Most peoples memories come in two flavors, bitter and sweet. But when it comes to my dad the flavors only seem to be bitter. Theres no sweet, no tender, no loving. When i think of him, theres only his snoring, boxers and beer, lots of beer. My first memory of him involved all three, i remember him stumbling into our little one bedroom apartment in Whittier California, I remember holding on to the edge of my crib watching him walk through the front door holding onto the walls to keep him balanced. I watched him slide out of his clothes just down to his boxers and socks and try to slip into bed without waking my mom. I remember having to ask myself who that guy was and wondering why he couldnt walk straight. Because even at that point in my life I didnt know who he was exactly and i still dont. I remember looking at his drunken face sprawled onto the bed, snoring like hed never slept in his life and thinking to myself, that sucks.. thats my dad. Those same snores seem to be the sound track of my memories with him. While there is photographic proof that he was involved in my life, the memories seemed to have escaped me. As i got older, the snores became awkward silences. Because he didnt know how to talk with me, we would just listen to music and cruise down Whittier Blvd. or Cesar Chavez Ave. I remember sitting in the passenger seat watching him play the air drums to Nirvana while flying through traffic, weaving in and out of cars, floating through lanes like it was nothing. I remember trusting him but not knowing where this sudden trust came from. Then i remember sirens wailing behind us. I soon came to learn that daddy was a frequent flyer when in came to jail cells and the reason why they didnt take him away right then and there was because I was standing right next to him, bright eyed and smiling. Instead they drove off with his car and left us on the corner with all our belongings. I never really thought much of it, until the time we were out for ice cream and I asked him what the scariest thing was hed ever done. He went on to recount me about the time his friends had killed somebody and came running to him to hide the evidence. He told me how they came banging on his door in the middle of the night begging him for help. How he looked back into the room where my pregnant mom was laying thinking he was protecting her as he went outside to help them. I remember cringing in my seat, hating him for leaving her that night while being proud of him at the same time. He continued about how as soon as he stepped out of his house they handed him a gun and ran off. He stood there outside his front door with a bloody gun in his hands listening to the sirens get closer. He started talking car talk while explaining how he hid the gun underneath some part of the engine of his car and then walked back inside, washed his hands, and waited for the cops to come knocking. The whole time while he was talking I could only picture my mom, my 16 year old mom sound asleep carrying his child. When the cops came they searched him, his house, and his car and found nothing. He said the scariest thing hed ever done was stand there while they searched relentlessly knowing exactly what it was they were looking for and knowing it was there. And to think, I thought he was going to say the scariest thing hed ever done was become a father or the first time he held me. I brushed back my thoughts and went on with my questions. I asked him about the scar on his ankle and he cracked up. In between his laughs he told me that nobody had ever asked him about that one. Mind you, hes covered in tattoos of naked women, skulls, marijuana leaves and flames. I didnt care much for his tattoos except for the little one over his heart that contained my name written in cursive, that one I loved. I guess you could say I was observant, I just remember always paying really close attention to him because I didnt know much about him. Later I would realize that I wasnt much more than that tattoo across his heart, something permanent yet forgettable. He said the story about the scar was really long but that him and his friends had done something that led them to getting chased by the cops while they shot aimlessly at them. He said We all took some bullets that night, they only got me on my ankles because I was running so fast, but dont worry baby they didnt stop me. I remember wishing the cops had stopped him, shot him just a couple inches higher, maybe then he would have learned to stayed home, maybe then he would have been a dad instead of just this story to tell. It wasnt until after his stories until I put the pieces together. I understood why my mom left him, why there was no love between them and I never once questioned it. I know how I felt as a little girl waiting for her dad to come home or to even answer my calls, heartbroken over and over again. After a while I stopped expecting him to do anymore than nothing. When quality time turned into drug sales out of his trunk, while I sat in the passenger seat watching him sell my respect for him out of the side view mirrors and bonding became sticky interactions with cops. Thats when I stopped calling him dad and started using his first name instead. He did try but not enough for the title of Dad.
Posted on: Sun, 01 Jun 2014 11:49:14 +0000
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