A profile of my father, Raymond Cross.
By: Nyla Cross
The Cat.
The words tattooed on his bicep inside of a bearcat paw. A nickname appointed to him because he ran around and jumped all over. A nickname that transcended childhood; older relatives would see his face at reunions and continue to refer to him as Bearcat, as if it was his name on every legal document.
He can probably quote the entire Scarface film with his eyes closed - something that I’m not even confident Al Pacino could do. He doesn’t yell or lose his temper; he never has, and walks through life as if there’s no reason to. He gives money to unhoused people on the side of the freeway, and plays along with strangers who draw out conversations for too long. He waves back at toddlers in their parents’ shopping carts and calls to tell me about a restaurant I would like, or a movie I should watch. He doesn’t allow people to give up on dreams that he knows they are capable of achieving, no matter how much they want to.
He misses his mother deeply, but does something new every day that she would be proud of. He probably knows you better than you know yourself, and you won’t even realize it. He has an unshakeable loyalty to friends and family and believes them to be the anchors of his life. He’s well-educated, but never a snob. In a single conversation, he could reference a history fact, a song lyric, a movie quote, and a piece of literature. And, he would take the time to explain every single one to you. When I was a little girl, I used to think he knew the answer to everything. Some things never change.
The Cat isn’t his only name. Mr. Cross, Principal Cross, Ray, Raymond, Dad. The many hats he wears and the many people he impacts start to blur lines at points, as there are many of his students who consider him a family member, and his children who learn from him every day.
He is a very calm man, but he never takes any disrespect, and refuses to let his children take any. He would tell me that if someone ever hit me, I had to hit them back. He demonstrated that there was a line between politeness, professionalism, and letting people walk over you. He would cross the line so smoothly that the people who disrespected him in the first place would not even realize they had just been apprehended, but they knew they would never do it again.
From a very young age, he instilled several things into me: you are Black, you are beautiful, and you have to refuse to let anyone tell you otherwise. Growing up, one of the first TV shows I remember watching was “Gullah Gullah Island,” a Nickelodeon show about a Black family on the coast of South Carolina that celebrated the area’s rich Gullah Geechee culture.
I only had Black cabbage patch/American Girl/Barbie dolls, and had the DVD of The Princess and the Frog practically played on loop. I understand what Blackness meant; I had a pride for it that could only be described as innate. Something that was taught to me so fruitfully and unabashedly that it could not be wavered at any point in my life. That was the patented Raymond Cross Parenting Method.
My mother always reminds me of how she and my dad met, and how enamored she was with his wit and intelligence. She would recount the memories of the insignificant men she dated prior, how all of them were attractive but substanceless, until of course she met Ray. His smile lit up every room, he could woo women with his intelligent, yet funny and timely, remarks. (He would probably say it was the freckles, and she agrees.)
He used to be a natural Black ginger. A light-skinned, lanky, kid from Hammond, Indiana, who listened to West Coast rap and had large framed glasses. In college, everyone says he looked just like Malcolm X. Or maybe X looked like him.
He didn’t know what he wanted to do after high school at first career-wise; the priority was running collegiate track and field. Along the way, he ended up in Santa Rosa, CA, and later Sacramento, where he attended Sacramento State University, majored in English, met his wife, pledged Kappa Alpha Psi, Fraternity, Incorporated, dove head first into pro-Black ideology, and kept most of those beliefs - besides abstaining from pork consumption.
Throughout my life, my dad ensured I knew the importance of showing up for people. He’s always been selfless, and especially giving to those who could not provide for themselves. When he worked at Pasadena High School as the Assistant Principal, it seemed he would leave for work with three children to his name and return with 15 more. I remember him telling me about a student whose father was murdered and could not afford a tuxedo to wear to the prom, so my dad took him to a shop and bought him one.
Or, the boy whose mother passed away in his senior year and was on the brink of not being eligible for graduation. My dad worked with his teachers to raise his grades enough to walk the stage, telling the student to walk for his mother.
Despite its population, Pasadena, CA, doesn’t seem that big. So, when I would eventually meet friends of friends who attended Pasadena High School and know my dad, I was always met with the same responses.
“Mr. Cross is your dad?”
“Yeah, you don’t see the resemblance?
