I spent Mother’s Day in Orvieto, Italy with my daughter. We made some phone calls to the grandmothers from both sides, had lunch together, and ate gelato. My annual cards had been sent early to my friends and family. My annual Father’s Day cards however, are another story.
I came back from our study abroad trip and started working on the cards right away. But, because I could not find the right combination of on-time delivery, cost, and quality, it took longer than anticipated. The cards arrived late this last week.
Since I just had a medical procedure I can’t address the envelopes by hand for the time being. I will need to set up the addresses to print them and that also takes time. All of this to say my friends, that the image above is my card and I wish you a fabulous Father’s Day even though my wishes are not sent to you in my usual card. When and if I get around to send them, the cards will be late… very late. Or maybe I will keep them for next year? Nonetheless, spend the day well my friends.
On that note, I would like to share with you the handful of photos I have of my Dad and some memories.
Born out of wedlock and poverty, my Dad confronted a lot of shame and humiliation throughout his life. His mother would sew for some money to give him a quarter per week. His shoes had holes that he covered with cardboard. It is said that his mother was a very beautiful woman with long blonde hair and blue eyes. She was nicknamed “la nena” or “the little girl”. His dad was indigenous looking. He had jet black hair and smooth dark skin. In fact, one of my cousins is almost the spitting image of my grandfather.
The surname Castillo, was officially given to him at 18 years old. He was a first generation college student. He loved and cared for his father but his love for his mother was something else. It was in fact, a strong bond. Yes, you can imagine and you would be correct, that it brought tension to his marriages. Nonetheless, he talked about his mother very frequently and with deep fondness.
In spite of, or maybe because of it, having a difficult and challenging upbringing, my Dad’s drive was unparalleled. I have met many people in my life but I can’t say I have met someone with my Dad’s drive. He sacrificed much in order to become someone of respect in the same town that shunned him growing up. One could say that his drive and sacrifices blinded him to other aspects in his life.
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Our relationship went through ups and downs but we always managed to be connected. We had conversations and discussions (not the type where people yell at each other, though we did a few times), about almost everything. From big news items such as the 1981 student strike at my university to the OJ Simpson’s trial, we covered many topics.
He taught me to take a stand no matter the cost but when he was the object of it, he felt challenged. It left him puzzled and unsure of what to do with me. More than once he gave me serious ultimatums to which I refused to comply out of principle. However; it was precisely that which gave our relationship a good foundation to become good friends who respected each other. Though he never said he was sorry about something, he would show contrition in other ways which were as clear as the words. He also never said to me directly that he loved me. And at one time there were some words that left me in a dire emotional state. Yet, to this day, I have zero doubt that he loved and admired me.
He was always reading a book or two between his long days and nights of work. A good movie was always cherished. Once he made it financially, he would splurge by buying new cars, often to my embarrassment. I would beg him not to pick me up in any of his fancy cars. Those pleadings went unheard.
He was a ladies’ man. By the time of his death, there had been about seven women I knew about who had either married him, lived with him, or dated him. This number includes my mother and my English school teacher. Those are the ones I know about. Of those, there were about four or five at his funeral. He always thought that all women were beautiful. He admired strong women and talked with admiration of those he considered stellar.
It would be easy to reduce his greatness to today’s societal standards. However, nothing could be further from the truth. See, he wanted me to succeed and succeed big. So much that sometimes it felt like a weight on me. For someone who was deprived of much, any deviation from what he expected, would be considered less than optimal. We saw things differently and yet there is much in which we are alike. Our relationship taught him to give me space to be myself.
You might be wondering how would a strong personality like my Dad, was able to give me rope? I was never afraid to walk away from the benefits of being his daughter. He knew that. I knew that I would walk away if I needed to even if it had broken me.
Before he died, we would talk very frequently on the phone. He would even ask me for relationship advice. We laughed and joked around so much. One of our last calls, he surprised me with two things: he asked me what was my graduate thesis about and he paid three months of my car payment. I had lost my car in an accident. His asking about my thesis work left me in disbelief. I asked, are you sure you want to know? He said yes. So, I explained to a business man my conceptual ideas about typography, dance, grids, and space. I am not sure he got it. But I am sure he was proud.
November 2000 was the last time I saw my father while alive. I went home so he could meet Tyson. We were going to get married the next March 2001. Somewhere there is a picture of my Dad and I but I could not find it. He was still with his partner of 10 years, who disregarding the age difference between them, really loved him.
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He knew I was pregnant with my first child before he died. But he did not know the names we had picked if the baby was a boy or a girl. And the thing is that he would have enjoyed my kids so much.
This summer marks 22 years since his sudden death. It was then when I realized just how much he had really accomplished.
Definitions of what is a good father abound as much as definitions of what is to be a good person. My Dad was a complex mixture of both. Many people filled the gaps my Dad would leave and each one of them have my gratitude and love. As one grows older things that were in the dark become clearer. Thankfully, my Dad and I had time to create a relationship that I can look back to smile, laugh, and shake my head about without guilt.
It goes without saying but if your Dad is still around, a short call even to talk about the weather, does much in the long run. But, to those who have had to make the hard choice of walking away, I see you. I know.
Much love,
Alma