As I write this, it’s the day before Father’s Day. I’ve been thinking a lot about my dad—not just because of the holiday, but because, without him, I wouldn’t be playing guitar at all.

He didn’t play guitar. He played violin as a kid—first chair, actually—but had to give it up when he accidentally broke it. His family didn’t have the money to replace it, and his musical journey ended there.

Years later, when I started playing guitar, he’d always remind me: “Don’t leave your guitar on the bed. You don’t want to make the same mistake I did.”

It wasn’t just a warning. It was a subtle reminder of something that had been taken from him—and something he didn’t want taken from me.

A Quiet Musical Legacy

My dad wasn’t a working musician, and no one outside of his close family even knew he used to play. He worked the night shift stocking shelves in a grocery store for most of his adult life. But he never lost his love for music. In the early days of Napster and LimeWire, he would burn CDs. He’d spend his weekends building mix albums—Led Zeppelin, Guns N’ Roses, Prince, Living Colour, The Strokes, Black Sabbath. No rap, no pop, no R&B. Just guitar-driven music.

That was what we listened to on our Saturday night grocery runs. And looking back, I realize now those car rides were my first music lessons. He’d break down arrangements, explain how the drums were mixed, where the guitar line sat, or why a certain vocal part hit differently. At the time, I just thought it was cool. I didn’t know that this was teaching.

And maybe he didn’t either. But it was.

The Difference Between Talent and Support

When I finally asked for a guitar, he bought me one. Esteban, straight off the infomercial. I couldn’t play it. I had no natural ability. But I kept trying.

Eventually, after months of frustration, he signed me up for lessons—despite the fact that he was going through a divorce and money was tight. Later, he sent me to the Harlem School of the Arts. Two schools. Two tuitions. All while he was working night shifts and sharing an apartment with a roommate in his 40s.

And he never made a big deal about it.

He just wanted me to have a chance.

What I Didn’t Know at the Time

Here’s the part I didn’t understand until years later:

He wasn’t just supporting my hobby. He was investing in something that he knew he couldn’t give himself when he was younger. And maybe, in some small way, giving me that opportunity helped heal something in him too.

He wasn’t trying to turn me into a star or force a dream on me. He just wanted to give me the freedom to explore something meaningful—something that could shape me into the kind of person who sees the world with curiosity and depth.

And that’s exactly what happened.

What Guitar Really Taught Me

Over the past twenty years, guitar has been a constant presence in my life. It’s been joyful, frustrating, emotional, healing, maddening, illuminating—and above all, it’s been honest.

I’ve had moments of loving it so much I forgot to eat.

And I’ve had months where I didn’t want to pick it up at all.

But through that process—of sticking with something, of coming back again and again—I learned lessons I couldn’t have found any other way.

Lessons about commitment. About identity. About passion. About effort and boredom and discipline and ego.

Lessons that, quite frankly, have shaped every part of my life.

The Mistake My Dad Didn’t Want Me to Repeat

My father was brilliant. Everyone who knew him said so. He eventually went back to school, got his degree, even finished a master’s. But life didn’t give him much time to use it. He died suddenly, just as I was getting ready to go to college.

He was in his mid 40s.

And when we cleaned out his apartment, there wasn’t much there. A couple hundred dollars in the bank. Some notes. A used bookshelf. A few burned CDs.

But there was a legacy. And I carry it with me every time I teach, every time I pick up the guitar, and every time I help someone else find their voice through music.

What he gave me—without realizing it—was the understanding that you don’t always get second chances.

And that if you love something, you don’t wait for permission. You commit. You learn. You share it.

You see it through.

Why This Matters To You

If you’ve been playing guitar for a while, you probably already know: this is more than just a hobby.

It’s something that teaches you how to be patient. How to be persistent. How to deal with emotions you don’t fully understand. And how to be honest with yourself when things don’t come easily.

And if you’re a parent—or planning to be one—sharing music with your kids isn’t about raising prodigies. It’s about giving them a tool for life. Something to help them understand themselves. Something to return to when they’re lost. Something to grow alongside.

Because music is one of the few things in life that gives back exactly what you put in.

Final Thoughts

I’m not writing this to get sentimental. I’m writing it because I think it’s important.

If you’ve got a relationship with your dad, and it’s a good one, maybe give him a call this week. If you’ve got kids, talk to them about what you love. Show them your passion. They’re watching more closely than you think.

And if you’re lucky enough to have music in your life, don’t take it for granted.

It’s more than a pastime.

It’s a mirror, a teacher, a compass—and if you let it—it might become one of the most important relationships you ever have.

Talk soon,
—Andre
Life Long Guitarist