surprise! i'm just like my dad | annotated transcription. (00:06.878)
Introductions
Hello!
Welcome back to Threadings., the newsletter and podcast where I talk about things that stitch my life together like a quilt— those pieces of my politic that are foundational to me. This includes (what is regularly not limited to) black feminism, love studies, abolition… healing justice. We're gonna get into it today.
It's been a second! and I'm happy to be back here. I have here a Quarry of Thoughtless Ponderments. If you're new to the substack (or in general, new to my longer form, audioooo… auditory, written stuff), a Quarry of Thoughtless Ponderments is a… journaling exercise, I suppose?… that I have been doing since I was a teenager when I started journaling— which is when I have Some Thoughts (™) that may or may not be related just… rolling around in my head like marbles. And I need to get them down on paper. Upon writing these down (because I did! I wrote them in my journal and I'm about to read some of them out; we’re gonna sit down and talk about them, because a lot of them affect you all in this space) I was like, damn! I have turned into my father. I am just like my dad. Wow.
You die a hero (laughter). Or you live long enough to see yourself become the best and worst parts of your parents.
With that being said— no further ado, we're gonna get into it. Lots of these thoughts are seasonal. They are about the season of life that I'm coming out of and coming into. And in realizing that I'm an adult now, like.. really truly: in an adult body, doing adult things, I'm gonna be an adult for the rest of my life… I’ve been thinking a lot about who I wish to embody and what I wish to be. And how I wish to practice like I perform. I don't wanna be these things “one day,” I wanna be these things right now. So that way, the more I hone my wants and my decisions, the easier it is to want bigger and better things. The more I fix my eyes on the horizon, the more horizon I see. That make sense? Threadings. on a rainy day!
It is a Saturday in September— I think it's the last Saturday in September of this year.
A Query of Thoughtless Ponderments entitled, “wow, I'm just like my dad.”
First of all, tea and creamer season!! With a big heart <3 I. Love. Fall. I love outward death; I love not having to pretend like I am chipper— I'm not; I like it when everyone expects you to hurry on past cuz it's cold, so you don't need to stay and stop and small talk chat; I love the nippy weather; I love extra wind; I love extra hot tea. The first way that I've realized that I'm just like my father is in that I take my tea the exact color that he takes his coffee: bitter and strong with just a dash of sweetener.
[a long sigh.]
I love winter actually so long as I am free to resemble her. The only time I end up resenting these colder months is when I don't have the space and time to just slow down and die and decay like I want to. So. Happy dying! Hope you're doing well. Oh, I didn't even tell you what kind of tea this is. And it's good too.
[a nice, curt tea sip]
I literally went out and bought creamer for this because I was like, it's the first, it's creamer day. This is the first day that I felt like it's cold enough to have tea with creamer in it because that means you gotta sit there and boil the tea, make it real strong like coffee. So I have pistachio tea, and that's a pu'erh base— so I combine that with my caramel pu'erh that I've been drinking in my videos lately. Just a dash of vanilla— like oat milk vanilla creamer.
I'm gonna take a sip of this for y'all.
[ a salacious tea sip.]
Absurd. Oh my goodness.
[and yet another, while My One and Only Love fades away in the background]
Life is made up of these little small joys. I'm chilling in his sweatshirt, too. This is a shirt I stole from my mom. And then I rolled up, I wore it around him. He was like, “Oh, you really like old stuff.” I was like, what? He was like, “That's my hoodie.” I was like, this is your hoodie? This whole time Gwen's been rocking your shit. It's been *checks watch* 25 years!!
Well! If that's not what men are for, I don't know. Alrighty.
In terms of grief off-screen, which is my next bullet point here, I have a couple notes. The first is that: it's been a banana nuts season of life for me off-screen. And I am just like my father in that I will be going through hell quite silently unless you were to ask me— and not even just ask me, you're going to ask me like a series of oddly specific questions to me to just be like, oh, yeah, things are hard.
In fact, I'm named after my father's brother. His name is Ismail. And he died by… because he knew he was sick, and he died before I got to meet him. He just wandered into the mountains and just like passed alone because he didn't wanna burden his family with his sickness. He knew he was sick so he just kind of like, took care of himself and just went off somewhere to die silently. I am just like my father. I'm just like my uncles. It is… heinous how much I will just… silently suffer on things? …It's been a lot of grief off screen! Anytime you see me being… I don't know, inconsistent? I don't want to, like, I mean that word, but I don't mean it with the negative, grade-like connotations.
