Hollywood

I Don't Mourn My Father

Jun 22, 2026

I didn’t have the kind of father you mourn on Father’s Day, or his birthday. Instead, I turn the music up!

I don’t even think I mourned him the day he died. I was somewhat prepared for it. In the years leading up to his death, I thought he would die, the way that he lived, doing things his way.

I was sad when it happened, for the way it happened. He was alone in his apartment. My brother, Kevin found him that fateful morning. That was the worst of it —my brother walking in and finding our dad on the floor.

All of the children in this picture are adults now! The youngest (Karsen) being held by his mother, just graduated high school!

Prior to that day, there had been plenty of close calls. From my house in Texas, I once sent the local police to his apartment to do a well-check when none of us could get ahold of him for more than 24 hours. He was pissed that I sent the police. “Why did you send the cops to my house? I told them, I didn’t steal nothin’!” This was an indirect admission of guilt from his days growing up poor in Arkansas.

My siblings all gathered there at his place in Long Beach, on that January morning. I wasn’t there. I was here in Texas. I hate that. I hate that I couldn’t be there to support them through those difficult moments.

When I say that I was prepared for it, I mean, I knew chances were that would be the way he would go. Alone, in his apartment. He chose not to be within the care of others. He wanted to do things his way, on his own, until the end.

I once told him, “Calling 911 is not a health plan, Dad.” Constantly having one of your neighbors call EMS every other week is not a plan.

What the hell do I know? He blew me off.

My first born and my dad are a lot alike in that way. You can’t tell him nothin’! He doesn’t listen to advice to do things in a way that would be less painful —safer, save him some trouble, or have a better outcome. Nope! He would rather have the trouble on his own terms.

In those last years, Dad would be admitted to the hospital, but wouldn’t stay until he was formally released by the doctor. He decided when he was ready to go. Then just to keep everyone guessing, he would sometime, go to the hospital and refuse to leave, until they gave him whatever it is that he wanted.

One year, after one of his falls, and an extensive hospital stay, he was released to a V.A. rehabilitation facility. When he’d had enough of that, he escaped. “I don’t want to hear these motherf*#@kas moaning in pain all night! I want to go home!”

A few days later, he got dressed, waited by the front doors wearing his gown, underneath his coat, and slippers on his feet. When ambulance showed up to bring someone in, he slipped on out. He wheeled the wheelchair down the road and caught the train back to his apartment.

We sent the police looking for him. They found him at home later. Chillin.

Dad grew up in a small town in Mississippi, and lived as a young man in St. Louis, Missouri. He worked his way up from being a dishwasher to becoming the first black, Maitre D in a major hotel in St. Louis.

Before he ever set foot in California, his friends called him “Hollywood.” He was larger than life with a charming personality, and he was always dressed with the exquisite style and flare of a movie star.

He passed in January, of 2016. His memorial service was a party at a Jazz Club with friends, family, food, and funny stories of the way he touched our lives. There were no tears that day, but there were cocktails!

Eventually, grief would catch up with me. In quiet moments alone at home. When my plane lands in Long Beach, knowing that I won’t be seeing him on my visit.

I had a serious cry at the first live jazz concert I attended months after his death with my husband. He and my husband, Alan bonded over music. For the longest time, Alan would fly to L.A. every Father’s Day weekend to go the Playboy Jazz Festival with my dad. He had the nerve to act like it was an inconvenience the year I joined him. It was their thing.

Um…I was going to the Playboy and every other jazz festival with my dad before I met you!

Dad introduced me to jazz and the joy of live music, early in my childhood. Singing Nat King Cole around the house. Listening to Dizzy Gillespie, Miles Davis, Nancy Wilson, Frank Sinatra, and Ella Fitzgerald. I am grateful for his great taste in music.

Grief comes at me in waves, but it’s accompanied by fond memories and laughter. So much laughter.

I don’t mourn his life on Father’s Day. I celebrate the way he lived.

Thinking of you today, Dad.

Listening to Peabo Bryson and Roberta Flack, with a smile on my face and love in my heart.

Celebrating you. Happy Father’s Day.

Ward “Hollywood” Wesley

April 22nd, 1929-January 16, 2016

Thank you for being here and for reading my words! I appreciate you.

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