Yes, My dad passed yesterday. I tried to talk to him a couple of years ago but he wouldn’t talk. I made my peace with him. I told him that I loved him and that he would always be my dad and he said that I was his hija. We both cried but he didn’t want to talk and I know why. I will always love him. He was barely 16 when I was born, and was living with my mother and who was supposed to be my father, Shannon. He was just a kid, brought up from the border of Mexico. He had no father, and a mother that was to put it bluntly a mess. She was beautiful, arrogant, bitter and a bad mother. She was angry to be left pregnant with her 6th child in poverty. Her husband, who she was divorced from died and left her with nothing in the tailend of the depression. My father and his brother who were the older ones would go to their paternal grandmother’s and get food and they ran the streets. The younger ones were at home with their mother when she was there. Aunt MInnie mothered the younger ones. Their first language was Spanish, my father came up north to a new land where he was treated with hostility and fear. At that time there were very few Hispanics here. Shannon treated him as a son and my mother treated him, well she was pregnant for me with my 15-year-old father. I will put it that way. Shannon was in denial about it and loved my brother and I as his own. I felt a secret alliance with my father, because on some level I knew he was my dad. He was brutal and terrifying, but I loved him. I still love him and always will. I know on some level he loved me too, but his loyalty to my mother was stronger. She made him choose between her and I. When she died, I felt relief, she couldn’t hurt me anymore, at least not physically, but her hatred and rage affected our entire family. She influenced everyone around her, my kids her kids and my father. Rip in peace Poppy. I will always love you.
I don’t usually write this bluntly on facebook, but I feel the need to let people that love me and care about me know how deeply this has affected me, and as you know, I write, I write I write and I bleed out on paper.