Dear Father: Breaking the Cycle of Pain by J. Ivy

By J. Ivy

Hip-hop's favourite poet and Grammy Award–winning artist J. Ivy bares his soul during this inspirational memoir of soreness remodeled into therapeutic and empowerment.

J. Ivy is a real pioneer and trendsetter who's bridged the worlds of hip-hop and poetry via his appearances on HBO's Def Poetry and his collaborations with Kanye West and Jay-Z. yet all through his good fortune, he carried with him the soreness of being deserted via his father and transforming into up within the tricky neighborhoods of Chicago's South Side.

So he sat down with pen and paper and processed his ache the one method he knew how—through poetry. The ensuing poem, expensive Father, grew to become his car of forgiveness and therapeutic. it's a pivotal poem that has touched and encouraged the lives of millions.

Fused along with his signature uncooked lyricism and road realization, J. Ivy's memoir indicates what it takes to accommodate your feelings prior to your feelings care for you. His tale is own but common, and should motivate others to channel no matter what soreness they've got skilled into their very own robust present of expression.

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Extra info for Dear Father: Breaking the Cycle of Pain

Sample text

In retrospect, the calculation looked smart. I needed every one of my USF credits twenty-five years later when I got readmitted in the College of Professional Studies. Whereas Mike and Bob had made the leap, it would take me two more months to jump in after them. *** Alongside all this chaos were the musical recombinations within the band that Beverly’s presence had only compounded. We had Mike trying to make rock songs out of Disney (“Zip a Dee Doo Dah”) and Ira Gershwin (“I’ve Got Plenty of Nothin’”); we had Pete Fullerton on bass, weaving in his love of classical and bluegrass; we had Bob Jones pushing us toward more aggressive electric guitar licks and toward dance.

It unfolded that we were on an Army ship, not a Navy ship, which struck me as sloppy planning, and no one offered us a taste of any activity more romantic than working in the engine room, which strikes me as deceptive recruiting. A few days’ bad weather pushed me to a breaking point before I asked a chaplain if he had a guitar. He didn’t, but he knew someone in the troop band who did. It was a cheap electric Silvertone, virtually the same instrument I’d rebelled against when taking lessons. Definitely not meant for folk, but it was better than nothing.

I remember riding in her Mustang back from Palmer Canyon one afternoon and coming to a sharp right turn in the middle of nowhere. The car spun out—harmlessly—but she was so shaken she had to give me the keys, and I drove her the rest of the way home. Another time, very late at night, we hit an animal. A. from San Francisco. Between King City and Atascadero back then was totally undeveloped, nothing along the side of the road but fields. I remember passing the sign for Mission San Miguel, which burned in my mind because I was a Southern California kid fascinated by the appeal of points north.

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