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My father was my teacher. But most importantly he was a great dad.

My dad was a great dad.

Dad was an amazing storyteller and illustrator, which he did in his spare time - very inspiring and dramatic.

My father was a writer and an acting teacher.

My father also happened to be an intellectual, as learned, literate, informed, and curious as anyone I have known. Unobtrusively and casually, he was my wise and gentle teacher.

I was lucky to have a great dad.

My father always taught by telling stories about his experiences. His lessons were about morality and art and what insects and birds and human beings had in common. He told me what it meant to be a man and to be a Black man. He taught me about love and responsibility, about beauty, and how to make gumbo.

I wanted to be a story teller so badly.

My father, if anything, first and last, was a man of words. He loved stories; he didn't live for stories, exactly, but I think he lived through stories. I think, like many writers, he loved stories about things he had experienced as much as, if not more than, he loved the experiences themselves.

My father was the king of the joke-tellers. I was so impressed as a child watching him, holding people in rapt attention.