The Good Man.

I have been told that losing a parent is one of the most painful losses, second only to that of losing a child.  Of course this would depend on what type of parent you had (or child for that matter).  Having no children at that point - and my dad being the parent and man that he was - I found it hard to imagine anything being more painful.  The first few times people asked what “kind” of father my dad was (or some variation thereof), I skipped all over the place conversationally trying to give a short description to his “larger than life” frame.  Like trying to pitch the sale of an elephant to a room; if that room was an elevator.  I was an eleven second ‘hype woman’ hitting the highlight reel of his life, hoping to sell everyone on his importance not just in my life, but on this earth. 

This, ultimately, ended up too long winded and still not doing him justice, I felt.  I needed to write about the dissonance until it followed some form of logic again.   In doing so I quickly learned that no amount of rehearsing my response made it any more succinct or powerful in truth and sentiment.   So, I found that I now need to strip it’s significance of mere anecdotes and skip the usual character resume descriptions such as: “adept”, “humorous”, “loyal”, and I simply say: “He was a ‘good man’.” 

A “goodman”  has pretty much been my reply since the day of his death, and those who know ‘good people‘ and their loss, look deeply saddened and sometimes nod their head with a deep swallow, or offer another apology for my loss.  I told one woman who had never met my father, and who I barely knew; that my father was a “good man”. She gulped hard and tears came to her eyes. 

I was so confused and suddenly so uncomfortable that I did not know whether to give her a hug or run from the room.  Of course she was probably thinking of the “good” person in her own life that had passed - but in that moment I could not for the life of me figure out why a stranger would be so affected by the death of the father of someone she scarcely knew, and a man she knew not at all.  It is apparent now, just how disassociated my emotional state was.

‘Daddykins’,  which had been my nickname for my father (and always sarcastically), for all his idiosyncrasies, was indeed a ‘good man‘.  It is really hard to rebuild a man like my father with mere words and I will already admit defeat even as I attempt to do so.  To rebuild my father, you really need all your senses.  You need to hear him playing the bass guitar at 3am or yelling “Who ate my bacon/ice cream/ chicken/ Chinese food/cereal,” etc.  You would need to smell and taste his homemade bread, his candied apples, his fruit roll-ups , feel the smooth wood of one of his handmade toys in your hand or see his “Williams feet'' - ghastly ashy gray planks of mostly dead skin with toenails that are fused to the nail bed and ended in jagged claw like hooks at the ends that crooked sideways like talons.  Dad was not a vain man.  Mostly, it was the look of pride on his face that should be observed while watching his kids participate in sporting matches, dance recitals, spelling bees, or packing for college.  It was the biggest tell and defining characteristic of my father.  He loved and lived for his children.    

 Dad was the disciplinarian and the final “yes” or “no”  for all sentences beginning with “May I…?” When he said “no'' It did no good to come to him with a “but Mom said “yes”,  because a “no” from Dad meant a “no” to you and “no” to Mom’s “yes”. Such was the nature of my parent’s relationship. Dad could and often would veto whatever decision Mom had previously made, for our lives and even for her own.  I learned  by the mistakes of my siblings, “The Others”, that no amount of crying, fighting, shouting, manipulating or even good old fashioned lying- would get him to permit any of  his kids to join in the usual teenage shenanigans and revelry.  Of course I had those moments of trying to reinvent the wheel and I would try my own hand at a clever “May I…”.  This was followed by some elaborate reason why it was essential and of the utmost importance to me -  or worse; school related.  All were futile attempts which severely arrested my development (and in some ways still does).  If Pathos, Logos and Ethos are in harmony, what is left?  The naked desire for chaos?!?   But my parents were a whirling dervish of contradictions.  Our house, a castle of chaos, a cacophony of sound, and a perpetually pending “catastrophe zone”.

 It was a ‘necessary truth’ in those agonizing days of adolescent angst, that binge eating and gossiping about boys and the bitches in our class at a sleepover with my best friends was somehow going to change my life or make me a better student. To this, Dad would simply say: “No” with zero hesitation.

I would stammer  “but…but why not?“ to which he would reply “Sometimes you have to deny yourself things you want for the sake of discipline and self control”.  Cruel to be kind.  He would tell us that instead of asking for “things”, we should go to God and ask for wisdom, that way we could discern which things were absolutely necessary and in our best interest, and sell the rest.   Dad was nothing if not a wise man.  