“He’s so cool. He [insert anecdote. He did something for them, or maybe he didn’t, but it was funny].”
“Really? Yeah. Sounds like him.”
“He’s awesome. Tell him I say hi. I hope he remembers me.”
“He probably does!”
Sometimes he doesn’t. But, that’s not the point. The point is that people remember him, and not just as another teacher or school administrator, but as someone who would fight for them and make sure they won. I’ve known my dad almost 19 years, give or take the first couple of them, because you know, toddlerhood. He’s a complex person, yet very easy to understand. There’s no filler or fluff. He wears trending Nike shoes because he likes them. He carries a handkerchief in his pocket to wipe his glasses.
He’ll come into your room just to lay on your bed and tell you about his day. He’s not one of those people he tries to trick you into befriending them, or has a facade of a layered personality. After he shook your hand, it didn’t take him long to tell you about yourself. Who you reminded him of, how he can relate to the parts of your life story you told him, and why you’re probably not as smart as you think you are. He never demeaned you or upstaged you in front of a crowd on purpose. He didn’t have to; you already know who he is.
To tell you about him, I think we should start with his childhood. He grew up in Hammond, Indiana, a city about 20 minutes from Gary. He is an only child, but grew up in a neighborhood with cousins and friends who became family. His father always emphasized hard work and commitment. Taking out the trash, cutting the grass, being an academic, participating in your sport - whatever you were doing, do it well and with conviction.
His father is a retired teacher, and his mother was an educational administrator. When he moved with her to Santa Rosa, CA, she told him college was a non-negotiable. If there is nothing stopping you from achieving your dreams, go out and achieve them. If there was something in the way, knock it down and achieve it anyway. That was a mentality instilled into him that he inadvertently, or maybe purposefully, instilled into his children.
We’re gonna fast forward to his college days. As I mentioned earlier, he was a Malcolm X doppelganger. He majored in English and didn’t take the whole school thing super seriously, but he was everywhere. Well, according to my mom.
“He had so many friends. He had so many friend groups. He has a large family, as you know, and he’s an only child. Which, I thought it was fascinating that he extended his family to a group of friends, and then he’s got his really close friends from high school.”
At first, when I told my mom I was interviewing her for this profile, I thought about the fact that she’s told me stories about their time in college a hundred times. It also happened, as she would say, a hundred years ago. But, everytime I talk to her about it, her eyes light up and she looks like she’s meeting him all over again for the first time. That’s probably what 25+ years of marriage does.
“I don’t have anything profound to say.”
She’s exaggerating. My mom thinks that just because she wasn’t an English major like her husband, or a journalism major like her daughter that she can’t recount any memories.
“What kind of questions are you gonna ask?”
“I don’t really know. I was kinda just-
“You don’t have the questions prepared?”
“You’re my literal mother. We’re just gonna have a conversation!”
“Fine. What do you wanna know?
“I already know this lore, but tell me how you guys met.”
“The first time I met him was at a football game, I was with my roommate and he was with one of his frat brothers. We met in passing; all of us were just walking around.”
After they were introduced, I asked my mom if she was attracted to him at the moment, to which she replied: “I mean it was at night. He was just, like, a regular guy.”
I knew there was a second part to their initial interactions, so I asked about when she saw him a few days later.
“I saw him across campus in daylight. This is my fondest memory of my first impressions of him. He walked by and he just smiled at me; he had the most amazing smile I've ever seen.”
I rolled my eyes and pretended to gag. It’s actually very sweet. And gross.
“When I replay it, I see him walking by in slow motion. He made some joke that I don't remember, but he said something to the effect of “Why didn’t you call me?” To which I replied with a snarky remark, as I’m prone to doing, and I don’t remember what that remark was.”
Her memory does work! Told you she was exaggerating.
“See, that’s profound.”
“Yes.”
After this, they started going out. Like, a lot.
“He would take me home from school because I lived off campus and didn’t have a car.”
“What kind of car did he have?”
“Nonnee got it for him. A 1989 Mercury Tracer. Baby blue.”
“That sounds old.”
“Look it up!”
I did. It looks old.
I knew that they would go on dates to Burger King that she would pay for.
“We would get “Two for Twos” at Burger King. Two burgers, two fries for two dollars. We would meet there every day. And, I paid. He was broke.”
