A few days after Father’s Day…. I’m thinking of my father.
I’ve written about him and our close connection before. Read Dr. Daniel E. Branagan; Mi Padre was an Ideal Dad, if you like…
Since his death, I’ve grown closer to my father. I have come to idealize him. He is a Saint, now. He visits me, with advice, when I need his support. An attorney in Dominican Republic, whose political/professional ambitions were thwarted, destined to failure. (He was naive, a firm believer in the goodness of man, his fellows, in the LAW, as a force toward good… redemption. He believed in THE SYSTEM, jails in his mind, served to “rehabilitate some…” Thus, he voted conservatively.) I admire him, never-the-less for his lofty ambitions and solid morality. He cared. He demonstrated and proved a fierce, attentive, love for me as a little person.
Toward the end of his life, my father went HOME. He went back to his “people.” He choose to avoid traditional medical care until the cancer had spread. It was too late when he tried. (Santo Domingo, the capital of Dominican Republic, has excellent doctors and offers excellent medical care at much less out-of-pocket-cost than in the United States.) I believe he died in relative peace, even though I was not at his bedside.
I saw him a few months before he died. I traveled through dimensions, as one does when going from one culture to another, to his heimat. But it was more than just a trip into a world I am a part of yet… I’ve not been there much in the last twenty years. I grew up visiting Santo Dominigo. During summer vacations, we’d go and stay with my mother’s family, in their old home, which is no longer in the family, it exists but the whole neighborhood around it was demolished in order to make room for progress. The old fashioned, brightly painted, tin-roofed and wooden homes, that decorated the neighborhood, were a “fire hazard, “and impossible to standardize. Whole neighborhoods, middle-class barrios vanished. Yet, the city keeps growing, moving forward. You don’t see street kids, looking to shoe-shine or beg a little change for their families, anymore. The government did something, schools, I think. I tried to move there, once. My father was living there, but he had a woman… he did not even like her all-that-much, he complained about her ignorance, or lack of interest in Mayan Codexes which are housed in the Faro a Colon ,a whole sad monument to, of-all-unfashionable-people, Christopher Columbus. He had no room in his mature, attempts at establishing his dream life, his public unfolding, his grand success for a twenty-something and lost, me.
Columbus, curiously enough “discovered,” Santo Domingo and made it his base of operations. He lived there and governed until his brother took over. Descendants of the family are still active members of Dominican Society. We are the oldest city in the New World, with the oldest church, university, and infrastructure. We had a powerful dictator for a long time, which means we have working roads, a functional telephone system, and a very stable society; despite unrest, poverty, and other ills (which plague all nations, except the northern European societies which benefit from their government’s former exploitation of colonies and slave trading, generations ago. Wealth, being a “civilizing,” factor.). Today, Thursday, 24 April 2014 Frau Kolb types, from a, “centered quiet place within,” having slept well, dreamt of nothing… passed out from a day fulfilling obligations, duties.
What do you do that you don’t want to do, really? What fills you with dread until it is behind you and then you realize that it isn’t so bad?
Well, for me… sometimes, my children’s school projects, deadlines, homework, teacher conferences, meetings… Oh! It is all too much. I get really stressed out. I have to buy poster board! Tape! Do this. Do that. Help! Now, I see… why my mother never went to school to talk to my teachers. My father did when I was little. When he could… when he wasn’t working, selling furniture in Manhattan, New York City. He worked, a lot. He studied law, earned an attorney’s title and thought he’d take his NEW WIFE to America, like she wanted, for six months—get loaded— and be able to set themselves and her four little ones; in their home nation, Dominican Republic, in the Spanish speaking capital, first city of the New World, home to Christopher Columbus, and his clan: Santo Domingo. Of course, six months after arriving in New York City, they had long ago worn out the middle class digs where they dropped as friends of family for the first few weeks and had passed to less comfortable accommodations, incurring debt along the way. (They had a duty to send money home.)
The first job my father took in the United States was as a dishwasher in a restaurant. It broke his proud heart, yet he took the position. He was punctual, attentive, and compliant; a better dishwasher doing a better job, rinse, and repeat. Shortly, there after, he had a better gig in a nicer spot; always… punctual, attentive, compliant; like his parents, descendant of African slaves brought to the Caribbean, imported to St. Croix… part of an Anglo-Irish household of prominence; as domestics… house slaves, virtually… yet, English speakers.
My father’s accented English was faultless. He spoke it with flare and taught me to, “always carry a book with me,” after teaching me to read, at home so that by age three, I was very good at it. Then he taught me to play chess… that was fun, beating old men, playing in the park; a five year old girl in a handmade cotton dress with pink satin bows decorating her flat little chest… quickly executing a “check mate!” Her father, laughingly… collecting cash.
When I was a kid, growing up in Manhattan, I could always call my Daddy at work, on 14th Street near Union Station where he was the top salesman on the floor. He’d always answer, taking my after school calls, with glee in his voice. My father advised me, “Watch people. Their bodies never lie. Their intentions are always clear in their eyes, on their faces… you will see what they are thinking IF you look carefully enough. They will call you a Mind Reader… I see the ones that come in with the intention to buy and I facilitate their transactions. I provide guidance, information, and encouragement. I sell.” He would contrast himself to the, “young and inexperienced,” salespeople that would, “jump on everybody walking in; wasting their energy and leaving the real business of furniture sales to me. Hah!” He’d laugh. I’d admire his thunder. He was amazing so black, tall, fit like a knight; always ready for a challenge; thus, he died loving my mother.
“People…” my Dad would explain, “Love walking into stores; just to LOOK… that is why they call it a furniture gallery… they can’t afford or don’t want to buy… ignore these people and they will be thankful for it.” Yet, “Costumers are clients… ignore these people and well, not only will you not have a job for long, it isn’t fun selling furniture if you don’t DO IT.” and then he would look down at me sternly and say, “And… you know, Cari… most people can’t really afford good furniture. They can’t afford a sandwich for a girl on date-night, my Dear. They don’t understand that money flows whenever and wherever it wills… we just have to be there to get our share.” Work! Pay attention. Read. Write. Bike ride. Walk. Repeat.
He trained me well to think, and thus fulfilled his duty; providing for me and equipping me with people reading and sales skills; teaching me to pay attention to others as a means of fulfilling my own needs, “going with the flow,” of money… instead of against it… he taught me to swim the high seas of responsibility and come ashore today with pride.
Hah!
Thank you, Dad.
Loving Thursday,
Frau K.