I love this space and I don't like to be away from it for long. And if you see that I am, it's because there's stuff offline that's really taking up my time and energy and attention. A lot of that has to do with grief. Again, I love the fall because she resembles me— just the death and dying of things. It’s a lot of death and dying.
And the work of healing, which is also a death. To be willing to heal from things, you also need to be willing to die to yourself the ways— you have to let go of and watch die the things that no longer serve you. And that can be difficult. Lots of grief involved with that too.
So thank you for being kind to me— kind in just like, waiting for me and giving me space and likely assuming that was the case; I really appreciate it. I feel a lot of kinship with the artist and performer Normani, who’s, you know, very, very, very much so on the world stage, has a lot of eyes on her. And because she's so consistently excellent, people expect some sort of regularity from her that she's not always able to give. And I've watched the world stage not always be kind to her in that, when she does not produce at the rate that she thought she would or said she would because she has things going on. Was I surprised to find out that Normani's parents have been having health issues?
No.
Because when you love your craft, there is so little that will keep you away from it. Sometimes you just can't and it kills you. So, that's how I feel also in this space with reading and writing, with thinking in real time, with engaging with community— all that stuff. Like it's my, like it makes my heart beat. I always say that poetry is the thesis of my life. Like this is— this is what I am designed to do. So if you see me not doing it, there's a reason why. And I thank you just for your kindness in imagining me complexly.
With that being said, I can't do weekly!
I can't do that. I need to learn at the pace of life. The more I study, particularly study people that have been engaging in long-form content for a while (so particularly like YouTubers), the more they talk about, yeah, I had to stop doing vlogs or story times or what have you because I found myself observing my life such that I could create content because I knew I had to put something out every Thursday. I'm not doing that to myself. I refuse to turn myself into a PBS special. I cannot force life to teach me at a rate that is convenient for “content creation.” I don't view myself as a content creator; I view myself as an artist. And these works that I'm putting out: essays and poetry and podcast projects and all these things that I'm working on that you get regularly or that you might get a little later— it's art! And art takes time! Imagine getting fresh wine. Oh yeah, I just bottled it last week. You know we got to put out a wine a week. No! That doesn't make any sense. In fact one of my favorite teas, Pu'erh, is good because it's fermented!
[a pointed sip of my delicious pu’erh tea with cream]
I'm not... I… I regret to inform you that I will be here when I'll be here. And I can assure you that I'm giving you my best, which means that it needs time and space to be my best. I want to say this explicitly because I think informed consent is important: if that's not a podcasting style or like, you know, just, uh, a parasocial relationship that you can handle, where you don't quite know when to expect things, you just have to trust that it's coming— I completely understand. I'm just making my space clear so that you can make the decisions that you need to make about whether you want to be here or not. And I appreciate you even considering.
By way of informed consent about the space that I'm cultivating here: please continue to say hello to me.
This continues to just be my living room. And I continue to find ways to show you all the soft, becoming parts of my life. Like: learning is a deeply vulnerable process. And when I tell you that I'm learning in real time, it means that I am coming to you not positioning myself as thee expert, or thee knowledgeable person, but someone who is engaging with texts and experiences and pieces of art and conversations (etc) that change me. That impress themselves upon my person. It requires me to be soft, so. Please say hello to me. Tell me the ways that impresses you, where it makes marks on you.
A lot of people have also asked how best they can support me.
And this goes back to the whole, like, I will die before I ask for help if I am not tasked with it explicitly. So thank you for asking me. Thank you for pestering me about it, too. Lots of people have been like, “we need infrastructure to support you. It can't just be these one-time donations.” And I agree. I've had ideas for infrastructure for quite some time that I just haven't mobilized on because I was… scared?
Because I was, because I think— not I think. I know what it is.
I feel guilty about being alive. And guilty about the idea that one day I could be alive and not be struggling.
And it isn't just that you all want me to be okay, as in away from disaster. It's that you all want me to be okay, as in we don't want you to be anywhere near disaster. And that’s… never really a place that I've gotten to live in consistently. It scares me, honestly. It's something really unfamiliar. So, I find myself stalling on really allowing the infrastructure for help because...
