I have come to accept my family tree for what it looks like, but there are some missing branches that I am still unable to overlook.
          My time in elementary school could at times be a painful experience, especially when I was asked to think about things like my family tree – but the family tree experience only happened once; Father’s Day never failed to hit a nerve. We were given craft materials and asked to make cards, draw pictures, and write letters to our fathers as gifts for Father’s Day. I would sit at my desk with a blank look on my face, not knowing what to make of the construction paper, stickers, and markers that were set before me. I don’t remember how I made it through kindergarten, first grade, or second grade – I guess I somehow managed to suppress the memories without realizing it.
          When I was in third grade, I finally got the courage to explain to my teacher that I didn’t have a father to write a letter to. She hesitated, I remember because I was really anxious to hear her response. “Did your father pass away?” she asked. “No, I have never met him. I know he lives in Miami, Florida, but I have never met him.” She told me she would find my father’s address so that she could mail the letter to him. I told her, “I don’t think my father understands English.” She told me to write the letter in Spanish so he could understand what I was trying to say. Most kids wrote things along the lines of “I love you so much!” and in comparison, “I wish I could meet you” sounded a little dark, mundane, and apathetic but it was the truth. I had never written anything in Spanish before, so I was afraid that the meaning behind what I was trying to say would get lost in translation. My teacher had convinced me that the letter would reach him, so I was very careful in my writing. I even included my address, and asked him to write back. I have had a boy break my heart once in my life, and it felt exactly the same as to when I finally accepted that my father wasn’t going to write back.
          My grandmother used to travel between Los Angeles and Nicaragua several times a year, so you can imagine just how many frequent flyer miles she had collected. When I was in fifth grade – months before the horrendous family tree experience – she traded in her frequent flyer miles for a pair of tickets with our names on it. My grandmother never liked my father, but she thought it would be a good idea for me to finally meet him. I didn’t know what to expect from Florida, but I was really excited to finally get to meet my father. The excitement didn’t last too long, though. I spent the week at one of my aunt’s house – per my mother’s request – and my father came by every day to bring me gifts, to take us sightseeing, to take us out to dinner, or to share some silly little story about my mother. It was so strange to hear him tell me about my mother – I couldn’t even imagine the two of them standing side by side. It didn’t feel right. How could he know so much? I left Florida with gratitude – grateful for the opportunity I had awaited for such a long time, but grateful to leave too. Why did I think that meeting my father would change things? He was a stranger. My father called me a few times after the trip, but it didn’t take him long to stop. I haven’t spoken to my father since I was ten years old.
          When I was fourteen, I heard the song “Dear Father” by Sum 41. The song was perfect in so many ways. I found somebody who understood exactly how I felt about my father, and the song became an outlet through which I could express anger, frustration, and resentment. I can no longer express the same negative attitudes that the song conveys, so I have included it in this post so you can listen to it for yourself.

          My family has a history of unplanned pregnancies, shotgun marriages, and separations. I am not the exception. I probably shouldn’t be sharing this, but I recently found out that my father convinced to my mother to have an abortion some time before I came along. It saddens me to think that the baby could have been me, and that my parents didn’t want to have me. It troubles me even more to know that I may not have had the opportunity to enjoy all the things I have been blessed with. My mother told me that my father became an abusive monster when they were alone, and she eventually stood up against him by packing up her things and moving back to Los Angeles, California with the rest of her family. My mother later found out that she was already pregnant, and there was nobody to stop her from having the baby she wanted to raise. Sometimes I think about my father – where he is, what he’s up to – but I don’t see a point in lingering on the past. I am no longer hurt. I am no longer angry, frustrated, or resentful. I have accomplished so much, and I have my mother to thank for all the blessings I have been able to enjoy. I dream about getting married and having a big wedding with family and friends invited, but I wonder what the walk down the aisle will be like. I try not to think about it too much though. I am starting to think about graduation and everything I have to do in preparation for the Commencement Exercises. I think I will send an invitation to my father – he is welcome to join us, but I don’t mind if he’s not there because the accomplishment is more for my mother to celebrate. I have to thank him, though, because even in his absence he has played a big role in shaping who I am today.