Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Fatherhood, Grief and Loss are Fused Emotionally
It was time to get away from America’s neglect of the poor or the McCain-Cheney debates on soft torture and the Presidents rational about the war in Iraq. It was time to get away from the conflicts of my son and his mother boyfriend. I took some time off to reflect and pay attention to my soul on the anniversary of my father's passing. No amount of reflection soothed me when it came to my father. I was immobilized for awhile: I was just going through the motions at work (Fortunately, no one at work was the wiser) and I wrote prolonged reflections on paper, journals and computer. I wrote at home which includes blogging. This was interesting as it felt good to receive good vibes from strangers responding to my written word. Though sad, I have not been to morose or maudlin. I could see my moods change in and out of sadness particularly within the stories of this blog.
A friend and a mentor had taught me that the subjects of fatherhood and grief or loss are fused emotionally. This time the depth of difficulty has not changed when dealing with this loss. As an example, my mother asked me to help her with her trust. Though I felt my father's presence in their home, it is odd knowing his physical presence is gone to where lightning strikes and coronas flare. Though dulled I helped my mother go through the process of transferring their assets to the trust. I was in the place of my father among many other things I've had to do. I weathered my mother's reactionary thunderstrikes. For me, it wasn't time to lay down the plow-it was time to plow the hard row of emotions and get this damn thing done. Yet his presence inside of me were boulders, roots and clay in this soil too! It's time now to write about him. Perhaps I can unearth the bull caca to writing his story through my eyes. If nothing else, he is the father I yearned for and the man I dealt with, I fought with and his powerful affect on me lingers. I want the future generations to know about him. By writing I hope to temper his affect.
There are many words to describe who he was. He was fiercely determined with incredible integrity. He was intelligent though he was not confident of his intelligence. He reached a 5th grade level education but chose to leave school to mine salt and farm rice. I suspect he used this hard laborious work as an impetus for him to rely on his resources in the hunt for something better. Auspiciously, there was a World War II that brought about war ships. As the story goes, he was one of the young men hired to load ordinance onto the ships. After several hours of loading these bombs, an American sailor looked at this skinny kid who was to become my dad. Aside from his earnest and hard work, he wore tattered rags and a rope belt. He took pity on him. He brought him into the mess hall will the gleaming stainless steel and shining square pans steaming with ham and roast beef and mash potatoes, vegetables and offered him a plate full of this food- and then seconds. My father forgot about the food in his pocket-the salted fish and rice wrapped in banana leaves. When he finished his third helping, he told the sailor he needed to go back to work because his boss might fire him. When my father stepped out from the portal onto the deck, the sailor gave him a duffle bag full of clothes and a message for his boss. My father was illiterate at the time so he did not know what the note meant. It didn't take him long to figure this out as he continued working. Others around him were sent home. He was sixteen then and his ideology was confirmed and he was still very naive.
A friend and a mentor had taught me that the subjects of fatherhood and grief or loss are fused emotionally. This time the depth of difficulty has not changed when dealing with this loss. As an example, my mother asked me to help her with her trust. Though I felt my father's presence in their home, it is odd knowing his physical presence is gone to where lightning strikes and coronas flare. Though dulled I helped my mother go through the process of transferring their assets to the trust. I was in the place of my father among many other things I've had to do. I weathered my mother's reactionary thunderstrikes. For me, it wasn't time to lay down the plow-it was time to plow the hard row of emotions and get this damn thing done. Yet his presence inside of me were boulders, roots and clay in this soil too! It's time now to write about him. Perhaps I can unearth the bull caca to writing his story through my eyes. If nothing else, he is the father I yearned for and the man I dealt with, I fought with and his powerful affect on me lingers. I want the future generations to know about him. By writing I hope to temper his affect.
There are many words to describe who he was. He was fiercely determined with incredible integrity. He was intelligent though he was not confident of his intelligence. He reached a 5th grade level education but chose to leave school to mine salt and farm rice. I suspect he used this hard laborious work as an impetus for him to rely on his resources in the hunt for something better. Auspiciously, there was a World War II that brought about war ships. As the story goes, he was one of the young men hired to load ordinance onto the ships. After several hours of loading these bombs, an American sailor looked at this skinny kid who was to become my dad. Aside from his earnest and hard work, he wore tattered rags and a rope belt. He took pity on him. He brought him into the mess hall will the gleaming stainless steel and shining square pans steaming with ham and roast beef and mash potatoes, vegetables and offered him a plate full of this food- and then seconds. My father forgot about the food in his pocket-the salted fish and rice wrapped in banana leaves. When he finished his third helping, he told the sailor he needed to go back to work because his boss might fire him. When my father stepped out from the portal onto the deck, the sailor gave him a duffle bag full of clothes and a message for his boss. My father was illiterate at the time so he did not know what the note meant. It didn't take him long to figure this out as he continued working. Others around him were sent home. He was sixteen then and his ideology was confirmed and he was still very naive.
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Hey there! I'm out blogging and found yours! I have to admit, you seem to have a very well put together blog here!
Regards,
Nylon Laundry Bags
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Regards,
Nylon Laundry Bags
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