On Gently Crashing My Father’s Memorial
I never expected to be invited to Roy Ayers’ memorial. But I also didn’t expect to find out about it through an Instagram post. So a few weeks ago, when a photo of my recently deceased father appeared in my feed, captioned with an announcement for a celebration of his life, I clicked the link instantly.
Hurry the fuck up. That’s all I could think. There was no time to dwell on how it might feel to show up uninvited—that would come later. First, I needed tickets for myself, my wife AJ, and two people I knew wouldn’t be invited either: Lauren, my newfound sister in London, and Chi’cas, the vocalist on “Everybody Loves the Sunshine,” who lives in North Carolina. I’d met both of them as a result of my book, and while I was still conflicted about attending the memorial, I knew it would be easier with Lauren and Chi’cas there with me.
I’ve never been part of “the family,” a phrase I’d hear endlessly at the event. While some of my paternal relatives have welcomed me, I’ve also heard whispers from others about my memoir, despite how carefully I tried to show my father as a radiant, generous, if flawed, person.
My plan was to blend into the crowd: the holder of a cold, digital ticket, with AJ, my mother and her husband beside me, and Lauren and Chi’cas—my protective crew of people who, like me, lived mostly outside Roy’s orbit.
Bright light cut through the tall windows of a modern church in midtown New York City. A few hundred people filled the pews—some in mourning black, others in vibrant prints and colors, celebrating Roy’s life. His music played gently under conversation, while a slideshow of photos flickered against a white wall. The eras of Roy’s life were marked most clearly by the length of his Afro.
I’ve learned it’s okay for speakers to speak casually and even crack jokes at memorials. But as one person after another recalled the Roy they knew—the perfectionist who encouraged his bandmates to trust their instruments, the chess player, the prankster—I sat in silence. Their laughter didn’t make me feel closer to him. It made me feel further away. What I couldn’t stop dreading was someone announcing to the room:
“Roy had another son. He’s sitting right there.” I imagined someone I didn’t know pointing at me as all heads turned toward me.
Or worse: a public rebuke. A suggestion that I was there to capitalize on Roy Ayers’ name.
Both of these scenarios felt terrifyingly possible, and that’s the kind of fear that keeps you small.
Between speeches, a live band played Roy’s music. When they began “Everybody Loves the Sunshine,” I smiled for the first time, and Chi’cas rose, almost involuntarily—as if compelled by the music—towering above the seated crowd. She didn’t sing the lead—the parts that are hers on the 1976 record—but she answered the band’s calls with soaring “Yeahs” and “Oohs” that felt essential, like they’d somehow been left on the cutting room floor.
At first, a few heads turned with suspicion. But as Chi’cas’ voice grew stronger, people started smiling. Most had no idea who she was. Maybe some guessed. But in that moment, she wasn’t just rejoining the song or reclaiming a piece of her past—she was reaching across the room and stitching all of us together: the fringe people, the ones who weren’t supposed to be there. The renegade mourners who hid in the middle rows. The party crashers who were secretly more connected than most people in the room.
Our crew didn’t come to be seen, to make a fuss, or even to be included. We came for each other—for the version of Roy we had known, and the versions of ourselves that had lived in his shadow. And as Chi’cas sang, for the first time that day, I felt clear on what we were doing there. Not crashing a memorial. Just showing up for each other.
All 20 episodes of my podcast, Identified Season 1 are live now. Episode one is with Karen Ayers, a living descendant of the man who enslaved my paternal ancestors. After that, it’s a rapidly growing list of musicians, comedians, authors, chefs and friends talking about family. Identified is available on all major podcast platforms, 100% free and ad free. You can watch short video clips on YouTube and Instagram. Watch for Season 2 in June!
Listen: Apple Spotify Amazon Bandcamp Website
My memoir is called My Life in the Sunshine. You can order it here, or listen to the audiobook on Spotify.
I hope to see you somewhere soon. Upcoming events are always listed here.
Nabil Ayers / Brooklyn
Stellar article Nabil ! So happy you found support that day , I can relate and appreciate how you must have been feeling then too , . Coming to terms with your loss of really not knowing the man … well it’s a lot ! Keep on moving forward .
See you at Indie Week :)