‘I wasn’t there to hold his hand’: Sacramento woman remembers life of father who died of COVID

Jamilia Land is one of thousands of Sacramento residents who has lost a loved one to COVID-19. This story was written from interviews conducted over several days, which have been edited for length and clarity.

I’m still in shock, and just disbelief.

I’ll be talking to my daughter, and every so often, I have a moment of like, damn, my daddy’s really dead.

On July 12th, I had a severe asthma attack, and when I was at the hospital that’s when they told me I had COVID. I got home the evening of the 15th, and at 3 in the morning I got a call from the nursing facility. A nurse said, “I just wanted to let you know your father has passed.” I was like, what? I didn’t understand. “Your daddy’s dead. He died.” I just remember dropping the phone. I think I was trying to scream but no sound would come out.

He spends his whole life keeping me safe, and I couldn’t help him. I’m angry. It’s indescribable watching a strong, resilient, brilliant man fight all his life, for it to come to something he didn’t know was there and couldn’t fight.

My father was born in 1936 in Texas, the oldest son. My grandpa was named William Land, so my daddy was Willie Elvin Land. His family moved to California when he was three, and they grew up in and around Oakland. They were the first Black family in Piedmont.

He started his boxing career in the 50s, under the name John Houston. He fought all over the world, in Africa and New Zealand and Ireland. He had 20 wins over his career, and 13 were knockouts. My friends and family say he was the Mike Tyson of his time, known for his “one hit quit” move. He didn’t believe in playing around — he fought to win.

He had friends from all walks of life. My father knew Dizzy Gillespie. Once, he brought Mohammed Ali to his parent’s house for dinner. He was a man before his time. He was articulate and brilliant. He was quiet, and when he spoke, it was to your advantage to listen.

He left behind all these phrases, they just won’t stop bugging me. “A man or woman convinced against their will remains of the same thought process still.” He’d tell me sometimes it’s better to be on an island by yourself than to stay with people doing wrong things. I didn’t know he was preparing me for a future he wouldn’t see.

He was doing restorative justice before there was a word for it. My father served at San Quentin prison after his boxing career ended, and after he got out he helped start an art gallery called Rogues’ Gallery in Berkeley, where he was also a student. He’d have men inside of San Quentin send artwork, and the only way he’d present the art at the show was if the incarcerated artist would agree to a deal: All proceeds from any sale would be split — a third to the victim of your crime, a third to your family members, and a third for you when you got out. He would tell me, “Jamilia, you don’t know what they’ve seen that shaped them to be who they are.”

He was so big on community. He owned a restaurant in West Oakland, right across the street from the last BART station before you head into SF. It was called My Favorite Things, after his favorite John Coltrane record. For people transitioning from prison, the first stop was at my father’s restaurant. They knew they could stop by to get food and clothes, or if they needed a place to lay their head.

In the mid-80s, developers came and bought the block, demolishing my father’s restaurant and other small Black-owned businesses. It was devastating for him. After that was when my father went into a retirement mode. I eventually moved to Sacramento with my ex-husband, and after some health problems, I brought my father here too. He lived here for 20 years.

I never saw my father weak until he died. That thing that looked like strength was pain manifested. His first child, my sister, she took her own life shortly after her 18th birthday. I was maybe two years old, I don’t have memories of my sister, but it changed my father forever. I remember how hard it was, watching my father, a void in his eyes, but still so much love for me. I’m not scared of much, even when I should be. Life was so hard for him. It consumed him.

Little things remind me of him. I didn’t even realize my father loved toast, that every meal he had to have toast. I was in my kitchen two weeks ago and my daughter wanted toast, and pulling the bread out of the toaster, it triggered me so much. I’m buttering it and my daughter asks me, “Why were you crying about toast?”

I don’t know if he died by himself or not. I wasn’t there to hold his hand, to tell him how much I love him. I wasn’t able to say goodbye. It robbed me. It robbed me. I’m so paranoid about my mother who’s also in a nursing facility. I’m so nervous I don’t even call as frequently as I should because I don’t want to hear if a caretaker has tested positive.

I couldn’t have a funeral for him, so we cremated him and now he is in a beautiful urn in my living room on my entertainment center. I look up there and sit and talk to him, and laugh and cry. I still have him with me, and that helps.

I want to blame someone. Why didn’t they call me? Why didn’t they tell me he was sick? If my daddy was alive, he would say I can’t be angry with them. What would my daddy do? I keep asking myself, “How would he move on? What would he say?”

I’m now in the middle of advocating for a historic piece of legislation, ACA 3, to remove involuntary servitude from our state constitution. My father talked about this all my life, the direct vestiges of slavery. This is my way of getting back up. This is me taking my father into the future with me and fighting for the people.

This story was originally published April 4, 2021 at 7:30 AM.