Our home; being the “habitat” that “humanity” brought us, like a Santa scam, was my first clue as to the backhanded generosity of white oppression.  Tiny and already well worn, the “hand me down” house on Gemena Rd was built in the fifties lived in by an elderly couple until death in a way that I romanticized as being both simultaneous and timely - most assuredly in that house.  With nine people living in a three bedroom house, not even a seasoned real estate agent could get away with calling it or the situation “cozy”.  There was no true privacy that was devoid of another’s presence, either a person occupied the space, or the telltale signs and haunting traces of a person was ever present to remind you that you are not alone and that they may return at any minute to reclaim forgotten items; causing an undercurrent of anxiety at a peace potentially disrupted.

The bathroom was the only place for any respected “privacy”, and even that was not always guaranteed.  I made it my sanctuary from “The Others” and I would bring my book, pull my pants down and sit on the toilet for hours simply reading.  Even though I did not actually have to use the bathroom, it seemed so much more comfortable and ‘correct’ to sit on the toilet bare bottomed.  It might also have had something to do with the fact that, while the door locked; if I was taking up too much time there was the threat that the lock would be picked with a butter knife, and that one of "The Others"’ would come and harass me.  It was just better to give it the appearance of authenticity. 

After the initial hijackings, I took to taking exceptionally long baths.  That way, if anyone had to use the bathroom, I would simply close the curtain thereby blocking any view of the “toilet-er”.  They could do their business and I could still have my quiet - though now malodorous - “me time”  time.  

People say ‘Necessity is the mother of Invention’.  If that is the case, then Poverty is the mother of Ingenuity.  Dad was one ingenious motherfucker.  Hobbies, being the luxury of the well off -and us being poor- meant that any extracurricular pursuits needed to be an “investment”.  Dad had a plethora of  “interests” that he crammed into the “investment” category; many of which contributed supplementally to our household income. 

Whenever people asked what he did, I used to say that he was, “a jack-ass of all trades, but master of none”.  I know that does not sound flattering or particularly respectful, but I thought it was funny at the time.  While it lacks some of the humor it once held now that he is deceased, it was still true- minus the “ass” part.   And although he spent 20 years as a police officer, it  was those other pursuits that he cared to be known and defined by.  The quarter acre of land behind our house held a garden, an almost requisite automobile and lawnmower graveyard befitting the poor folks that we were; and Dad’s workshop. 

We were industrious in those days, harvesting what food we needed and taking the rest to the local Farmer’s Market on Saturday mornings along with his fresh baked bread, candied apples, mom‘s cinnamon rolls and countless other delicious delectables to sell.  This, of course was before Farmer’s Markets became a trendy scene of gluten free, dairy free, fun free baked goods purchased by trendy moms in yoga gear and sporting organically grown children in baby bjorns.  Dad would shake me and "The Others"' awake at 4 or 5 AM-though he had been up all night baking.  We would slug out to the garden with flashlights to harvest the fruit and vegetables and clean and pack them to sell at the market. 

Dad was serious about his garden.  He had two green thumbs and green fingers and toes as well.  He had various subscriptions to gardening magazines which would pile up around the house along with little brown envelopes of seeds that he sent away for in the mail.  There would occasionally be a package of young plants that needed to be kept refrigerated or planted immediately, and I would notice that on those days, dad was a bit giddy and would root himself in the living room by the window to watch television or read his bible instead of in his own room as was usual.  He would glance every so often in anticipation of the fecal brown UPS delivery truck, excited to introduce with his own two hands those new saplings to their new home.  The amount of care he took when handling and re-homing those fragile sprouts made it obvious that his pride as a caretaker extended far beyond his role as head of just our household, he was head of his entire domain, and took that responsibility to the streets of our town working to clean them up and nurture those downtrodden and in need of a certain nurishment there too.  

Up until Dad entered the hospital, whenever I called home, Dad and I would invariably talk at great length about his garden.  What was planted, what was doing well, what did not make it through the l frost, “the squash was how big?!”, and so on.  We used to talk about my many travels - where I had just been, where I was presently and where I was planning to travel to in the future- since traveling for me is always an inevitability.  These conversations usually ended in heated debate as Dad would ask me “Have you been reading your bible?” and I would skirt around the fact that I had not been, by mumbling something about communicating directly with God through nature and meditation.  

