fucking slug I just caught. Luckily they didn't serve me yet so I was able to hear his happy lil voice. AAAHHHH such joy the little things bring when you're in prison. The things I often took for granted—I missed so many Birthdays and Holidays when I was home on the road doing shows. I used to think that was more important to make money so they can have nice things for their birthdays instead of being there for their birthdays. I guess that comes from me growing up not celebrating birthdays. To me it was just another day. But it's not so much about the birthday, as it is about spending quality time with my kids. Somewhere along the way I guess I missed that point. Lucky for me that by this time next year I'll be home for Jordan's 10th and I'm not just talking home from prison, I'll be home with my son.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY . . . JORDAN NILE ATKINS

I LOVE YOU!!!

 

*

ELEVEN

My Father

WHEN MY COUSIN COREY CALLED TO INVITE ME TO DINNER AT
his parents' house, the idea of a home-cooked meal with Aunt Dell and Uncle Walter sounded like just what I needed after the tornado of shit that I'd been through. Corey heard about my sold-out show in Miami, and hoped that I could make time for a Sunday dinner. Moms always said that I should stay in touch with my father's family, although it got harder and harder for her to stay close to them. It was rough on Moms because of what had happened between them.

I did stay in touch, but not every day. When I moved from always-in-trouble to famous, I became the golden child of the family. Rather than hold anything against my family, mother's side or father's side, I always tried to take the high road. I've always considered family the most important thing in life. I was never spiteful when my family disfellowshipped my mother. I didn't hold it against them and I continue to let stuff roll off my back. I don't bring up old wounds. When someone in my family has a financial crisis, of course they call me first. I don't feel burdened by it because I know they only call if they really need it. They definitely don't take advantage. I have never forgotten the struggles I went through growing up, so I recognize that people need from time to time. Being accomplished makes it my responsibility to help to make each generation stronger in my family. White households have generations of successful people. As Black people we're working on that still.

When I accepted the invitation, Corey said something that I wasn't expecting. “Oh yeah, your father will be there.”

I had been thinking about my father a lot and wanted to reestablish a relationship with him. I'd heard that he was thinking about me, too. My father was always in me, even when he wasn't with me. Like him, I mistakenly thought that drugs and alcohol would be able to slow my life down because it always felt like being in a speeding car without a seatbelt on. Instead of slowing things down, drugs accelerated everything, sending my life spinning out of control. Although drugs seem to temporarily calm you, when reality hits, it hits hard, shattering everything that ever mattered.

That Sunday, Aunt Dell and Uncle Walter's small brick ranch house was packed with my father's family, who I hadn't seen in over a decade. Everyone was there, Cousin Corey, my Uncles Gary and Glenn and my Aunts Marie, Brenda and Cathy were all there. I was sorry that Moms wasn't there. She had been so close to Aunt Brenda back in the day when they all lived in Queens and Aunt Brenda worked at the same hospital that Moms worked at. The house was full of family and smells of good food that triggered warm memories of my past.

The last time I had seen my dad was in Florida, where my grandparents eventually moved. I was about sixteen and my Moms took me. My father was at the house and after all those years, my parents were right back where they started. Moms was getting mad and my father was ready to get physical, which is all he knew how to do. He asked Moms to go into a room so that they could discuss the issue without me.

“I'm not going to leave you in the room alone with my Moms.”

“Son, this is not your fight, please get out of the way,” he said as if he thought he had a place in our family. As if he had a say about me or her.

I didn't know what else to do, so I jumped on him, took his head in my arms and put him in a headlock. My father was taken aback when I grabbed him. He was breathing heavily and threw me against the wall. I headed towards him again, like a bull, until my paternal grandfather came into the room and pulled us off of each other. Moms was crying in the corner.

“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 dream. 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.