“You paid every day?”
“Yup.”
“That’s triflin’.”
“That’s love.”
She’s right. I mean, she is the one who’s been married for two decades. I don’t have room to judge.
I asked her if she knew he was “the one,” and she said she didn’t exactly know then, but she definitely knew he was different.
“He was definitely very intelligent and very funny [vibes]. Those are the two qualities that attracted me to him. I was thinking he could be boyfriend material. And, he was.”
After my mom got into graduate school at Ohio State, they moved to Columbus. There, my dad went on to work towards his teaching credential and be a substitute teacher while my mom got her Master’s.
“Teaching was definitely his calling. And people were telling him it was his calling. I also got the impression that he didn't take school all that seriously, even though he’s very bright. But he was smart enough to see it as a means to an end.”
They later got married in 1997 in an outdoor vineyard. It was beautiful. I mean, I wasn’t there, but from the pictures. My mom’s uncle married them, and everybody was just Black and happy and watching Black, happy love.
I, obviously, can tell you about my dad from the perspective of the child. But, as I also mentioned, there’s not much I can do about ages 0-3. My dad had a child before me, a son he had when he was 17. He loves my brother so much, and even though he wasn’t able to be with him in his early years, he made up for lost time.
They talk all of the time, he’s very involved in his life and the lives of his grandchildren. So, parenthood wasn’t necessarily a new feat for him, but a daughter was. And, he wanted it to be perfect.
“By the time we got pregnant with you, we were overjoyed. It was a dream pregnancy. He was so gentle and loving and attentive. I remember those pregnancies being really happy times. There was no stress.”
I’m going to take partial credit for that. I think I bring a lot of calm and serenity.
“Did you know he was going to be a good father?
“As much as I could allow myself to imagine it, I knew he was going to be a good father. But I really didn't wanna put any preconceived notions of fatherhood on him, because he really grew into the father he is now. He wanted to do it right, and wanted to be very intentional about it. I'm assuming.”
Well, he is a good father. So, her predictions were correct. But, I feel like that’s hard to quantify. It takes a lot of things to make you a “good” parent. Generally, good parents are supportive, attentive, understanding, and want the best for their children. And, he checks all of those boxes. One thing that always stood out to me about my father was he never harbored anger or became aggressive or upset, at least with anyone in our family. He reserved that for people who tried to hurt the women in his life.
He would always say: “I hope nothing ever happens to you guys or your mom, because then I have to go to jail. And, I don’t wanna go to jail.”
When I brought this up to my mom, she co-signed on my memory.
“And, I think he’s serious.” I said.
“Oh yeah, no, he definitely is.”
This was something that was established early in my childhood. When my mom took me to the doctor’s office for my two-month shot, he couldn’t bear the baby Nyla's tears.
“The first time the lady pricked you in the thigh, he was visibly upset. He was belligerent and beside himself. I had to ask him to leave. He just hated to see you hurt.”
I pouted at her recollection. “Aw, poor thing!”
“I was like, really? Like, it's just a shot. Okay, if it was surgery, I’d get it. You gotta go; you’re too disruptive in the room!”
Yeah. Trena’s kind of hardcore. But, hey, every relationship needs balance.
While there were things he instilled in both my sister and I, he knew to parent us differently. I’m more bookish, more of a learner. I don’t take too many things to heart and I stay focused on my end goals. My sister is a bit more focused on the present, and can sometimes get too caught up in it. Even though my mom and I try to offer advice to her, she’s not listening to us like she’s listening to him.
“Everything that he says, I take to heart. Because it’s all so inspiring. The way he's so vocal and energetic about situations, it makes you want to listen to things he says. Every time you're with him, it turns into a life lesson or a memory.”
She’s not wrong. You could get him talking about anything, from college football to the Black Panthers, and you’d leave the conversation better than you entered it. So, I guess not only did he look like Malcolm X but he spoke like him too.
He’s kind of like a preacher in that way. He speaks life into you. When he calls me while I’m at school, he reminds me of the talent that I have and how excited he is to see what career path I take. He doesn’t force ideas of what my life should look like onto me; he just lets me chart my own path. That’s probably because he has a lot of faith in it. But, maybe I’m so full of genius and talent because he raised me to always go after what I want. This might be a chicken-and-the-egg situation.
