Writing About My Father, Day 3
I know too what was done to my father. That his father was dead in one country and alive and well with a growing family in another just across the bay. I know my grandmother was ashamed of my father’s hair, the way it betrayed her, the way it reminded her of what she couldn’t have. I know my father hung onto his name and his anger when he finally met the boy from across the street who’d wooed his mother, then left her pregnant when his family said my grandmother’s skin was too dark for their Indian blood. My father too left a woman pregnant, one who wasn’t my mother. Perhaps it was the only way he knew how to inherit his own father.
These are the stories I tell myself to remember it is not my father’s anger I carry, but his grief. My father is Lorca’s enormous sobbing gone suburban, roaming a house with three bedrooms and a yard and no room for two daughters. I know too what was done to my father; am I his Jacob or his Esau?