[a long breath inwards]
…it's new. And so much of my energy, my mental and physical and spiritual and emotional energy goes towards avoiding and mitigating disaster, such that I'm like, well what would I do with myself if I didn't have to do that anymore? It's a little scary. If I like— just to keep it a hunnit, like. That's survivor's guilt talking. So thank you for not allowing me to settle down in settling for survivors guilt. Thank you for inviting me into a life where I am far away from disaster. And I appreciate that you all care enough about me to hold me to task and hold me accountable to the ways that I need to be taken care of. Especially because it's not just me. I've got elders that are depending on me.
I dunno— thank you. It means that you all care about me past what I am able to produce. That's really humbling. And not everybody's that lucky. So thank you.
So then in terms of support:
I'm going to start with the non-monetary ways because those are really important and I think they get overlooked:
Thank you so much for engaging with my long-form stuff. Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading or for listening, for allowing me space that is past, you know, 12 seconds, honestly. I would say 60 seconds, but most people only watch 12 seconds of a given video. So, thank you. That means a lot to me.
And then for monetary ways to support:
There are three five and seven dollar tiers on the Patreon and the substack. So three and seven are on the Patreon, five is on the Substack. That's how much it costs a month to support me.
There have been people that I've asked me if they can donate or give me more than five seven dollars a month… I'm not going to set up those tiers because then that would kind of, for me, I would be like, okay, what am I doing? Because Patreon is a give and take, okay, you pay this much and I provide you with this service. And I cannot come up with any more to give.
So if you would like to, just out of the kindness of your heart, there is the feature on substack where you can put in however much you would like to a month or a year. And that's really helpful. Those, those, these are the avenues that really help me like, pay rent because I know exactly how much is coming in. And if you can't do anything monthly, but you can break off like, a one time donation, those go for food, generally— like food, day to day supplies for myself and my elders.
All of my excess generally gets used for in real life and online communities, because that's what I believe in. Thank you for asking.
Alright, that concludes the church announcements. Let's get into the esoteric mumbo jumbo.
Now, I really do just have bullet points today. I missed talking to you all, and I did not have it in me to write a real essay, because I'm still threading these thoughts together in real time, so allow me to become a little bit right in front of your very eyes.
Um, one reason that I really like comments and feedback and ratings is because this is still a space that's small enough where I can see all of you. Even if I don't respond, like I can see you. And that's not something that I can guarantee at all for the bigger social media platforms— oh my goodness! I never introduced myself! How embarrassing. That is my bad.
I'm in the terrible habit of assuming everybody knows me. If you don’t:
My name is Ismatu and I am a card carrying, just like other girl/girlies, they/themies— he/him if you nasty. Miss Bailey if you nasty. I love Chloe Bailey, y’all better leave her alone. Anyways. Ismatu Gwendolyn, all pronouns appropriate. I am a grad school survivor. I'm a former stripper. I'm still engaging in sex work by way of pimping out my face and voice on social media. I accidentally ended up TikTok famous and then I kind of did what I thought was best with a platform I was given largely out of thin air; that has tumbled into me going from someone who didn't have any social media at all to someone that engages in political education online. And it is changing my life really rapidly.
I'm really grateful for the ways that people engaging with me and looking at me and giving me feedback— even like, feedback that doesn't feel good— compels me towards a kind of existence and a costume of personhood that feels more and more and more authentic. The more I molt and shed my skin and become something different than I once was, the easier it is to imagine what is possible. The more I change, the more I look towards the horizons, the broader my horizons get.
One of the reasons I like feedback from you all in this space is because I can still see it and because the vast majority of it is coming in good faith, which is really special. Someone commented, I think in a review…? I don't remember! Oh, I should have written it down. But, I hope you listen to this. This person that said this, they said that they found this podcast, Threadings., podcast-newsletter [a brief aside from our narrator: again, everything I read, you can, everything I read with my voice, you can read it with your eyes. And everything I write in written word, you can listen to it with your ears. I think that level of accessibility is important. So: newsletter-podcast.]
They found this newsletter-podcast, Threadings, by searching the esoteric significance of weaving.
Now that was such a concept for me that I googled, (googled. lol. I used Duck Duck Go.) I Duck Duck Go’d: The Esoteric Significance of Weaving. And then I fell into like a three hour research hole that is inspiring an essay. Will I publish this essay? I don't know. Will I finish this essay or is it something that's going to live within me for three years and then become a book ten years down the line? I don't know. But what I do know is that this person sharing with me about where it is they found me and their life and their ideologies changed me. It allowed me a new way of seeing the world. I really appreciate that. I don't consider any of this work that I'm doing in public space a one-way situation. And so, I just really value y'all taking the time out of your day and life to like, write me back, even if I don't respond. I see it.
