Father's Day

The doors slide open and they walk in - a mother and her two little girls. The little ones, still pre-school age, are messy – frizzy blond curls, wrinkled dresses, sticky hands and smiles. All three sit in seats perpendicular to mine. They laugh, play and enjoy each other. At the next stop, the door connecting the linked cars opens and the girls squeal in excitement. It is Daddy. Their young faces reveal the joy and love that's only apparent when one is still innocent and trusting, before life has hardened one up and taught to conceal what one truly feels. He comes closer. "Daddy! Daddy!” they cry in unison. He sits next to me, the too familiar stench of alcohol rushes into my nostrils. They compete with each other for his attention. "Look at my earrings, Daddy!" "I have this much money left, look Daddy! I have 6 left!" Daddy smiles, an absent and slightly menacing look plastered on his face. "What's that on your ears?" His tone mean and aggressive, almost threatening. The older girl's smile drops, but she doesn’t untape her dangling paper earrings. His attention turns to the younger one, his eyes scrutinize her sticky fingers, her outstretched palms holding copper-colored coins. He looks at the mother, stating, "you spent it all at Starbucks." She laughs and says, "No." He keeps insisting. The older girl withdraws and moves closer to her mother. The little one looks at him adoringly; he is still her hero. His eyes are locked on the mother's, who smiles uncomfortably. The younger girl, sensing the sudden tension, automatically draws her thumb into her mouth for comfort. Daddy turns to her and slaps her hand out of her mouth - "We don't suck thumbs!" She whimpers, lightly, but doesn’t cry. At that moment, BART stops -- 24th Street, my station. I wonder how much time the girls have left before they realize their father, like mine, is nothing. I wonder when they will awaken from their fantasy.

Once upon a time, I was that little girl. In my eyes and in my heart, my dad could do no wrong – he was my everything. He was the first person I trusted completely, blindly, without a doubt. I thought he would always be there. Back then I could not imagine life without him. Now, I cannot imagine life with him. I don’t remember what the breaking point was. I don’t remember when I lost all faith in him. I don’t know if it was a series of events, or one particular incident. In retrospect, I think I chose to hide the truth from myself. I guess I did not want to face reality; I didn’t want to admit that my father was a coward, a liar, a selfish being. I knew why we had left our family home without him; I knew what he did to my mom; I knew why Mari and I had to walk to school past the train tracks at 6:30 am Monday through Friday; I knew why my mom had to work; I knew why my uncles and my grandfather would drop food off for us; I knew why he scared me at night. But in the day, in the sunshine, he was my Daddy.

I looked forward to the afternoons I would spend with him. Mari wouldn’t come. A lot of the times it was just Gugu and me. Other times it was just me. He would take us to a bar and we’d have banana splits; he’d just get hammered. I loved ice cream. I loved him. I didn’t even mind the music. It must have been 1989 or maybe 1990. “Ven Devorame Otra Vez” was at its peak. Lalo Rodriguez’ voice boomed throughout every jukebox in Masaya “…devorame otra vez, ven devorame otra ve / Ven castigame con tus deseos mas / Que el vigor lo guarde para ti / Ay ven devorame otra vez, ven devorame otra vez / Que la boca me sabe a tu cuerpo / Desesperan mis ganas por ti…” It’s my punishment song. I listen to it when I feel like crap and crap still isn’t enough. I put it on repeat and remember. I remember what he lost because he wasn’t a man. More importantly, I remember what I lost, what I allowed him to take from me – hope, faith, and innocence.

It’s a weird dichotomy, my feelings towards him. Part of me remains that little girl and loves him. Another part hates him. I want to protect him and slash his heart out. That’s why I hate Father’s Day. It’s selfish of me, but I don’t need another reminder of what I don’t have.

Back-track to Father’s Day 1991, Nuestra Senora del Pilar, third grade: My class was going to perform Roberto Carlos’ “Amigo” for our Father’s Day assembly. We rehearsed every day for weeks, Sor Carmen accompanying our childish voices with her guitar. I was ready to sing, I knew every word – I still do. But the day of the concert, I didn’t show up. It was a Saturday and I stayed home. I don’t know what happened, if my mom just couldn’t bring me to school or if I made the decision not to go. It was probably my decision; I probably wanted to punish him for not visiting me that week. I do remember feeling guilty, heartbroken, wondering if he showed up and I wasn’t there. I cried myself to sleep that night. Even now this song fills me with nostalgia and melancholy; it still makes me feel remorseful.

Fast-forward to March 2010: My friend and her dad share a birthday and often times celebrate it together. I guess it was a big one because they surprised her dad with a ten-piece mariachi band. She and her father waltzed around the room “…tu eres mi amigo del alma en toda jornada / Sonrisa y abrazo festivo a cada llegada / Me dices verdades tan grandes con frases abiertas / Tu eres realmente el mas cierto de horas inciertas…” It was “Amigo”, a haunting memory from my childhood. I stood there, wanting to disappear so no one would notice the tears that were starting to well up in my eyes. I was eight again.

I want to let go of the memories; I want to forget the past. I don’t want to hate my dad, but it’s also too late to build a relationship with him. Frankly, I don’t want one. There’s just so much I don’t understand. I don’t understand how the arms that hugged me could bruise, how the lips that kissed my cheeks could verbally assault, and how the dad that loved me, who was supposed to take care of me, could abandon me. I hope that the day I have a family of my own, my children have a good dad.

The BART doors close behind me. For their sake, I hope I’m wrong about those little girls and their dad. I hope I’m jumping into conclusions, assuming, projecting. I hope theirs is a good dad, who loves them, who’s there for them, who won’t abandon them.