My earliest memories of my father is of sweet times. He showered me with affection, gifts, and emotions that is important for a young boy’s growth. We cried, laughed and just enjoyed ourselves together. But as time went on, the relationship became distant. As I reached for him, often times he was nowhere to be found. We would have scheduled dates that would just leave me sitting outside, crying; wondering why I wasn’t good enough for him to show himself. This has bred contempt and anger within me towards him, but most of all it heightened my love for him. I never understood why.
My earliest memories of Frank Ocean were the sweet sounds of Channel ORANGE. He showered me with smooth verses, great beats, and emotions that helped me through a transformative time in my life. As a fan, I cried, vibed, and danced all to Frank’s great tracks. But as time went on, the relationship became distant. As I waited for him to release more music, I found myself very disappointed. He would have scheduled album release dates that would leave me sitting at my computer, crying; wondering if my fan-hood wasn’t good enough to deserve an album. This has bred anger and resentment within me, but, most of all, it heightened my love for him. I think I understand now.
A child’s understanding of love and the way they should be treated comes from early exchanges. For me, it was my father. I saw a man who was capable of great thing and immense love, but somehow always had an excuse for not sharing it with me. Reaching to the point where I would make excuses for him. So, when Frank Ocean was doing it to again, I found it easier to accept. Instead of blaming him for his false releases and lack of production, I just made excuses, faulting his maybe being a perfectionist, having a kid, or issues at home, instead of acknowledging the issues he left me with. Sooner my father’s name and Frank’s started to sound so similar. Then I recognized the truth of the situation. It’s not that I haven’t shown enough appreciation for them, they just don’t appreciate me. I can not wait, on a porch or computer, any longer. I have to move on without. But, one last thing: Frank Ocean, you’re wrong, Boys Do Cry.