Guest Columnist: Father's Day With and Without

 

I Didn’t Celebrate Father’s Day While Growing Up

Joe Navarro

 I am a father. Interestingly, my mother had three sons and no daughters, yet I have three wonderful daughters, but no sons. And, I have five grandchildren. I try to be the best father that I can be, and hopefully one that my daughters can appreciate. I’m not perfect, made my parenting mistakes along the way, but have been consistently involved in my children’s lives.

 

I have joked that the youngest has it best because I made the most mistakes on my eldest. Of course my eldest doesn’t think that’s funny. I agree. It’s my bad sense of humor. 

 

I can say, however, that I have been involved in their lives from the beginning. I changed diapers, prepared meals, spent many days on family outings, went on great family vacations, helped with studying, and gave my daughters supportive hugs and advice. I survived teenagehood. I became a parent/co-adult now that my daughters are grown up…a relationship dynamic that doesn’t immediately come easy.

My daughters have taught me a lot, too. I’ve had a tendency to treat them as if they’re too fragile. But they’re much tougher than I had given them credit for. It’s hard not to be worried. I’m a man. I know how men have been indoctrinated to treat women. There’s a lot of disrespect, abuse, and manipulation by men, rooted in patriarchy and misogyny. I have been and continue to be a work in progress my entire life. I have grown and will continue to grow as I navigate manhood and parenthood.

 

My father was a different story. He was with us the first seven years of my life, until around 1960. I don’t have happy memories of him. I mostly remember his cruelty towards my mother and sometimes me. He was sometimes physically abusive. He was even more cruel to my older brother who lived with my grandparents. He hardly displayed any affection, if at all. 

 

My father disappeared one day. Just like that. Gone. I was neither happy nor sad. He went to Jalisco, Mexico, never to be seen again. I heard later from a relative that he had died in an accident, which caused me to experience a momentary sense of loss. But that didn’t last. I have no feelings about him and don’t think about him unless someone brings him up. I had lost connection with him and the entire Navarro family. I grew up connected only with my mother’s Lujan family.

 

Caption: My mother, Dora Lujan, and father, Pánfilo Navarro

 

My father is mostly a mystery to me. I wondered what kind of man would abandon his family, especially his children. My mother said he was too macho. “He expected his freshly made tortillas and frijoles on the table when he got home each day. That’s not the life I wanted to live. So we fought about it.” I have to admit that when he lived with us our standard of living was fairly good. He was a Mexicano, who worked as a longshoreman and foundry worker. I remember smelling the scent of burnt sand and metal in his clothing when he got home each day. After he left we sank into poverty, relied on public assistance and lived in public housing in San Francisco.

 

My mother was our anchor. She loved us, cared for us, provided for us within her means. She was a tough Chicana who provided a nurturing environment, taught us to dream of a better life, was our spiritual guide and guidance counselor. She gave us the life talks, which included to not abuse girls and women and take responsibility for our actions and relationships. She wanted us to have a better life than her own. She was capable of working, but couldn’t get hired for certain jobs due to discrimination. If it wasn’t for public assistance I don’t know what our lives would have been like.

 

Living in poverty presented us with multiple challenges. We lived in a community of contradictions with absent fathers, overwhelmingly single mothers, and although not directly related, we were surrounded by drugs, alcoholism and criminal behaviors. This was our “normal.” Our lives were complex, mixed with good and bad experiences. In spite of those challenges my mother always held herself together for our sake even in the most difficult of times.

 

I didn’t grow up celebrating Father’s Day. Neither did most of my friends. There was no reason to. My mother was my only parent. She made our lives livable, taught us how to be men and demonstrated how to be a parent. 

 

Caption: My mother and her three sons. I am in the middle.

 

I have tried to live up to her teachings as did my brothers. I always think of the times she chose to reason with us and helped us to navigate through life. My mother’s life was difficult. She understood racism, discrimination and inequality because she experienced it. She encouraged us to strive to be better people, be proud of our Mexican heritage, as well as to stand up to oppression. I am an extension of my mother. My only connections to my father are his surname and DNA. 

 

I’ve always and unevenly made a conscious effort to be a husband/partner to my wife, Lucia, in sharing family responsibilities with her, demonstrate respect to my family and be a source of inspiration and support to our daughters. That should be a normal way of life. I’m not sure it’s necessarily cause for celebration. Yet I feel obligated to acknowledge and appreciate the men who co-raise their children and remain in their lives throughout their lifetime. I have always known one thing for sure, that I never wanted to be like my father.

 

 

Relief

My father often

Spoke to me
With his angry eyes
And his angry hands
 
When he suddenly
Disappeared into nowhere
I almost felt nothing
Except, of course, relief

Joe Navarro is a Literary Vato Loco, poet and creative writer. He has been published in seven chapbooks of his poetry and has been included in seven poetry anthologies.