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…
