It's an early Saturday morning and yesterday was the rehearsal of our son's wedding, taking place tomorrow afternoon in the middle of the first fairway at a golf club in south Phoenix. Travis is the last of three children to break out and start the age-old trek of germinating a family. His fiance, Tara, is a wonderful girl and the two appear in love and devoted to the common goal of the rest of their lives together. So I sit here, quietly reflecting, as not enough fathers do, on what I did or didn't do to facilitate this end.
I was watching a video this past week with my students on teen violence. Part of it was filmed in the L.A. County Emergency room. The doctor, taking a group of hard core teens on a tour of the hospital, was telling them, straight up, about the end of life which he saw so much of in those halls. He told them something that stuck, "All bad asses come in here and as they die, they all call out the same two words, 'Mommy' and 'god.'"
It hit me. Why don't these people call for their 'Daddy's'? The answer was clear. It didn't take a college professor to do a five year study. The dads had failed their daughters and sons. They abandoned them. They abused them. They made them witnesses to unspeakable crimes against their mothers or others who they, in their roll as a father, were sworn to honor and protect. Why don't bad asses, or any asses for that matter, call out for their 'Daddy's'? Because we fathers have butchered our duty.
I cried.
No, not like a Frenchman who got a paper cut. The eyes filled and when I blinked, they ran over. Crap, I get weepy at AT&T commercials now and don't even get me started with the Budweiser horses. I am sure I will be curled up in the corner somewhere during this wedding of my last child, sucking my thumb and holding a tablecloth up to my head like a binky.
The kids in the class knew why the bad asses didn't call for their dads. Why, as men, would we ever want to go down that road? Why, would we not want our child, in their last dying breath, to be thinking and calling to us as well? I lost myself in thought for a day or two.
Right before a wedding of one of your kids, you get reflective. You do the same on your birthday and Christmas. "Did my life count?"
I want my life to be one of those where, even years from now, my children or grandchildren will be able to come to my house, maybe I am stooped over some begonias in the garden (can one grow begonias in Arizona? What is a begonia?). I look up and there is fear, panic, tension in their face. Resources have been tried and for some reason, they felt a need to seek out the old Silverback. Quixada rises to a standing position, maybe helped by the child. "What can this old man do? He can barely stand," they might think to themselves.
But inside the old gentleman, still beats the heart of a lion of eighteen. Funny thing about fathers, they are capable of unspeakable horror and pain. But sometimes they get it right. And when a father gets it right-sometimes years or decades later, unimaginable healing and love happens. Which means for men, there is always hope.
So, since this damn video, I have been thinking the gruesome thought of whether my children would call my name in their last moment. Then I smiled, laughed almost. Nope, they wouldn't. They would call to their god. The one they know and who knows them.
Oh, I guess I all right.
Quixada straightens up to his child's fear. His back firms, his arms and legs tense. There is a fire that lights his eyes from the back. The child had not seen such a fire there before. Strange. He rubs his thinning silver hair and places his arms around the child. There is a transference of comfort in that arm. Something about it causes the child to believe he made the right decision coming to speak to the old man. As the fear is shared, the old man walks them into the house and they sit down. The child had not been there in a while, it was cluttered with old man things, newspapers, old gym shoes. Coffee is poured and cookies, for comfort are given. They sit at a table and Quixada listens. Counsel is asked for and smartly given. The old man smiles and says things will be better soon.
Just as the child prepares to leave, something in the corner catches their eye. There, next to stack of papers and where the old dog bed still occupies a corner. It is an old lance, a sword in an old leather scabbard, and a rusted iron helmet. The child asks about it-"Why do you have that old stuff over there?"
The old man smiles as he looks at it. "For certain times," the old man says. The old man winks and walks the child to their car. He kisses them gently on the cheek and waives good bye. When he comes back inside, he reaches under his sink and pulls out an old shoe box. In it, is a old can of rust remover, a well worn soap stone, a small tin of oil, and an old rag. He lays out some newspaper on the coffee table, takes the old helmet from its resting spot in the corner, and begins.
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