A hole has been left in my heart since July 28th 2009, the patriarch of my family and the greatest love of my live left us suddenly and without fuss. Carl Desmond Hopkinson took flight to place unknown, but surely better than this one.
Carl was my best friend and confidant, I don't know of many people who had the type of relationship I had with my father. We would "talk a' name" regularly, discuss politics and the degradation of the quality of TV shows. He watched news far too much for my liking and would shake his head and sigh "the world is a mess" His heart bled for the children of war and starvation, "the littlest victims" he would call them. Once I asked him what's the point in watching so much suffering on TV and agonizing about missing and murdered children. His response was "Maybe if I felt some of their pain, then at least somebody cared."
On other days we would crack jokes, make fun of strange people and watch great movies together. That was one main thing we shared in common, the love of a good movie, a passion I absolutely got from him. I remember growing up and seeing him watching old black and white classics he saw as a boy and I was so amazed at how he could recollect every single actress's and actor's name. He had a memory like a tack. And boxing, let's talk about boxing. The man was obsessed. He knew every fighter, from every weight division, what their tale of the tape was, their personal character flaws and virtues and their IQ scores. I started off not caring too much about boxing, but through sheer infection, from sharing a home with an absolute fanatic, I am now, through not much effort on my part, a boxing fan. I don't even know when or how it happened, I just found myself knowing who was who, what the hottest news was and myself seated beside Hoppy watching the big event.
The man was a song bird, a singer, a crooner. In guyana he was nicknamed "Ole Brown Eyes" because of his style which was akin to Frank Sinatra. Now I know where the love of music my brother and I have comes from. Our father was the first musician of our family, he had a voice like cool honey and a vibrato that was a subtle as marbles in velvet. Thanks to my brother and sister Mark and Cheryl we've been able to salvage some of those recording for the archives. Our house growing up was constantly filled with music and he would sing to me as we rode though the Botanical gardens.
But entertainment aside the man was a real life hero. I can't count how many stories I heard over the years of him rescuing someone from certain death. At the age of 19 his drowning buddy who got caught in too strong a tide and Mr Hopkinson after rushing out and rescue to now terrified and grasping man, had to proceed to knock him out cold with a swift right hook to keep him from drowning the both of them, eventually swimming the both of them back to safety. This episode matched in bravado by the story of the little girl who was hit by a car only to be in the arms of Mr Hopkinson 10 seconds later as he saw the accident unfold and responded with lightning speed. Into his car he placed the girl cradling her shattered leg and speed off to the hospital. She must've been on the road for 8 seconds.
His fearlessness showed it's face in different ways as well. He suffered no ill talk of his mother and one particular story stands out in my memory. A loud talking, self grandizing school bully was making a scene on the school bus one day, hurtling insults and jabs around to fellow school mates as they grinned in embarrassment and cowardice. The fool was on a roll and was making his rounds when his eyes landed on young Mr Hopkinson sitting quietly at the back looking at the floor. The bully was so enraptured with his own self induced pomp that he failed to notice the quiet motion my dad made to remove his shoe and hold it in his right hand. He moved in closer to my dad with a twisted grin. The words "Carl, when you go home tell your mo..." left his mouth but the sentence was never completed, for his right jaw was severely greeted by the bottom of a Bata tennis shoe that sent his head spinning and his body tumbling backward. The fool looked up in stunned silence at the man who delivered the unexpected blow. However their eyes never met for young Mr Hopkinson was quietly and still silently gazing out the window with a serene expression on his face. That was the end of any future interactions between the two.
My dad feared no one and it showed. He would walk into a room and all eyes would be on him as he stood 6'3" and with a personality to fill the room. He had a fan base where ever he went and men and women half his age abandoned all responsibilities just to hang with him. He had a charm and charisma you only see in movies and he had a keen eye for bullshit and would laser it out into the open without hesitation, leaving many a sheister dumbfounded and embarrassed. Wherever he was the ladies followed, which may have gotten him into trouble on many an occasion. He was an unintentional heartbreaker. He loved all his ladies deeply and they adored him. My own mother even years after their divorce told me one day "mek sure yuh marry a man like yuh fada"
Dem' is some big shoes to fill mom. He had a youthful spirit and even as he aged his entourage seemed to get younger and younger. He always kept up with the times, sometimes more than me. Often he would show me some new up an coming singer I knew nothing about, that he discovered on some obscure channel. He loved a good debate and could talk your ears off with facts and figures all mixed with the sharpest of humor.
He was the most generous and kindhearted man I've ever known. The man should've gotten a medal for selflessness. He would share everything (except for chocolate) and anything with his children, a trait he undoubtedly learned from his mom Anna Kennedy who was an angel that rivaled mother theresa in the ability to give. He worried about me the baby of the family endlessly, it was infuriating at times but I knew if was just love that motivated him. He gave me everything. Too much. He was a strict father in the early years but the kindness was always present. Even when he resorted to spanks it was a joke to experience because I would always walk away from it wondering "Huh? Really? Wasn't that supposed to hurt?" I wouldn't let on though that the spanks were more like pats though. He never failed to have my back. Even when I got into trouble at school and the principal called him in, he would always defend me, and ended up schooling the teachers, leaving them blushing and giggling.
Even in his september years his wry sense of humor and incredible wit was still razor sharp and his jokes would often go over the heads of many an attending nurse. A highly intelligent man he was, and with an insatiable appetite for books, often reading 3 or 4 at once. In our house back home in Guyana there were literally thousands of Time and Newsweek magazines stacked in rows. He had read them all. The man was a walking encyclopedia of world events and history.
At the age of 84 I had more fun and stimulating conversation with him than with any of my peers and that is what I miss the most. The company, the jokes, the debates, the movie critiques, the tennis matches, the music. We watched together as OJ was acquitted, as Federer reclaimed his crown, we watched in shock and disbelief as America received it's first black president and as Michael made his final bow. Words cannot express the joy I feel to have shared those momentous and historical moments live with him. But I'm glad he didn't get to see Tiger get caught in net.
He was a singer, a body builder, a cycle sprinter, a rude bwoy, a philosopher, an intellectual, a comedian, a hopeless romantic, an inspiration and a hero. He filled every room with his presence and had a magnetism and grace that attracted people from all walks. People who adored him and recognized his incredible compassion and quiet genius. A true Legend.
I love him more than anyone will ever know and there is a hole left in my heart, that I don't care to fill.
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