TELEMACHUS IN GUAYAMA

There you were, drunk every night, violent, very violent; and yet, I wanted to show my love, my desire to be held in your arms, to play with you, to go to a baseball game together. The needs were so strong that, often, many times, as a kid I would get up very early and followed you, walked down to the bakery and buy the bread that was going to be sold at the little grocery shop you set up, with no success, since you were not able to stop others from using you or deal with mother and her own anger and controls or to understand that the business world of food was changing and supermarket chains were replacing the small shops owned by people like you. We all want heroic fathers, and you were not. For years, when you were not there, mother would complain continuously about your incompetence, inability to stop others from stealing from the grocery store, to be a womanizer, even a male hustler when you were young. I started to believe her until, after decades of therapy, I realized she was part of the equation. You never became a hero until close to the end of your life: a few months before dying of aterosclerosis, you started to cry and said: “I am so sorry for having hurt all of you so much”. I hugged you and felt so proud of you.