Dad would never criticize the way that I or "The Others"’ lived our lives, nor did he have suggestions or opinions.  His way of questioning our decisions and expressing his concern for any questionable life choices was to ask “Have you been reading your bible?”. 

He firmly believed that a close relationship with God would take care of any poor choices our free will was subject to making. He would press the importance of reading ‘the word’, and I would take a quick exit and tell him that I had to go and would call back later.  And I would call back later…only months later.  The garden was our “weather” and was a safe un-contentious topic.  It is nearly impossible to get incensed discussing snap peas and strawberries; although there would be the odd occasion where he would slip “have you been reading your bible” in the middle of discussing that the deer had been eating his broccoli.  At these times, our interpersonal weather would become inclement and I would need to seek shelter in another topic, or the usual “I have to go, I will call you back later”.

Say what you will about Christianity, but it has its purpose, and the good and charitable work done by countless Christian organizations cannot be shadowed by socio-political terrorism and tyranny under the guise of pious religiosity - a tool of monopolization - Marx’s opiate of the masses.  Dad’s dad, my grandfather, was a minister and was one of the coolest elders I had ever met.  Although there were rumors of him whoring with Martin Luther King, my grandfather was another “good man” and my father was passed that goodness as a divine right.  I am not delusional.  Dad was not infallible, but his house served the lord, he never touched alcohol, tobacco nor any of us in malice or perversion (although a time or two in misguidance or misunderstanding).  He was “a good man”, he simply was.  

Every Sunday he would write a check for up to a couple hundred dollars and would fold it and hand it to one of us to put in the offering plate.  If he handed it to me early enough in the service, I would slip it into my pocket, or into my socks if my dress was without pockets.  I would excuse myself during the singing of a hymnal and go to my “sanctuary” and pull down my pants, unfold the check and inspect it carefully in the cold restroom in the back of the church.  I would do the numbers in my head for how much Dad gave in one month, one year, etc and a few times, I managed to almost fool myself into believing we were not quite as poor as we really were.  Giving to the church was just another of Dad’s way of being a good Christian, and for thanking the church members for the countless pies, soups, and casseroles that showed up at our house on a weekly basis.  

It was a never ending cycle of gratitude wherein the church honored my father for dragging all of his children to the Sunday ensuring that we would one day be “good” Christians as well.  I am not sure how much of “the word” would seep into my naps in the pew disrupted by Dad pinching the fat on the back of my arm, but simply being present was enough for children at that age.  The church would then reward this devotion by helping feed all the mouths, to which Dad would repay with his folded origami checks on Sunday.  As proud as my Dad was, his giving to the church was not an act of pride or ego.  He was pure in his love for the Lord.

When he was in the police service, the trunk of his squad car would be filled with bibles so that he could bear “witness” to thieves, domestic abusers and prostitutes on the ride back to the station to get booked.  I imagine my dad reading out scripture in the same voice as he read criminals their Miranda Rights.  Holding true to the transitive property, the criminals, being sinners deserved the reading of the rights to sound the same as the reading of scriptures of repentance.  It was apart of "due process". Besides, I believed he saw the criminals as an extension of his family and relationship with Christ. They were prodigal sheep needing help finding their way back to the flock, and he was tasked to shepard them back. It was duty.

I am saddened that I have failed him. Had he lived this long, I would be a source of great sadness. A lamb lost. I am a Christian in theory (if that is even a thing), but do not practice it unless during times of crisis - in which I am a devout omnist and make appeals to the high counsel encompassing all the ancestors and ascended masters, Jesus Christ included.  Even so, I think there is something wonderfully pure and admirable about my father’s total prostration to the will of the Lord.  I believe it was alienating for him and lonely living in a book of translated texts filled with proverbs and stories that read as myth.  Dad never cared, and his tattered bible which had as much of his scribble in it as it did type, went everywhere with him.  It is the memory of his faith that inspires me to not only find the "Good Man" for my life, but to be the "Good (Wo)Man" in the lives of my son and others as well. #nofilter