Kulima. It’s a word of absolutely no origin, with no meaning. If we’re being honest, I’m not even positive if that’s the correct spelling, or if there even is a “correct” spelling. It’s just a word that is screamed, shouted, winked, and whispered. Credit for this nonsensical word is owed to my father and I’ve been hearing it for as long as I can remember. To understand where this word came from, you’ll first have to understand my dad.

My father was born and raised in the Mission Hill neighborhood of Boston, along with his five brothers and one sister. He was funny and troublesome; I’ve heard he was quite the fighter. He liked to have fun, and drink, a pastime he would give up before his children were born. He brought the energy into the room and he made you feel special. Everyone thought my dad was their best friend, and theirs only - it was a gift. He loved his neighborhood, his church and the people he grew up with so much that in 1975, at the age of 24, he decided to run for political office. Much to his own surprise, he won the seat of State Representative for the neighborhoods of Mission Hill, Roxbury and Jamaica Plain. He was committed to keeping what he’s called the “magic” of Mission Hill alive, in a time when it seemed like the only time those communities were mentioned in the paper it was for a negative reason. My dad went on to serve these communities faithfully and with integrity for the next 28 years of his life. It would be easy for me to speak endlessly and impressively about my dad’s triumphs, because he did so much good, and tribulations, because he faced those too, as a Boston politician, but that’s not what he’d want the focus to be on. As long a list of accomplishments as he may have, I know and am thankful that family was always far and away on the top of that list.

In 1978, my dad somehow managed to make the best decision in his life. He married a beautiful blonde from the projects of Mission Hill, my mother. I’ve never been able to put into words how much I admire her, because she does too much for me and my three brothers that there’s really not computing how lost I’d be without her. I can only describe her as some sort of graceful warrior. When presented with any problem, my mom’s true strength comes out. She just handles things, masterfully and with grace. My mom doesn’t consider herself a public person; she’s always preferred a low-profile and basked in the idea of receiving no attention. Unfortunately for her, her husband was very much so a public figure.  Like everything else in her life, she handled the role with poise and patience. She was my dad’s rock, our family’s caretaker, and our home’s decision-maker, all while working as registered nurse at the Baptist Hospital, where else, but a top of Mission Hill.

Together, they raised a family of four. Before me I have three older brothers - John, Mike and Kevin. Our parents’ hands were full and pockets nearly empty. My father’s life in public service, though rewarding in many ways, was not financial bliss for my parents and this made raising four children in the city difficult at times. I would never know this, because my parents never let it show. I had the best childhood and upbringing, and truly felt I had it all. I’d spend summer days running around the Statehouse, using the Great Hall of Flags as my personal playroom and forcing my dad to make “take-your-daughter-to-work” day a weekly event. Friday nights in the winter, my mom would take me and three of my best friends to the community swimming pool for free swim. She’d blow dry all of hair before we could leave the gym with it wet and brave the winter weather. Every Sunday, my parents, their siblings, and their best friends from the neighborhood would join together for Sunday dinner, a group that has come to be called the “Sunday Dinner Crew”. To this day, every Sunday, you can find anywhere from 12-40 members of the Sunday Dinner Crew gathered around my mom’s or aunt’s kitchen table or back deck discussing art, politics, sports, and life, delighted in grilling whoever the new boyfriend or girlfriend anyone was brave enough to bring around. The Sunday Dinner Crew is smart as hell, and funnier than anything.  My life was and is full with everything I could ever need. This brings me to kulima.

For my parents, keeping the schedules of four children with 10 years between the oldest and youngest requires a parental algorithm of planning, patience and pinot grigio. Combine that with a father who is required to be at late night community meetings, parades, block parties, groundbreakings, ribbon cuttings, AA meetings, budget hearings, state sessions and you’ve got a recipe for mayhem, mainly for my mom. I never knew if my dad would be making it to my basketball games or dance recitals or to my brothers little league games or high school football games. If he was coming, it’d often be to catch 5 minutes before he had to run off to something. At the age of around 10 years old, I’d find myself standing on the foul line at the community gym in West Roxbury, getting ready to take a foul shot. As I bent my knees, tucked my elbow in and gave the ball a few dribbles I’d hear a booming voice yelling “KUUUUULIIIIIMAAAA”. People in the crowd of parents would look over, perplexed. What could this six-foot-three, loud man be yelling at this little girl? But immediately, I’d smile. My dad had made it. I’d eventually go on to take that shot, and probably bank it right off the front of the rim. Despite my height, basketball wasn’t really my calling. But it didn’t matter, my dad was there. He’d toss me a Gatorade and spend the ride home from the game preaching to me the importance of following through on my shot while I rolled my eyes and smiled.

Kulima became a way of my dad communicating to my brothers and I, for moments big and small. Little league games, kulima. Dance recitals, kulima. Playoff games, kulima. Elementary school, highschool and college graduations, kulima kulima kulima. Knowing he had made it was one of the best feelings. For a man who gave so selflessly of himself to everyone around him, he was ours for those moments … and we really made them count. If you asked him what kulima meant, he’d look at you and with a dead serious face and say “Ehh, I can’t tell you. I’m taking it to the grave” and smile.

My dad was diagnosed with cancer in 2006. He beat one go of it after chemo and radiation treatment but after about 6 months in remission, it had come back and had spread beyond control. My dad passed away in September of 2007. I was 16 years old and a junior in high school. It is hard to comprehend all the ways I’ve needed him since my last day with him. I know he’d somehow have all the answers for me. One of the worst parts of that time for me, and still to this day, is thinking of all the things he’s going to miss. He wasn’t able to see me graduate high school or go off to prom. He’d never get to visit me at college in New York City, something I know he would’ve been so proud of. He hasn’t gotten to see all the adventures since then and all of the people who have come into my life. I know he would’ve loved to see all of his kids riding their bikes 192 miles in August heat across Massachusetts year after year in the Pan Mass Challenge –he’d think that was the coolest damn thing in the world. He’s missing out on my new sisters-in-law and my perfect nephews, his grandkids. If the day ever comes, he’s not going to be the one walking me down the aisle. These are the moments, when I so desperately want to close my eyes and hear him scream “Kulima” fearlessly at the top of his lungs in a crowded auditorium, or whisper it to me with assuredness as I’m jumping out of the passenger seat of his car, getting ready to face something I’m worried about. It can be overwhelming and sad to think about the moments I’ve so badly just wanted him to be there, so I’ve learned to pivot that emotion to gratefulness.

In the days and years since we lost my dad, in his place, has been my mom and three brothers. I remember graduating from high school about a year and half after he passed away. As I walked across the stage, I heard it. In unison, no doubt the result of a 3-2-1 countdown, a choir of “kulima!!” screamed from the back of the Pavilion, the loudest voice being my mother’s. In my dad’s place, my mom, the quiet and soft-spoken women, would unleash the scream, with tears rolling down her face. We’d all been through the worst year of our lives and there she was screaming to let me know that she was there, my brothers were there, and that even though he’s not around to shout it, that my dad was there. Ever since, she’s been there for me, screaming for the both of them.

After he passed away, in an attempt to try to comfort myself, I’d search for where the word came from. I’d Google, I’d comb through his never ending legal pads of yellow lined paper, his index cards, furiously scanning through  talking points for speeches he wrote but never used; I was searching for the words origin and searching for any way to feel close to him again. I’d never find the clue I was hoping for, and I think that’s okay, because it was never about the definition. It was always about our moments together. It didn’t matter if it was a championship game or just a kiss goodnight. Kulima: it’s a word that means nothing, but has come to mean everything to my family.

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