This space is also special because I… have the space to inject nuance, like, in real time. And that means… that means that I have the space to not know. I don't have to, like— even the arguments that I'm putting together in an essay, there's a lot of space for like, gray! Various shades of gray. In fact, I very rarely feel like I'm painting in black and white. I feel like I'm painting in gray scale all the time.
Then in terms of what I learned about the esoteric significance of weaving— lots of storytelling! Lots of ways of capturing a story in a medium that is meant to last through generations, because weavings, tapestries, quilting, all of those things were designed to be passed down from generation to generation. And all of those things were designed to hold on to stories… um, what's the word I'm looking for? Relics! Relics of culture. Have them suspended in a moment of time and space of significance. That's exactly (!!!!) what I'm trying to do with this podcast. I am trying to stitch together the quilt of my life with the various parts of my personal, and my political, and the ways that those converge— such that I'm able to suspend these moments in time for a future me or a future you or my future daughter or like, whatever, you know, the bendy, corporal nature of time. I'm not going to be a newly 25 year old in New York forever. This is a very liminal, temporal space. So the stories that I tell about my life, and the way that I weave myself together now, I'm never going to use this type of thread again, you know? On this tapestry of my life that I'm weaving. I have, by way of being born in the time and space and place that I'm in, a lot of unbridled access to narrate my life and tell my story as it happens. And that is so special! The esoteric significance of weaving.
Wow.
A moment where I am reminded that I'm bigger and way more beyond what I thought was possible with humanity. Again, every time I shed this skin, not only are new things possible— every time I shed this skin, I look up and I look more and more like my parents. Like I said, I'm in my dad's drip right now. I'm drinking tea that looks suspiciously like his coffee.
[a surreptitious sip]
Life comes at you fast. All right. Speaking of my father, (lol)
…realizing I've been treating this podcast with the is she pissed guilt.
Now… niggatry. Niggas are the same yesterday, today, and forever. I actually, I was just at my aunt's house and she had an older picture of my dad. This is the way I remember him, Daddy in his glory days. It is so irritating to have parents that are hot and divorced. It's so frustrating! And it's like, I was talking about this with my bestie too. I understand when men like, fall all over my mom because she's the prettiest person I've ever seen, bar none. Maybe, yeah, I suppose tied with my grandmother, right? They're gorgeous.
I don't know if y'all saw Black Panther 2, but there's a moment where Lupita comes on screen, right? And she's facing, her back is facing the camera and she turns around to kind of like reveal, like her face is revealed in such a way that's like, oh! gosh. Like that little gasp of like, yeah, you really, you're really that beautiful. That's how I feel about my mom. So I get it, when men like made themselves fools over her. I was like, yeah, breathe in, breathe out buddy. I get it. But with my DAD?? it's like, this nigga is laaaaame. That's my daddd. This man spent Saturday playing internet checkers!! This is— he is so lame!! Ew!!!!
I saw a picture of him in his glory days. This is the dad that I remember being a kid with, being an adolescent with. And it's like, it's drip that would still be fly in Brooklyn if he was walking around like this. Like it's timeless. Baggy jean shorts and a red jersey and a durag under a red backwards cap, arms out. And I'm like, damn. It is so tough having a fine dad. Hate it. Hate that for me.
I am just like him. He treats me like this all the time— in which he is scared to talk to me because he doesn't understand if I'm mad at him or not. And he like, tiptoes around me, instead of just setting expectations or solving the problem. It’s not just him. My uncles do this. My brothers do this. This is a Negro proverb. Is she mad? Is she mad?
That's how I feel like I treat this space sometimes. Where I've been gone, and I've been gone longer than I expected to, and I don't have good excuses, I was just tired, and I don't wanna disappoint you, and now I gotta come in, and ahhhhhhh I don't know if you're mad at me. You just keep avoiding it, or you come in like nothing happened, like heyyyy, you just, everything resets. I don't wanna do that to y’all!
I don't wanna treat my my public journals, my online spaces of becoming with that is she mad guilt. Ayanda over at paradigm shifts has a really good essay, it's short too, really, really good essay about the shame of return and getting over like, the shame and guilt and just coming into the space of return of love. What if this too is love? So.
