The
obituary I wrote for my father was published today. It wasn't hard to write--they don't allow you much space for obituaries unless you were some sort of luminary. My father was, of course, but not one most of the world knew about. This short paragraph can't begin to convey the infinite complexity and creativity that was my dad. My father was an iceberg, like the ones he could see from where he worked in Greenland; the part you knew about was fascinating, but the expanse of intricacies beneath the surface was profound, unexpected, immense.
My father was the most curious man--most curious person--I ever met. Some topic would take his interest, and he would read everything he could on it. When I was writing my MA thesis, I gave him a book on Victorian information systems that my major professor had written: Dad read the whole thing and asked me for further reading. He's the only person outside my dissertation committee who's ever read my dissertation and had questions for me. From him I got my love of language, its flexibilities, its sinuousness, its complexities. My father is the reason I went to graduate school, and I wouldn't have managed to complete my studies without his unshakeable faith in me. I remember asking him, once, how on earth I'd finish this damn dissertation when it felt overwhelming; maybe I should quit and cut my losses? "I am proud of you whatever you choose to do," he said. The permission to quit, to "fail", to choose my own path was one of the greatest gifts my dad gave me. Ironically, the gift of this freedom to fail was what gave me the determination to finish.
Dad never finished college, but he read philosophy for fun. Before he died, he was studying to certify as an IT professional, and he'd have managed, it, too, self-taught. My dad could do anything. He taught himself how to bake, which expanded into experiments with pretzels and braided loaves and weird coconut-flour projects, all of which fascinated him. He adored trains and could name every railroad in America, and most of the engines and types of trains that run on them. He spent a good part of his hobby time designing virtual railroads, building towns and communities around them until he had created whole digital worlds.
My father was always good at creating worlds. When I was little, he would read to me, sometimes for hours. He'd do voices for the characters. He'd read "Blueberries for Sal" and make me believe a bear was coming after me, too. When I hear characters from the Lord of the Rings speaking in my imagination, it's my father's voices, not any actor's, that I hear. He encouraged my imagination, too: one of my enduring childhood memories is the day my father conquered my imaginary nation of Lam (bounded by my bedroom, its capital the playhouse he had built in my closet) and explained what a coup was and why he had the right to make me go to bed, even in my own country. He had captured my flag, you see.
Dad also loved music, and he tried to make sure I loved it too. He took me to the symphony and to guitar recitals. He made sure I knew the difference between Classical and Baroque. He'd sit me down with the vast CD collection he was so proud of and drill me on the various Bachs, the difference between Puccini and Verdi, the sublimity of Mozart, the fury of Wagner. I didn't inherit his facility with instruments--at the time he died, he owned six guitars and coveted many more--but I did inherit his love of the Andrews Sisters and Duke Ellington. He took me to see Christopher Parkening play classical guitar once, and the exhilaration on Dad's face when he played "Recuerdos de la Alhambra" is etched deep in my memory.
My father was a shy and quiet man, and he frequently felt like he didn't know what to say in social situations. Yet he dwelled in a comfort with silence that I, the extroverted chatterbox, have yet to find. His silences held infinite potential; he could say more with a lift of his inimitable eyebrows than most people can with an essay. If he had nothing to say, he would say nothing; ask him about something he was interested in, and he'd talk for hours, sometimes until you'd beg him to stop. He was a good listener, and the right words always seemed to find him when I needed them. He was the first person I called when my marriage fell apart. The first when I got a new job I actually liked. The first whenever I needed advice, whether about a bankruptcy or a computer issue. When he didn't know what to say, he'd just tell me he loved me and that he was proud of me, of the woman I had grown to be, of the authenticity I've fought for.
The last conversation I remember having with him, before the accident took his ability to speak, was utterly insignificant at the time. I called him in the hospital, the morning after his accident, just to check in. At that point, we had no idea how severe things would become. He sounded well, if tired. I told him I loved him and hoped he felt better soon. He told me he loved me too. That's the last time he ever said "I love you" to me, at least in words. But I remember him squeezing my hand, so, so hard, in the trauma ICU a few days before he died, the only way he really had left to convey the immensity of his feelings. When I try, I can still remember the pressure of his hand on mine and the tears in his eyes when he looked at me. Of all the worlds he ever created, his family was my father's favorite. Ours is darker
without him, but so much richer for having had his light.