And, clearly, my sister remembers being raised that way too.
“Do you agree he never wanted anybody to talk down to us?”
"Yup. He’s always like - “Don't let anyone disrespect you. Don't let nobody call you out their name. Don't let nobody put their hands on you. Don't let nobody boss you around. Hold yourself to high standards. Don't let anybody tell you who you are.””
Don’t let anybody tell you who you are.
While my dad made this clear for us, I truly believe it was the people in his life who made it clear for him. His mother, Bobbie Cross-Solie, was a radiant woman who believed in the greatness of people. She was a bonafide California grandmother; she lived in Palm Springs, and would take my sister and I to luncheons with the ladies and banned us from eating fast food in her presence.
My father is all that he is, because she was all who she was. When she passed in 2016, there was a part of him that dimmed for a while, but was replaced with a promise to continue leading a life that he knew she would be proud of. Her death was the first time I ever saw my dad cry. And, it didn’t change the image I had of him as a strong, supportive, man, but it made a lot of things make sense to me. She was the reason he protected the women in his life so passionately; she had always protected him.
In the spring of this year, my great uncle, her brother, passed away in California. He was a veteran, a retired educator, and a music lover just like my grandmother. I wasn’t able to make it to his funeral because I was here at Hampton, but my sister told me it was nice. It was a military service, so it was short and ceremonial. There weren't a lot of people, just those really important to him. I was devastated that I couldn't make it, but my dad insisted that “he knew how much I loved him.”
Afterwards, when they headed to the car to leave, the first thing my dad did was turn on the radio. The first song that played. “At Last” by Etta James. My grandmother’s favorite song.
“What did he do?” I asked my sister. He, being my dad.
“He just shook his head. We sat in the car and listened to the entire song, and then pulled off.”
“Did he cry?
“No. I mean, I wasn’t really paying attention. But, no.”
“You were probably on your phone.”
“Bro, no. I wasn’t. I don’t know, it was crazy. Like….”
“Coincidental?”
“No. Like, biblical.”
“Biblical? Samira, that’s not the word. You mean, like spiritual?”
“I guess? I don’t know. Like. It’s like she was with us.”
She’s looking down upon us from heaven. I guess that is biblical. I take it back, sis.
My dad has had to see a lot of people close to him leave this Earth, each one leaving with them great memories of him. Fraternity brothers, family members, colleagues. As people in his life grow older, sometimes, it seems like even when he’s surrounded by death, he chooses to focus on life. He speaks so matter-of-factly about people’s passings, and it’s not because he doesn’t care - au contraire. He cares enough to walk in their light and take them everywhere he goes.
He remembers people for everything they brought with them to this world, and remembers them the same when they leave. He’s not afraid of that aspect of life, or any of the other negative ones. He’s not afraid of life at all. He never has been.
As I was writing this, I listened to Isaac Hayes’ “By The Time I Get to Phoenix” on repeat. Every time fingers struck the piano keys, I got inspired to add another anecdote. When the horns blew, I knew exactly where to place a quote. At the sound of the organ, I get flashbacks of my dad in his 2003 Chevrolet Tahoe nodding his head to the instruments and drumming the steering wheel. The Tahoe turned into a Chevy Traverse less than a year ago, but the vision remains the same.
And, when the horns blow again, he looks as if he’s playing the instruments himself from the driver’s seat. Now, my sister and I are nodding our heads to the music and imitating the sounds of the horns. A family trio turned to a symphony all on the way to Inglewood. We’re the singers, the pianists, the trumpet players, and the composers. We’ve turned the car into a Harlem jazz club with the other cars on the freeway as the audience. And wow, lucky them, what a show they’re getting.
The song starts to fade out as we get off on our exit. In only 20 minutes, we’ve told Isaac’s story for him. My dad has never been too proud for a car jam session, especially not to what he regards as a masterpiece such as this. I think that’s one of the many lessons my dad taught me. Be selfless, be kind, be ambitious, be determined, be respectful, be conscious, be aware, be you. But don’t forget where you come from. And don’t be too good, or too proud, for anything. That gets you nowhere. And, of course…
Don’t let anybody tell you who you are.
One of his other tattoos besides “The Cat,” is “True II Life.” I never grew up calling him the former, but the latter?
Very fitting.
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