Sorry, first of all, that I have turned into my father. Niggatry at its finest, okay?
Um, I shouldn't treat y'all with the is she mad guilt. I think I should just be honest about what I am and am not capable of doing— and allow you the informed consent of staying or leaving! Informed consent is important. Um, yeah, I just didn’t— I was journaling, like, you know, I was putting together this Quary of Thoughtless Ponderments going, I feel guilty for not being in this space and also thinking about the ways I was like my dad and I was like, oh, there's a thread right there, dang.
Also, pimping off the clock? Also my attire. Love that. It is so hilarious that he was so shocked when I told him that I was a stripper. Shocked, this man! this man who raised me. Shocked. Funny. You either die the hero— you either die like your mom or you lived long enough to see yourself become just like your father.
[a hearty, heartfelt sip of tea]
Alrighty. So.
[Dark End of the Street by Aretha Franklin comes on. the Narrator remarks that they love this song.]
I also take a long time to come back after I've been gone with this whole is she pissed thing because I assume y'all are mad at me. And I was actually like, okay, but what if, so what if people are? That's okay. I'm big enough for that. If people are upset that I like fell off the face of the earth for a while and ghosted, that's reasonable! That's, that's, it's okay to be upset at me. I should be big enough to take that.
Accountability is one of the highest forms of love.
I think one of the things that we struggle with, as adults, all kinds of adults (you know, niggas gender neutral, people always forget that). Niggatry, all kinds of adults, we struggle with what it feels like to have people be upset at you because they love you and not because they wish to punish you. When I fall off the face of the earth for a while, I really am just like my dad. It's a couple people, one in particular, my bestie Bee, who like… she keeps tabs on me. She knows that I'm liable to up and disappear. One day goes past, it's aight. Two days go past, it's aight. Three days? Bee sending out some bloodhounds. Two weeks go by, Bee ain’t hear for me.? She will pull up. She will be at my door. My dad has a friend like this: it's my Uncle Daniel. I get a call from Uncle Daniel, I know it's because he ain't heard from my dad in like, two weeks. He's literally calling like, “Have you heard from your father? Is he still alive? What is going on?”
It is okay to have people be upset at you because they missed you. That's alright. I think everybody should be allowed the full strength of their human emotions, and I gotta be big enough to take that! You know what I'm saying? It is a blessing to have people care enough about you such that they're upset when they don't hear from you!
Like, wow! I'm loved and I'm missed. I got an email this morning from a friend called Mohamed. I might be making some assumptions here, but as-salamu alaikum, if that's applicable. And that email was scolding me, lovingly, about care infrastructure, like proper care infrastructure. They were like, “listen, I know you against money or what the hell ever. Like it's cute, [narrator’s note: they didn't curse at me. I'm paraphrasing]. You against money, cool, love that, got you. Aye yo, you can't keep living this close to disaster. You don't understand how much there is nobody to replace you in the space that you're in if you die. You can't keep playing like this!”
You know how much that humbled me?
I forget to value my life like y'all value my life. I'm just like my father. I'm just like my uncles. I can't go wander off and wallow somewhere by myself. Too many people love me for that. I didn’t know.
Dang.
One of the highest measures of love is accountability. And it is a miracle that I have ended up in online spaces where there are people who love me enough to force me to be accountable to my own self, to look at myself and say, Ismatu, tell yourself that you matter. Figure out a way to take care of yourself where you don't have to trade so much.You can't be this near disaster. We can't lose you. You don't understand how much you mean to us. You got every right to be pissed! I don't want to gamble with my life anymore— that really is the survivor's guilt talking.
I have, I got people to take care of, I got things to do, like plans, big plans! Thank you. Thank you for reminding me what this life means and how long a life is. Thank you for not letting me negotiate on what it means to be well-rooted and well-bloomed. Thank you for reminding me that my blooms are so much more valuable than I could personally ascertain or understand.
I wouldn't know that if you didn't tell me! Thank you. It's really humbling.
Last bit about the is she pissed mentality. This is actually just internalized— externalized shame. I'm mad at myself for how I've treated this space because I know that I could be doing better. And this amount of, um… this amount of energy and thought that I have kind of siphoned away to deal with mitigating disaster— I'm mad about like, I know how much time and energy it takes skating kind of near, so near precarity. I know about how much time and energy it takes to make sure that I keep my calm. And that I do all the things that I say that I'll do.
