January 31, 2005

my father, the year I was born

I put on a blue pin-striped shirt this morning and my eyes were clear and bright in the reflection of the mirror. I shaved my head this weekend and I have not shaved my face in many days. I look almost bearish. As I tied my tie I stared at my reflection and thought about just how much I look like my father.

My father was born on January 31st, 1955 in Baltimore. He never knew his father. He was raised by his mother's new husband and had three brothers. My father always had animosity towards his stepfather. He once told me that he was often made to eat at a different table and ostracized from the family growing up. My grandmother later denied this, but for some reason I believed my father. And I never, ever believed my father.

My mother is my best friend. She was always my rock and guiding force. My dad was a nuisance and a drug addict and a liar and an abuser. I find it really odd that although I despised him for a very long part of my life, I still hold many positive and fun memories of him. Things were not always bad.

That is my problem though. I have always held onto the bad longer than the good. When he died, however, that all changed. I started appreciating the good more and forgiving and forgetting the past.

I looked at my calendar and noticed the date. January 31st, 2005. Damn. Wake up call.

My dad would rise early on Sundays and sing loudly throughout the house. I always said I hated it, but deep down I loved it. He wanted me up. He had made breakfast. He would sing "time to get up, time to get up in the morning" and I would cringe. Later in life I would sing the same stupid song to my lovers still lying in our warm bed.

Christmas too was a wonderful time. It was a classic abuser's way of making good for all the bad: showering gifts during holiday time and my dad was a pro. Christmas was a day long event filled with toys and food and more toys and more food. I always got what I wanted for Christmas. Christmas has not been the same. My mother just is not the lovey, celebratory type. She has tried to get better, but Christmas was always my dad's holiday and she knows it. I miss him most during December.

My Dad was a kidder too. I have some Smiths cds that feature Richard Davalos from the film East of Eden. My father took a pen and wrote my name on the actor's forehead. He would tease me about my musical choices, but in private would discuss his fondness for Madonna and Bjork. He got me into David Bowie and Elton John.

A couple months before he died I broke down. I cried and let everything out. He cried too. I was sitting in the backseat and he was in the passenger seat and my mother, who was driving, ran back into the house. We were probably driving to the hospital. As soon as she left the car I started crying and asked him if he was scared. He admitted he was and said he would be ok. He told me to always be myself and to take care of my mother. I promised.

My father would have turned fifty today. I am remembering nothing but the good things. And you know what? That is not too hard.

I took care of my mother that year and I never lost sight of being honest and being myself. It is a promise I continue to honor.