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…

I remember dreaming about bumping into him at the supermarket or at a restaurant. I’d go over the conversation that we would have in my head. I would ask him how he was, how things worked out for him and the last question I would always ask was, “Why?” Why did you leave? Why did you walk away? Why didn’t you try? I never got to hear his answer in my dreams. I either woke up or would stop myself from imagining his answer for fear of hearing things I didn’t want o hear.  Crazy, huh? Yeah.. Just you wait! It gets better!

My mother sat me down at the age of 8 or 9 and told me the story behind my father. I have to give her props, she never talked bad about him. She told me she got married in love. She told me she loved him… She believed my father loved her too until he left… You see he was from Colombia. Back then, when you applied for a Visa the person applying would have to go back to their respective country to wait for the paperwork to go through. Fabio went back to Colombia and mami went back to Puerto Rico to begin to build a life for them. She discovered she was pregnant a few weeks later. When she told him she said he was excited.

Fabio planned to come home as soon as all of the paperwork went through. At least that’s what he told mami. She moved heaven and earth to get him to Puerto Rico as soon as possible as her pregnancy was a very dangerous one. She was older and her body was having a hard time providing for me (even before I was born I was a pain in the ass!). None of her hard work paid off and I was born with my father still in Colombia. He never showed signs of reuniting with us after that. He always had an excuse or a reason for not “coming home”. Needless to say the rest is history. He never showed, he never fulfilled his roll as my father…

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.

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.

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.

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 8^th, 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. 

Tan feliz que se veían...

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.