So I'm looking at all that energy going, damn, if only I had that to like, you know, really invest. And at the same time, I'm keeping myself there. So it ends up with me being mad at myself. And ashamed. And being afraid that you all in this space will be disappointed with me if I'm honest about my capabilities, honest with me about how much I'm trading, you know? So then...
This is why informed consent is important, I think. This is why it's important for me to tell you what it is I can and cannot do, in terms of frequency and capacity in art making. And this is why it's important for me to tell you how much your words and your support mean to me. They fundamentally shift my self-perception and my perception of self embedded in the tapestry that we are weaving, not just me.
Yeah, there's my life's tapestry that's in my hands. And then there's the thing that we're weaving together as people learning together, learning next to one another, talking with each other in our real lives and our online lives and stuff like that.
I know that I can't talk to a room of people that just watch me. It feels like when I transitioned to a predominantly white club and then the club didn't dance with me when I danced, they just watched me? I don't like that. And then… y'all don't want me to be silent about what it is that I need. I don't need to impede your kindness— and past your kindness, your care! Damn!
Ah. Just like my dad.
Conclusions
Alrighty, well. I think, above all, thank you. I'm reflecting on... it's been a year of threadings. I started this a little over a year ago under the name The Garden Space and when I started it I had no idea what I wanted. I had no marketing scheme. I had no… like, I didn't I didn't know what I was doing or why I was doing it. I just knew that I was sick of hiding. And I wanted to write in public and I wanted to think in public and I wanted a space to keep and collect myself— especially because my life was very much Unraveling in a way that I was not altogether certain I would survive.
I wanted the space to tell my own story unmitigated.
And now that I've been doing this for a year and I'm realizing I'm nowhere near stopping, that we're still at the top of whatever this is about to become— I'm realizing that there is so much power in being able to narrate my own happenings and to not have to leave it to somebody else years later to piece together what was happening.
The process of becoming in real time is something that so few people get access to, especially because I have access to it in a way that doesn't require me to go through “official channels.” It doesn't require me to censor myself for the TikTok overseers. It doesn't require me to submit myself to an editor to be distributed at some big body press. I can just talk to you, and you can listen to me, and you can talk back to me, and that's so special. In fact, this is a temporal space that won't last forever.
One reason— this is where we’ll end this. One reason I love fall is because it reminds me of the brilliance of dying things. Particularly because I'm from the mountains, right? So Colorado has entire groves of aspen growing up out the side of mountains and it turns the whole mountain— many mountains— these brilliant shades of gold. Golden! Golden, bright, beautiful death and dying.
It reminds me that the shedding, the molting skin, taking off something else in preparation to lie still and let something new grow, that process is brilliant and beautiful. That process in and of itself, the death work of healing, the death work of developing a politic, the death work of rejecting existing systems and complacency, is more than worth it. It’s past “worth it”— it’s what we owe to one another as people in a grove together.
Thank you for witnessing the ways I'm becoming in real time: shedding, reflecting, putting on new things, dying a little bit… dying a lot a bit. To have all those things be neither good nor bad, just the process of being human. It's so special that I get to capture this process of being human and that you keep me all in your heart while you do so, so. Thank you.
Thank you generationally. Thank you from the top to bottom of my heart. Thank you with this cold rainy day weather. I hope that this moment in time has come to you with a lot of peace.
Peace that is unconditional, meaning it is allowed to exist in every other, with every other emotion that you might be having. Worries about the future or frustrations about your present or what have you, wahala, whatever the unnecessary trouble is: let there also be peace. I'm hoping that the work of your day passes through your hands with ease. With a softness. With a glimmer of hope—or maybe several.
And I'm gonna catch you in the next one. I'm really, really excited about the Revolutionary Healers series and the stuff I have planned for that. So, if you're diggy down with things being, you know, come as they are, stay tuned. I would love to hear from you. Tell your momma nem I say, hey.
Have a good one.
IG
Jazz of the Episode:
My One and Only Love x John Coltrane, Johnny Hartman
Say It (Over and Over Again) x John Coltrane Quartet
Manhattan x Blossom Dearie
I’ll Never Smile Again x Sarah Vaughan
Footsteps In The Dark x The Isley Brothers
It Never Entered My Mind x Miles Davis Quintet
Dark End of the Street x Aretha Franklin
Spring Yaounde x Wynton Marsalis
Maybe Tomorrow x Grant Green
Surprise! I am just like my father.