It’s Wasn’t a Shock
It wasn’t a shock to me when my father started drinking. Sometimes I found myself justifying it. He needs this, I thought. Papi works long hard hours under the sun, so why shouldn’t he enjoy his free time drinking a beer or two, I told myself.
It was a Sunday afternoon, his preferred drinking time. The bottle caps were spread across the backyard floor. Soon the botellas began to line up, one after the other; it was like clockwork except it had only been an hour or two. I heard my father talking to my mother. He had a loud stern voice. His voice boomed through my ears, and I knew it would be that kind of night. That night ended with him passing out on the couch. That night my mother went to bed annoyed and frustrated. That night I’d have to leave to avoid this mess. Those nights always began like this.
My father’s drunken dance was like a child trying to walk for the first time. He stumbled over his own feet. He’d destroy everything in his path. It was when I knew this was only the beginning. He’d soon start to yell. I always knew the cycle. Next came the endless amount of love that my father never showed sober. My father teared up as he expressed his love for his first-born daughter, but I knew it didn’t mean anything, not if he was drunk. Or perhaps it did; that’s what confused me. The endless Modelo cans were scattered in the backyard. The loudspeakers bumped corridos. My father always played these when he was drinking.
I tried to tune it out, the vivid smell of the beer. First, it was one, then two, then three and after awhile, it all started to blur together. His laughter filled the air and so began the scolding my mother gave my father. It was all the same: she would yell at and scold him but forgive him each time. I understood it. She loved him, adored him, so it wasn’t a shock when my mother forgave him after he hit me. My mother will always forgive him. She loves him, maybe even more than I.
I tried so hard to forget it. It didn’t mean anything, so why are these salty tears filling my pillow? I tell myself, “Don’t cry. Don’t let him see you cry; he won’t care so neither should you.”
The thoughts blurred my head, and all I could think of was how much I hated him until the next day when I forgave him because that’s all I have come to know. The next day we’d act as if nothing happened, go on of course, and go on to relive the next event. I couldn’t help but cry because he’s my father, right? As much as I don’t want him to be, he will always be.
When the next day arrived, my mother complained and yelled about him. It was a cycle too, though. She would say, “I don’t know why he gets like this; you better tell him I’m not talking to him.” Then he’d come home, and they would fight and then make up. My father always had a way of making my mother laugh; maybe that’s why she forgave him each time. At times even I would forgive him too because, despite all this, he was still my papa. But why couldn’t he be the papa all my friends had? Did I not deserve a father like theirs?
April’s father adored her. I could tell by the way he answered her, he called her “Mija” and “Princessa” and “Amor.” That was something I constantly wished for from my father. My mother said his childhood was rough which was why my father was the way he was. Will that mean I’ll end up this way too then? Am I incapable of love because my father showed me no love nor affection? My mother also says we always bump heads because we’re so alike. I think she just uses that to excuse his absence in my life.
My father never apologized, unless he knew he did something wrong. That day, he came into my bedroom while I was brushing my hair. I stood in front of the mirror examining my long thick brown hair, brushing each coat until they were soft, straight strands. He stood by the doorway and took a deep breath, and I felt my mind wander. I knew my mom had put him up to this; she usually did because my father was not one to apologize.
“Mija,” he said. I felt my heart break. To be called something so innocent yet sweet was all I ever wanted but not this way. It’s an endearing term. When I worked at el mercado the customers would call me “mija” after I helped them with their groceries. They would thank me for my help and say, “Que dios te bendiga mija, muchas gracias,” and each time I felt an ounce of pride and respect. This time it was different. This was not like those times. I felt sorrow in those four letters and, when I looked up, tears filled his eyes. He didn’t try to hide it, which I admired. I wanted him to feel bad; I wanted him to feel remorse, and yet all I wanted to do was hug him and beg him to love me, to tell me how proud he was.
“Yes?” I spoke. As I uttered those words, all I felt was pain rising in my throat like shards of glass. Thorns wrapped around my throat causing tears to form in my eyes. Don’t cry, I thought, do not let him see you cry. I blinked away the tears before he could see. I lifted my gaze up once more and watched as he struggled to speak. I guess this wasn’t easy for him either. It was like watching a child struggle to catch their breath, but this was no child, this was my papa. I feared he would step any closer. I was not ready to forgive him just yet, but as he stepped closer, I found myself releasing my breath. I hadn’t noticed I was holding it. As he sat on my bed, he urged me to sit next to him.
“I’m sorry Julie, por lo que te hice ayer,” he said. I sat down next to him despite my brain telling me to stay in my place by the mirror. My heart urged me to listen, and I could not stop the sympathy I felt inside. He is my papa, he raised me, he took care of me, he was supposed to be my world. When I looked at him, I felt his pain. It was as if I could read his thoughts. I knew what he was trying to say but I needed to hear him say it.
“You are my daughter; I love you so much. Don’t you love me?” he asked. I couldn’t stop myself from wiping my tears. My heart shattered into a million pieces, and my mind went blank. All I could think about was the moment he slapped my face. I had gone outside to tell him to leave my mom alone. I had told him to stop acting so dumb and before I knew it, I felt his hand across my face. My cheek was already warming up from his touch. It wouldn’t leave a mark, though. That I was sure of.
I looked up at him again. “Yeah,” I said. It wasn’t a shock when he asked me if I loved him. He did that, perhaps to reassure himself that I would love myself no matter what he did. As much as I hated the man sitting beside me, I still hated myself even more for wanting his attention and affection. I hated myself even more for the little girl inside me who just wanted her Papi. I felt so dumb wanting his respect and approval. Maybe this is how my mother felt too.
It was a shock to me when he hugged me. Before I knew it, his arms were around me with his hand on my head. He let out a deep breath and hugged me tighter. I felt my arms stiffen against him while anger and frustration flooded my mind. He smelled of soil and sweat but a musk that comforted me. I felt forgiveness creep in, and my body softened until I wrapped my arms around him too. He said nothing, yet I felt everything he needed to say through this hug. I felt his praise and approval through this hug. I felt his warmth and affection, and I felt the recognition I wanted from him was finally in my hands. We stayed like that for a couple of minutes until, finally, we both let go. Without a word, he walked away, and I was left alone.
He is my father, and he always will be, even if he continues to break my heart and fix it each time.
Author Bio/Statement: My name is Julie Cruz, and I am now a CSUSM student looking to enter the teaching credential program this upcoming fall. I write in my spare time, and this was an assignment I had been working on for Lit 120.