Papa Loco

When you open up the fridge in the kitchen of the house I grew up in, the first thing you see is a Brita pitcher with a bold black line Sharpie’d across the middle. Familiar Dad-caps above it reads, “DO NOT LET WATER GO BELOW THE LINE!!!!” I imagine the state of rage he was in when he wrote it, years ago. I imagine his blood boiling as he reached to fill his glass, only to be thwarted by one of the three possible suspects who left it too low. Back in the day, something like an empty pitcher would have really set him off.

Other triggers include:

• Cars driving too fast through the neighborhood
• Babies crying in church
• Telemarketers calling during dinner
• My sister’s mouth
• Not filling a 3/4’s empty gas tank
• Coughing through the night
• Not being ready/waiting by the agreed-upon time
• Anything more than tiptoeing on the second floor after lights out
• My knack for leaving stuff behind in every scenario you can imagine (homework at home, violin at school, wallet at the store, keys in the locked car, cell phone literally anywhere)

I’ve always been amazed at how my father — or really anyone — could erupt like a volcano, 0 to 100, at the turn of a phrase. At how something as simple as a misplaced word could turn the man red, steam coming out of his ears. I personally tend towards dissecting words from their intentions, studying circumstance and drawing conclusions. (I must have inherited these tactics from Mom.) I usually cry. I rarely raise my voice. I cut down my inner monologue to a few choice words that express what I feel and what I’m looking for. My dad likes to drop a few choice words from time to time as well. My jaw especially dropped when he found out I got a nose ring, and called to tell me how he felt about it. It was particularly terrifying.

I should take a moment to say that he’s never laid a finger on any of us ladies in my family! Spoiler alert: He’s actually a big ole’ softie in his natural state.

It’s taken me years to stop taking my dad’s temper personally. I remember feeling so much responsibility for his bad moods when I was a child. I would accidentally leave my lunchbox at home, then tremble in the front office, waiting for him to storm through the double doors and set it down on the counter without a word — just a murderous look. I would cry unwittingly, holding onto the notion for the rest of class that I had ruined my dad’s day.

I remember being in the nurse’s office, afraid that she would call him instead of my mom when I had to go home sick. I imagined him getting fired from work, for having to interrupt an embalming to come bring me home. I was going to destroy my family’s well-being, by puking in health class.

At that point in my mild-mannered childhood, I still wasn’t used to invoking anger in people. I didn’t understand it, I rarely felt it within myself and I didn’t know how to fix it. Now that I’ve had more practice with aggression, I realize it has very little to do with me, and is usually not my problem. I know that I am imperfect. I can try my best but the fact is, I am who I am, and I am no longer apologetic for it. I choose not to bear the guilt of upsetting the man who raised me, even when I am the transgressor. And just so, he is who he is! I can’t fault him for the temper he was born with, and the way he reacts to life’s inconveniences. But I can always find comfort in knowing that we love each other unconditionally.

Separation has made me realize that many men in the world are motivated by selfish reasons. They pretend to love their wives for the comfort of partnership. They overrule the roost for the feeling of dominance. They torture subordinates at work to manifest power. They abuse the people who love them most. This is not my dad. I finally understand, that he only gets as upset as he does, because he really really cares. About his family, his country, his home, his responsibilities — the care runs DEEP.

Here are some ways he shows it:

• He confirms an appointment or date approx 3x and is never late.
• When he snow-blows our property after a storm, he also goes up and down the block. After he’s brushed off all the family cars, that is.
• On his day off, he usually plans a special meal or TWO with extra prep for extra leftovers.
• Just before the holidays, he brings a dozen cupcakes to all of his favorite vendors around town. The dry cleaners, the buzz-cut salon, and his favorite gas attendant are all thrilled to be on this list. They adore him.
• He would rather finish my laundry for me than have it cluttering his basement.
• When he shops for groceries, he usually picks up a few things for my kitchen as well as his.
• I don’t think my sister, mom, or I have stepped into an auto shop in years. Dad makes sure our oil changes, tires, and primary functions are up to date. He almost always gets the car washed before returning.
• He devotes a huge chunk of his time to beefing up his Music & Movie libraries, and then backs it up to multiple hard drives so that he can share amongst his loved ones.

My father is a practical man. Some use the word “military” to describe him and his timeliness and orderly ways. He wants the Brita pitcher regularly filled, not so that he can have fresh water whenever his thirst need be quenched… but so that the filter doesn’t waste away, forcing us to needlessly buy new packages just to pay for our laziness. I am a resourceful woman because of him, and he stills teaches me new things to this day. So when he asks for something (or demands it in a sassy email), I’ve learned to try to do it as quickly as possible, and without question. Because I know he would do the same, that it’s for the best, and because it’s the only way I can really use my actions to show him how grateful I am and how loved he is.

Header art by Fabiola Lara