an ode to my father

that’s my father in the front row, right around the age he started working for a living.

this was inspired by a beautiful, real and insightful conversation i had with my dad the other day. when i asked him, in regards to having conversations about racism and white privilege in an almost entirely white, mostly conservative (and often racist, sometimes overtly racist) community, “dad, how do i reach out and even begin to open dialogue with people who are so different from me?” (mind you, we were both born and raised in Calaveras County.) he said, “honey, don’t bother with them. some people aren’t reachable. just reach out to the folks in the middle who are even a little bit open to what you might have to say. maybe they can reach out to those other folks. maybe not. but you aren’t going to be able to reach everyone. the most important thing is to keep your open heart.” needless to say, i burst into tears. here’s the poem.

my father began

working when he was eight years

old. he’s been working

ever since. for the 

last seventy-five years, he

has labored to make

a life for himself.

he leads a good life. he is

a solid person.

he and his wife care 

for their neighbors, regardless 

of wealth, color, class.

he was two when his

parents left him and his three

siblings never to

return, except for

occasional visits from 

his father on leave

from the army. he

was shuffled from orphanage

to foster homes for

five years until he

was taken in by his aunt 

Mary and her drunk

husband. they would hide 

in the garage whenever 

he flew into a 

rage. my father said

kept a knife ‘neath his pillow

in case the man went

too far. then one day

he up and died, and they were

left in peace. alone.

that’s when my father

went to the one-armed dentist

and made a bargain.

“i’ll do your yard work

if you take care of my teeth,” 

he said. and he’s not

stopped working since.

my father is a good man. 

he had his problems

with drinking, anger

and self-hatred after all 

that trauma, but he

persisted. he kept

believing in the goodness

of people, of life

itself. never have

i witnessed him in hatred

or spite. sadness, yes.

frustration, yes. but

the core of him remains filled 

with love and deepest

care, regard, and a

wisdom i am only now 

able to see in its

strong, steady wholeness.

the other day, my father 

apologized for

not being the kind

of father he wished he could

have been. but, with tears

filling my throat, i

told him he is the kind of 

father i needed.

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