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Record Store Trips With My Dad Taught Me Self-Care
By making time for the tradition he loved, my father showed me what Black joy looks like
Growing up, Saturday mornings meant hearing voices like Toni Braxton, Phyllis Hyman, Shalamar, Keith Sweat, Barry White, and Regina Belle as I helped my dad clean the garage. As our usual soundtrack played, we’d sweep and organize the space, even though I always thought it looked the same after we finished.
By the early afternoon, my mind swirled with song after song. I never knew many of them before they blasted from my dad’s black JVC boombox. Over time, I’d eventually commit the choruses to memory. But my more immediate concern was what time we’d head out for our post-garage cleaning trip to Paradise Records and Tapes, a weekend trip I could count on at least once a month.
The record store seemed boundless to my young mind. I’d eye the colossal, oversized posters of album covers that marked the wall. There were rows and rows of records, CDs, and cassette tapes locked away in protective cases.
My dad worked long shifts during the week as a retail store manager. He often left home early to open the store and returned late on the nights when he had to close. There was a strict structure to his professional life lined up with seemingly innumerable suit-and-tie combos that he wore to work each day. But in the record store, he browsed aimlessly from rack to rack, letting his ears lead the way.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but these trips offered my first lessons in self-care. There was never any rush. He was fully present and content to indulge just a little on the music that moved him, taking an hour or two to enjoy a break from life’s unceasing demands. He chose his selections carefully, eyeing the cashier intently as they removed the security case delicately and placed his CDs and tapes in a plastic bag.
At the end of third grade, we relocated to a small town in rural North Carolina for my dad’s job promotion. Paradise Records was no longer our first stop after cleaning the garage. Though his go-to store wasn’t accessible anymore, my dad found fresh ways to unearth new tunes or rediscover old ones he’d thought he’d lost to time.
