I have a son. I raised a son. It wasn’t always easy, but it was always worth it. It was the hardest thing I ever did, raising that child, that boy, but we did it – mother, father and step mom. We called ourselves Parental Units # 1, 2, and 3. As they say, “It took a village.”

His name is Dustin and he’s now 24 years old and is a young man, very bright, extremely interesting, and somehow he lucked out and picked up the best of all our features. He’s tall – sometimes scraping the moon with his head. When he walks through the door, I’m always amazed that he’s real and that my little pal from the past, that little guy who went through so much with me, is now a grown man – and a fine one at that.

There are so many stories to tell – all of them amazing, all of them profound, bittersweet, hilarious, full of tears. They are the stories of a lifetime. Too numerous to begin, too fascinating not to.

I spent years telling him stories before he went to bed. I’d just open my mouth and see what came out each night. It was a fascinating improvisational exploration for me that I spent years developing to very little end except that we had a great time and he usually went right to sleep afterwards. I remember none of the stories, except I do remember one particular series where we lay on our backs in his room on the floor with all the lights out and I told him about the space men. I remember thinking, “Wow, this is a great television series. If I would just write it down.” But, of course, I didn’t. They were only for him.

I decided that it would be very good for him to play the piano. I told him he’d have to stick with it for 10 years. He studied the Suzuki Method where Parental Unit #1 (that’s me) had to sit with him at practice every day. We did it for 5 years. Then we started to become enemies because I was pushing him too hard. I don’t play well and felt that he must. After all, he had all this talent.

I finally went to his teacher and asked if there wasn’t someone else she knew who could take over my job and work with him each day. I would pay. She told me that her best student was a young 15 year old girl who lived here in our building several floors below. I hired her and she came up every day for a couple of years and worked with Dustin.

She was terrific with him. Suddenly practices were fun for him again – no Dad, just this fascinating 15 year old girl to work with. Every spring they would have a recital. She prepped him on his piece by doing everything she could think of while he was playing to divert his attention, like talking to him, yelling at him, waving her arms at him and even playing another piece on the higher keys while he was playing his recital piece.

On the day of the recital I sat in the audience with the rest of the proud parents as each kid went up and performed. For some reason that year the room was cursed with the heebie jeebies and the clams. Each child got up and fell apart at the piano, making a mess of their big moment. It was definitely catching. As the recital went on, each kid got up and fell apart worse than the one before. Finally it was Dustin’s turn. Nerves could be a problem for him in these moments. I inwardly groaned expecting the worst.

He played the piece flawlessly, concentrated and locked in, and when he finished, there was a stunned silence in the room followed by a huge and relieved applause by all. As he stood up and went through the proud motions of his practiced bow, most of the room turned around and applauded me as well. I, of course, took the credit. After all, I had had the good sense to hire Alicia Keys as his piano coach. That’s right, the Alicia Keys – who not so long after won 11 Grammy Awards (and still counting).

We struggled through his teenage years as far too many fathers and sons do. He, always trying to push the envelope further and further, and me, always pushing back to protect him from the urban world of NYC dangerously lurking around him. I couldn’t wait for him to grow up. By the time he went off to college, I waved him goodbye with a smile on my face.

Now he’s back in NYC working here. We’re friends again, and I can’t get enough of him. He disappears for weeks on end and I stoically move through it, but grousing the whole time. “How could he not call?” I smile now at myself for my folly. It was I who wanted him to grow up.

Years ago I wrote this song about him which his mother (Jenny Burton) sang very successfully for many years. When she would sing it and he was in the audience, she would often introduce him when she finished the song. The audience would go nuts applauding him for being Dustin. It was always a very special moment between Mom and son and I imagine he grew to know the song as her thoughts towards him. They certainly were, but I want to remind everyone and Dustin just this once that I wrote it. They were my thoughts in the inception.

YOU BRING ME JOY
Music and Lyrics by Peter Link

Bring me your fears
Your worries and your wonder
Bring me the long dark arms of shadow
As they reach across your mind
Bring to me the lingerings
Of quiet cares and nightmares
And I will bear them on my shoulders
And release them from your mind

Bring me your tears
Your troubles and temptations
Bring me the chance to share your sorrow
As it hides within your heart
Bring to me your bewilderings
Your trials and your frustations
And I will take them on my shoulders
And release them from your heart

Bring me your life
And I will hold you in my arms
Until the ghosts and shadows ’round you
Fall away
Bring me your life
Little darlin’
Like a child brings a broken toy
And oh my boy
You bring me joy
You bring me joy

Omo tu mah yo wah lahn feh
Tu mu enu dee du wah
Omo tu mah yo wah lahn feh
Tu mu enu dee du wah
Oh mah baba
Oh mah baba

Bring me your dreams
Your greatest expectations
Give me a taste of each new passion
As it rises through your soul
Bring me your wonderings
And all your reservations
And I will point the way to heaven
And pray the path unfold

Bring me your life
And I will always be beside you
Even though the years will find you
Far away
Bring me your life
Little darlin’
Like a child brings a broken toy
And oh my boy
You bring me joy

Aaaaahhhhh
Joy joy joy

You bring me
Joy

Translation from Yoruba (Nigeria): Femi Oguntoyinbo
Omo tu mah yo wah lahn feh = The children that bring happiness are the
ones we want here
Tu mu enu dee du wah = You bring me joy
Oh mah baba = (father with fist in the air) “Great boy!”