Fabio...
mami y él |
From the moment I could make sense of things I always
wondered about my dad. I remember being in elementary school and going to
parent nights and feeling “different” because most of the other kids had their
mom and their dad’s with them. With me, it was just mami. Don’t get me wrong;
my mother did a hell of an amazing job raising me. She worked, struggled,
fought and survived in order for me to have a good upbringing. She left her
family, her people, and her country to come to the U.S. in order for us to have
a better life.
His name was Fabio. I used to giggle every time I’d have to
tell people my father’s name. I’d get razzed about it all the time, especially
when Fabio, the blonde, longhaired, model for romance novels was on the TV
constantly. I used to always ask what my Fabio looked like, what he sounded
like and what he liked to do. Mami never said a negative thing about him. I
truly believe that my mother was in love with him or at least with the idea of
him. She would tell me stories abut how they met, dated and then got married. I
listened so intently and memorized every detail of her stories. She made him
sound nice. She made him sound normal. It made me wonder even more why he left…

Fast forward to 1999 when a huge earthquake hit Pereira,
Colombia and I worried. I worried about my father and his family. I called
information in Colombia and got his sisters number. What a rush! What a surreal
experience to just dial information and get that close to him. I called… I
cried… I spoke to my aunt. She informed me of how bad my father was doing. They
did not speak but she knew he was drinking, not working, and just freeloading
around in Colombia. Shocker, huh? She told me she prayed for him every day but
she wanted nothing to do with him. She gave me the number to his other sister
and we never spoke again.
As for the other sister, she made sure we connected. She
made sure he came to her house so I could speak to him. She tried to get him to
get his shit together so we could reunite. I spoke to him 8 times.
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la carta |
The first time we spoke was one of the scariest moments of
my life. I was scared to hear his side. I was terrified to hear that it was my
fault that he left. His voice was scratchy and a little high. He spoke in a
very thick Colombian accent and at some points it was hard for me to follow
what he was saying. I asked him how he was… I asked him how he was doing… How
he was feeling… and then I asked him why? His answer, “He was scared!” He was
scared of what I Would think. He said he tried to find me but couldn’t. He said
he tried mail, phone calls and nothing. I should have known! I should have seen
the lies for what they were. I guess my dream of having a dad shadowed and
clouded my judgment, as I knew it couldn’t be true. I knew he couldn’t of sent
mail and we not get it. I left it alone though. I was more interested in having
a father then hearing the truth. We wrote letters. I sent packages, I sent
money, I sent everything he asked for and in return he answered my questions.
He told me I had four younger brothers. He told me he wanted to change… He told
me he wanted to get better. I ate it all up! I searched for ways to get him
here. I started the process my mother had gone through 24 years earlier.
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la tarjeta del dia de las madres que me mando |
Things changed… I’d get collect phone calls at weird hours
of the day. I would have to try to understand him through his slurred speech. I
would have to listen to him complain about his life, his mistakes, and his need
for love. I couldn’t comprehend why he was acting this way. He was supposed to
be the adult. Yes, I was 25 but he was the adult. The last time he called I
asked the operator what he sounded like and her response was, “I can hardly
understand him.” I told her I wouldn’t accept the charges and to let him know
that when he called me again he needed to be sober.
That was the last time I Spoke to him.
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brindando por el amor... |
Although many years
passed I always wondered… I read and
reread his letters looking for clues that would explain his behavior. The only
positive thing I got from his letters were my brothers names! I cherish the
letter where Fabio told me I was a big sister. Time passed and in 2009 I got a
phone call from my aunt. My father was very sick and he wanted to talk to me. I
tried calling him a few times but I never got through. He died on May 8th,
2009. I often wonder if there was anything else I could do. I wonder if I would
have brought him to the United States things would have turned out different.
The only thing I regret is not being able to say goodbye. I am glad I was able
to tell him how I felt. I was able to tell him how hurt, disappointed and
frustrated I was because of his decision to walk away from me. I was able to
tell him that although he wasn’t around I did not feel the lack of a father as
my mother did a damn good job of filling both rolls. But I didn’t get to say
goodbye. I guess it wasn’t meant to be… I guess we were never meant to be. I
never got to meet him face to face but his voice will forever be embedded in my
memory. The only thing left to say is I forgive you. I am sorry I held a grudge
for so long. I am sorry you missed out on my boys, my daughter, and the worst,
your boys. Thanks to you I have four amazing brothers who mean the world to me.
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Tan feliz que se veían... |
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Mi padre y mi abuela |
Así que, Gracias Fabio por
darme la vida y por ende hacerme quien soy pues gracias a tu ausencia mi madre
me formo a mi. Gracias por mis hermanos porque son los que completan mi vida. Y
gracias por enseñarme a que como la gente te trate, te ignore, o te use, esas
experiencias te hacen mas fuerte, mas humilde, mas humana. Te debo todo esto
papá, así que gracias y toma esta como la primera y ultima vez que te diré
papá.
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