I love
how my daughter lights up when she sees her father who she calls ‘papa’. Without trying to, I live vicariously through
her experiencing the happiness of having a father, one who is present, who
cares about every part of my soul, who loves me so deeply. I love that about him, he is such a wonderful
father and I have this comforting, happy feeling that if something were to ever
happen to me ending my share of raising her, I know he will take such good care
of her, I know he will do his best. I often
wonder what it feels like to say ‘daddy’ or ‘dad’ or my ‘father’ with full
meaning and love behind it, knowing he is there loving me unconditionally, who
will do anything for me. What does that
feel like? My daughter shows me every
day, through her eyes, her actions, and her radiance around him. I get excited through her when he comes home
from work, as we hear the truck pull up in the driveway, she perks up. Hearing the truck door slam closed, she
stands up and looks at me with eyes wide, she feels it must be papa. Hearing the door open on the porch and heavy
footsteps drawing near the front door, she runs to me with fear and excitement,
still unsure, it could be a stranger but thinks it could be papa. And once that door opens and she sees her
daddy she displays a fun little ‘happy’ dance and runs toward him. She is so in love with him and he is with
her. I love the feeling she shares with
me, I am so happy for her, I never want that feeling for her to end.
My
memories of my father sadly do not exist, only what I have been told about him
live hauntingly within and that time so long ago when he said goodbye. I wish I can remember more of him, the father
who showed me the true love he had for me through his tear filled eyes. A distant memory I cannot entirely recall
only haunts me with a confused fear of him.
We stayed with my great grandmother where he would come and go to see
us, to see my mom. I was told that he
would come to the house and physically and verbally abuse her; mom said it would
be in front of me, too. I do not
remember, but that may explain that confused fear I have of him that I can
barely recall now. My memory does not
show him, I only recall being so afraid of this person coming to the house that
I ran to my grandmother, who was sitting on the couch. I was so scared I pushed the couch slightly
away from the wall to get behind grandma as I cried with fear. What or who was I afraid of? Why was I so afraid? I may have seen him physically hurt mom, he
may have physically hurt me. I do not
remember at all; it is just a blur now.
Mom said that one time he locked me in the room with him as I was crying
for her, she was in the other room pleading and pounding on the door to come in,
to let her console me. I was very young at
the time, maybe 2 years old, maybe younger?
Mom wondered if I remembered that at all, I do not. She felt he may have hurt me in that room, I
was in there so long with him, crying and screaming the entire time. Was he just trying to anger her, provoke
her? So many unanswered questions, I
wish I can talk to him. Was he really a
horrible person? And if so, has he
changed for the better or is he that same person I was told about? Is he that same person who left me only with
confused memories and a sad farewell? I
miss this person I have no happy memories of, I miss my father.
According
to mom my father does not have a very impressive history from his early to mid
20’s, she has nothing good to say about him, for lack of better words, he was
simply a bad husband, a bad man. Rumors
of his brazen exploits while in Omaha gained him a family of enemies and apparently
that was the reason he fled the state, he needed to get away from those who
wanted him to answer for his bad behavior, my family closest to me included.
He was in the military for a short time and enjoyed the female
companionships outside the country as he traveled while married to my mother. The lack of love he showed for her did
nothing more than leave her bitter and hateful, his abuse both verbal and
physical left her emotionally scarred for life.
How can she have anything nice to say about him? There is nothing good to say from her
experiences with him, no fond memories, only a hate filled period in her life,
and most of mine. She stated the reason he
kept out of touch was to avoid paying child support which she tried hard to receive
throughout my youth into my 20’s. He
would never stay at one job too long because of it. If the time should come, I’d want to hear directly
from him, his life memories at that time, after all, there are 2 sides to every
story. I wonder if he could help me
understand what really happened and why, I am willing to listen with an open
heart and mind.
I was happy to hear some good stories of him, a glimpse of who he was so long ago. He was a resident of Boys Town originally coming from Corpus Christie, Texas. He would go down to the south Omaha neighborhood where my family would frequent; he met my mother and uncles there. He played guitar and along with my uncles, they would drive around south Omaha with their guitars looking for somewhere to play their music. They played all the time and loved it, rock-n-roll, Mexican, Polka, Mambo, Eric Clapton, Carlos Santana and more. My uncles recall only good, fun times with him, they speak of how much my father loved his music and they were surprised about the rumors that took him away. Their band already had a lead singer, but after numerous problems and unreliability, my father quickly replaced him. He was the only one who could speak fluent Spanish and he had a great voice. He was so into his music, he was a good musician, a good singer, the audience adored him, and people would just stand and watch him sing in enjoyment.
My
only vivid memory of him is when he said goodbye to me. I was 5 years old, maybe 6 and I remember the
hurt in his eyes as he explained that he was leaving. I never saw him again. That handsome young man in his late 20’s with
curly thick black hair, a full mustache, dark piercing eyes and well-dressed
physique kneeled down on one knee looking eye level at me with an obviously broken soul. He struggled to say the one heart-breaking
word to his only daughter, “goodbye.” Remembering
that day of separation is a yellow tinted color in my mind, a cloudy but
sun-filled day. He drove into the dirt
driveway of my grandmother’s home in a nice convertible car with an attractive
lady in the front seat and little boy in the back. They stayed in the car while he exited the
vehicle to walk toward me, the woman looking everywhere but at us and the boy
quietly sitting behaved, periodically glancing over. I wondered who that woman was, but more so
wondered about the boy in the back seat.
I’m curious to know if I have brothers and sisters on my father’s side
and wonder if they know of me or even care to.
His
goodbye at the time had no effect on me and his absence throughout my life only
angered me, filled me with hate and bitterness.
All my teenage years into adulthood I resented him deeply for not
reaching out to me or checking in on me.
I sadly thought that he just forgot about me with no looking back, I
still think that, now. My uncle asked me
one time if I had any interest in looking for my father, if I wanted to connect
with him at all. My reply was quick,
cold hearted and direct, an emphatic no – not at all. Why would I want to seek out someone who does
not want to be found?
It was
not until after the birth of my only child that I began to feel a necessary connection
with my father. My small attempts of
seeking him out always fill me with despair and hopelessness. If I do find him, I wonder if he even wants
to reconnect, maybe his life is filled with all he ever needs; I may only be a
distant memory of what was and will never be again. He may be long gone passed, a happy spirit
playing his guitar while looking over his loved ones, his other children and
grandchildren, maybe us, too. Should a
reunion ever come to be, I imagine and hope for forgiveness and understanding,
happy emotions and thankfully fulfilling that desperate need to make up for
lost time. Most importantly I hope for
that unique, special, unconditional love he can give his granddaughter and her
joy in reciprocating it. I will try to
find him or at least learn of him, for my curiosity and fulfillment and of
course for my daughter. The thought of her
not knowing about this mystery man whose blood runs in her veins saddens me. If I continue to do nothing about it then I
am to blame and I’ve had enough of that.
