Now We Can Begin

I’d only been in DC for five months, still learning the city, still feeling like a visitor in my own life. The Hilton ballroom was a place I’d only entered a handful of times, always when Pop was in town, always for one of his talks. I was a first-year law student at Georgetown, and every chance to see him felt like a lifeline.

That night, I drove over from campus, parked on the street, and hurried through the Hilton lobby. The ceiling seemed impossibly high, chandeliers casting a warm glow over the patterned carpet, people drifting toward the big double doors at the far end of the corridor.

Even before I reached the ballroom, I could hear his name floating through the air.

“Dr. Hilliard’s speaking tonight,” someone said near the elevators.

“He’s the reason I came.”

I nodded at a few familiar faces, but all I wanted was to get inside and see Pop. I was embarrassed I hadn’t made it earlier to meet him when he arrived at the hotel. I’d promised myself I’d do better this time, but here I was, running late again.

A woman stopped me as I tried to slip by.

“You MUST be related to Asa,” she said, her face lighting up. “You look just like him. He’s changed the way I teach; did you know that?”

I smiled. “Yes, he’s, my father.”

She beamed, and I thanked her, but I was already inching away, anxious to get to the ballroom.

By the time I got there, the place was packed, every seat filled, people standing along the back wall, scanning for a single empty chair. The room was huge, round tables pushed tight together, a low hum of conversation under the soft clink of glasses.

Five or six people sat on the dais at the front, a long table draped in white, a row of microphones gleaming under the stage lights. Pop had just been introduced and was stepping up to the podium as I slipped in.

I found a spot behind a couple of tall folks, just inside the doors, and tried to blend in. There was no way he’d see me from up there, not with all those people between us, not with all those doors in the back.

I was just another face in the crowd, or so I thought.

The crowd was buzzing.

“He’s always so precise, you know?” someone whispered.

“I hope he talks about Nile Valley civilization tonight.”

“He’s the reason I came.”

I felt a little pride, but mostly I just wanted to see him, to be seen by him.

Pop stood at the podium, his notes spread out, the room waiting for him to begin.

But instead of launching into his talk, he paused.

At first, I thought something was wrong.

He looked down at his notes, then back up at the crowd. He shifted the papers a little, like he was trying to find his place. I had seen him speak enough times to know his rhythm, and this was not it. Pop was always ready. Always clear. Always sure.

But now he seemed to be fumbling.

The room got quiet in that strange way a room gets quiet when people are trying not to notice something. I felt my own chest tighten. I wondered if he had lost his train of thought. I wondered if he was tired. I wondered if something had happened before I got there.

Then I saw him looking.

Not just looking out at the crowd.

Looking for someone.

And then I realized he was looking for me.

It was like a whole wave of energy went through my chest at once. I was like, wow. In this huge room, with all these people waiting, I’m the subject.

Pop didn’t seem to care at all that everybody was waiting for him to begin his talk.

“I’m sorry,” he said, scanning the room. “I apologize, but my son is in school here, and he was supposed to join me tonight.”

He paused, still looking.

“I just want to know if he’s out there.”

For a second, nobody moved.

Then his eyes found me.

“There he is!” he said, his whole face lighting up. “Now we can begin.”

It felt like every head in the room turned toward me at exactly the same moment.

I wanted to disappear.

Instead, I started walking down the aisle.

A woman I had never met stepped toward me with tears in her eyes and wrapped me in a hug like I was hers.

“I’m so glad you made it,” she said.

Not in a polite way. Not like small talk. She said it like she was relieved for him. Like she had felt his worry and was happy his heart could rest now.

That embarrassed me even more, but it also did something to me. Because the love had come through. Everybody in that room had heard it.

As I made my way down, Pop leaned into the mic with a sly smile and said, “He’s in his first year in law school here at Georgetown. So, sorry for the distraction, but I wanted those of you who live in the area to see him so you can recognize him and make sure he’s protected. I don’t mean to embarrass him, but I got four kids and a wife and I don’t want any of them to leave this world before me. It’s why I do what I do.”

