Post Ilustrado.
My parents were both too much.
Too young, too crazy, too high.
Too wrong to be together.
My dad left too fast. It was all fast with him, I don't think he had much choice.
1
My dad was the youngest out of 8. The 7th son. The last one. The one that shouldn't have. My dad was born the last one of a generation of baby boomers who were very well defined.
2.
My dad got cancer.
My dad had leukemia when he was a little kid and he didn't talk much about it. What I know I know from stories my uncles and aunt have told me, things he told my mother, and the first out of three times I saw him cry in my life. My dad was taken to LA to get chemo and radio and all that stuff when it was beginning in the 70s and was one of I believe five children that survived out of dozens.
He said he used to go monthly and play with toys that hadn't come out to the public yet, they had them in a big blue closet and he would play with different kids every month, kids he only ever saw once and never again.
3.
My dad grew up deeply influenced by his siblings. He used to love them so much, in such a special way. He talked about how big and good my tío Alberto was. He loved my tío Tomás' dedication to his work, his health and his fitness, he used to joke about getting so buffed probably radioactive mosquitoes had bitten his biceps. He had a great relationship with my tío José, he would listen, he would go to his house and sit by his kitchen island and pay attention. He liked my tío Paco a whole lot, he used to talk about his hippie brother who knew music and started speaking spanish funny when he moved to Milwaukee. He worked well with my tío Alfonso, he used to admire his dedication and how precise he could be, he talked about his trips and he listened, he used to say his brother was mexican Tom Cruise, but smarter. He liked my tío Noé, he used to tell me that he ran too far away from his pack, that he was very different but how much he owed him and how good he was to him, I will forever be greatful. Despite everything, I can hold no resentment for the help he have my dad. I think my tía Cata he loved best, though. He used to email his sister often. He used to tell me of how smart and bright she was, so independent, so self sufficient, so kind.
He grabbed a little something from each of them to form himself. A little musical taste, a little fight, a little interest, he wanted to be like them but he was too much himself.
4. My dad met my mom and it's exactly like that phrase, when an unstoppable force meets an unmovable object. They fought a lot. They were too wild. They wanted their way too much and there were too many drugs in the mix. I don't like to picture my parents together. I liked them better apart, I think. They hurt each other so much and I was too little to understand how it had to be. I remember crashing of plates. I remember the sudden moving outs. Multiple. I remember the yelling and the fighting. And yet, somehow, in that toxic relationship of them. My dad loved my mother so much. His last day alive I was so angry at her for not being there. For having taken off to the dunes with who knows who to do temazcales and drugs and stare at the fucking desert instead of taking care of my dying father like I was. And then, she showed up. And his eyes lit up. And he smiled so kindly. He loved her until his last moment and if that man could hold no resentments as he died, I guess I cannot either.
5. My father grew up in a family that hit.
All his siblings were feisty and violent. Loving martial arts, having Bruce Lee in an altar, so high in a pedestal of perfection. My grandparents hit them hard. My uncles raised my cousins with violence. I've been told countless times how they were all hit and beaten. With hands, with objects.
My father never hit me. My father had this stern look and raised his voice hard enough to scare me away from missbehaving. He never laid a finger on me that wasn't there to hug me. My father was completely oblivious to how to parent a little girl. He just winged it most of the time. He used to take me everywhere and tell me everything and hated lies so much. He didn't hide things, he was honest and good to me. I am aware, that he was not the same way to my mother, and I have created this images in my head that aren't all nice. I'm somewhat glad I never got to meet him in a bad light, though. Not with me. Not to me.
I never know how to finish my mental talks about and with my father. It's just like his life I guess. My thoughts tend to come fast and end too abruptly.
