Nassau had a way of relaxing people, even Dad. Once there, suit-and-tie Sy Kravitz changed his wardrobe to open-necked floral shirts and white linen shorts. He ate pigeon peas and rice, fried snapper and johnnycake. Esau playfully called Dad Conchy Joe, their name for a white Bahamian. Dad also let down his guard with me. In Nassau, I could almost do whatever I wanted.
One day, I watched my father and Esau hanging out on the docks with locals feasting on scorched conch, a Bahamian delicacy. They carved out the conch muscle, squeezed lime and sour (a lime-orange hybrid), and added hot bird pepper before downing it straight up (including the pistol, considered a potent aphrodisiac). The only other place I saw my father this happy was in Grandma Bessie’s kitchen. In the soulful world of the Rokers, Dad lost that hard edge and found a mellow vibe that was missing from him in Manhattan.
Esau was an engineer at a communications company. He also managed homes for “snowbirds,” winter residents escaping the cold. His own home was modest and spotless. His backyard was filled with mango trees. I’d climb those trees, pick the mangos, and eat them until I was bathed in sticky nectar. I’d spend days at the beach and nights at the Wulff Road movie theater, where I once saw a double feature of Bruce Lee flicks: Fist of Fury aka The Chinese Connection and The Way of the Dragon. The audience yelled at the screen at the top of their lungs. I yelled along with them. Bruce was my man.
In Nassau, you could go wild at the movies, but at home you minded your manners. In the Bahamas, I saw the origins of my mother’s impeccable etiquette. It was “yes, sir” and “yes, ma’am,” “please” and “thank you kindly.” At meals, you sat up properly, no elbows on the table. And you spoke only when spoken to. Mom called it “Bahamian home training.”
The training took. The manners stuck, as did a Bahamian accent. My mom was tickled when I started calling her “Mummy.” Nassau became a third home. It felt as natural as Brooklyn and Manhattan. The Bahamas are in my blood. The older I got, the closer the bond. Those islands never stopped calling me. Never stopped nurturing me. Never stopped bringing me a peace of mind I’ve found nowhere else in the world.
GODFATHER
As soon as we returned to New York, that mellow Bahamian aura was gone. Dad was back in his world of news, business, order, and discipline. He never stopped yelling at me to clean up my room. I never lived up to his standards. To keep the peace, Mom encouraged him to start a tradition of father-son outings. They were never as warm and cozy as I wanted, but I still loved being with him. Like every boy, I just wanted to hang around my dad.
Our quality time looked like this: we’d start out around eleven by walking over to Lexington Avenue, where he’d get me an ice-cream cone of my choice before we headed over to a little store with a green-and-white marquee that read “OTB,” for “off-track betting.” While I sat in the corner, Dad scrutinized the Daily Racing Form before placing his bet. He was a serious gambler. I’d later learn about secret debts, but at the time I had no idea. I just thought he liked to play the horses. Seemed as wholesome a hobby as any.
Next stop, shopping. This ritual really pleased me. I got a kick out of having a handsome, stylish father. When the old Italian tailor fussed over him with chalk-striped flannel suits, my dad looked like a president or a king. And to top it off, he had his initials engraved on the cuffs of his dress shirts, every single one: SK.
On some of these bonding days we visited Peter Arnett, Dad’s friend and fellow reporter in Vietnam in 1968, who later gained fame covering the Gulf War from Baghdad for CNN. Peter had married a Vietnamese woman named Nina, and it was in their apartment that I became pals with their son, Andrew, and daughter, Elsa. I learned how to use chopsticks there, while eavesdropping on Dad and Peter exchanging war stories.
Other days, we visited other buddies. Dad was able to navigate different worlds with grace and aplomb. One was this clean, crisp culture of journalists, television producers, and jazz musicians. The other was more mysterious.
Enter Uncle Vinnie, a character plucked right out of a Scorsese film. I never did know how he and Dad met. But it was clear that they liked each other and even clearer that Dad gave Vinnie infinite respect. As they really liked each other, Vinnie grew closer to me and my mom, too.
Sometimes we had lunch with Uncle Vinnie at Midtown Italian restaurants. Sometimes we visited him at home in Queens. Uncle Vinnie was enthralled by my mother. He respected her and appreciated her class and beauty. When she came along on those evenings, he went the extra mile to find the super-exclusive restaurant, the best table, the finest wine. When she spoke, he’d wait for the words to fall from her lips. He often brought her a gift, an Hermès scarf or a bottle of Chanel No. 5. She couldn’t help but like him.
Uncle Vinnie made an impression. Big guy, salty New York accent, and always sweet to me. I liked his enigmatic aura. I also liked how he always put Dad in a good mood. My father got off on being around power. No matter the location, Uncle Vinnie held court, surrounded by huge platters of pasta and his entourage of cronies. I saw his importance when, during one of our lunches, Sammy Davis Jr. showed up, headed straight to our table, and, before greeting anyone else, kissed Uncle Vinnie on both cheeks.
Uncle Vinnie was a fixture in our life. His light shone bright, and his presence was as rooted as a tree. My father told me Vinnie was my godfather and that he would always have my back.
GODMOTHER
My mom blessed me with five godmothers. Without the presence of strong, beautiful Black women, I definitely wouldn’t be who I am. Their positive and nurturing Black female energy came from the center of the universe. And that energy surrounded me.
I was an only child but never felt alone because my mother had carefully woven a close-knit group of the world’s most impressive aunties. I cannot exaggerate the comfort I felt knowing that these forces of nature were looking out for my well-being.
First, Cicely Tyson. Before I understood the true depth of her glamour and her icon status, I knew only that she reminded me of my mom—something about their physicality and the way they both held themselves. Godmother Cicely felt like home, right from the first hug. She lived at Fifth Avenue and Seventy-Ninth Street. Roxie and Cicely were soul sisters. It was Mom who had replaced her in Jean Genet’s The Blacks at the St. Mark’s Playhouse. We never went to Godmother Cicely’s apartment. No one did. She came to us. The fact that her place was off bounds to the outside world only added to her mystique.
I always looked up to Godmother Cicely, but it wasn’t until I saw her in The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman that I realized her profound genius. I’d read about slavery in school and of course talked about it with my family at home, but I had never seen it reflected on-screen. And when I did, I was amazed, saddened, and then enraged. Even now, I can see the scene in my head as clear as day when the now-ancient Miss Pittman takes that agonizingly long walk to reach the whites-only water fountain. Epic.
Second, there was the brilliant Aunt Shauneille. Shauneille Perry and Mom had attended Howard together and studied at the same theater company in Copenhagen. Aunt Shauneille had a love and understanding of the arts that launched her to become one of the voices of her generation. She became a prominent director, writer, and actor, and her home at 444 Central Park West became a cultural mecca, the unofficial headquarters of the Black Arts Movement. On any given day, I’d be sitting in the corner of Aunt Shauneille’s living room while Nikki Giovanni read her poetry aloud or ensembles rehearsed plays. I loved the drama. These artists were filled with energy and optimism—and Mom was in the middle of it all. Energy and optimism were two of her strongest traits. I studied at that school.