The crowd laughed, and I felt every eye on me as I found a seat near the front. Pop waited until I was settled, then started his talk, his voice strong and sure, as if nothing unusual had happened.

What surprised me wasn’t that Pop was looking for me.

It was that he let everyone see him looking for me.

That wasn’t like him. He was always prepared. Always composed. Once he stepped to the podium, the audience had his full attention.

Until that night.

That night, none of it seemed to matter until he knew I was there.

Looking back, I realize that moment wasn’t unusual for him at all.

He had shown me more times than I can count, in big ways and small ones, that I was always bigger than what I thought were the big moments in his life. My brother and sisters would probably tell you the same thing. Somehow, he had a way of making each of us feel like we were the one he was looking for.

I happened to be the baby.

And maybe that’s why the memory has stayed with me the way it has.

I still don’t know that I can fully articulate what it meant to be loved by a father like that.

All I know is that, in a room full of hundreds of people waiting for the benefit of my father’s wisdom, his analysis, and the way he could make the issues of the day feel connected to something deeper, he wasn’t thinking about the audience.

He was thinking about his son.

Afterwards, as the crowd thinned out and the big room slowly emptied, I tried to slip away, still feeling the warmth in my cheeks.

But Pop caught me by the arm and pulled me into one of those big hugs of his.

“What’s up, mon?” he said, laughing in that funny way he had of saying man. “Sup, sup, Hawkaroo?”

I could not help but smile.

“You know I wasn’t going to let the night go by without making sure you were alright, right?” he said, his voice low, just for me.

“Pop, you didn’t have to do that,” I muttered, half embarrassed, half grateful. “All those people were waiting.”

He squeezed my shoulder, smiling.

“Let them wait. I’ve given a thousand talks in my life, but I only have one you. If you’re coming, I want to know you’re safe. That’s the rule.

”

I rolled my eyes, but he just laughed.

“You know you embarrassed me, right?” I said, trying to sound annoyed.

He grinned, “Good. Now you know how I feel every time you show up late to one of my talks. Besides, a little embarrassment is good for the soul. Just means you matter.”

We walked out together, the ballroom emptying behind us, chairs half turned, glasses still on tables, and for a moment, the world felt simple and safe.

Up in his room, Pop let me order everything from room service, like always. We stayed up late, talking and laughing, the city humming quietly below, headlights moving along Connecticut Avenue like a slow river of light.

By morning, he was gone. He’d caught his early flight back to Atlanta and to my mother, his first love. 

When I finally woke up, the room was quiet and empty. As I was gathering my things, I noticed a small piece of paper on the floor near the bed. It looked like trash at first, but when I picked it up, I saw a few words scribbled in Pop’s unmistakable handwriting.

Five or six words, barely legible, but definitely his.

I called him, catching him at the airport.

“Pop, I found this little scrap of paper on the floor in the room. It’s got your handwriting on it.”

He laughed, “That’s my speech, Hawk. You found it! I’ve been doing this a long time. All I need is two or three words to prompt me. So I’m glad you found my speech. Because I may give it again.”

I shook my head, smiling. “Only you, Pop.”

He laughed through the phone in a way that I knew he was smiling.

“That’s right. Only me. I’ll see you soon, Hawk.”

That night, I thought I was late to one of my father’s talks. Years later, I understand that I had walked into one of his lessons.

Not the lecture he gave after he found me.

Not the words on that little scrap of paper.

The lesson was the pause.

It was the searching.

It was the way he stood in front of a room full of people and could not begin until he knew his child was safe

I have gone back to that night more times than I can count, and every time I return, I see something I missed before. Maybe that is what the wisdom of the heart is. It keeps teaching you the same truth again and again, until one day you understand that what looked like an interruption was the message all along.