Once I was his indentured servant, not his beloved son; he used to bark his demands like a drill sergeant requiring loyalty from his soldiers. He would issue his order once, and when asked for clarification, immediately the color of his face would change to crimson, his eyes would bulge wide open and the volume of his voice would increase:
“I said,” then he would repeat his order, usually “I said, shut up!” or “I said, get over here!” To emphasize this, he gave me a crisp backhand. This was a daily occurrence at home when I was growing up. He did not like the pleas that escaped my mouth, or maybe he did. Always, I feared saying anything that would anger him; a day would not go by without abuse—physical, emotional or mental.
Fast forward to 1999 when I was a guest at my sister’s house. She was out, and I was alone when her phone rang. I answered, “Hello?” and a voice I didn’t recognize asked for her. I told the caller she was out and asked if he would like to leave a message.
He answered, “Tell her Dave called.”
I asked, “Dave who?” and heard (cue the Darth Vader voice), “I am your father.” Immediately, that old anger, hate, loathing and resentment enveloped me. All at once, I wanted to disgorge all my bitterness onto him, this man who had ruined any chance I had at a normal childhood. And now I had the chance to empty my pain back onto the monster who had terrorized me all my life. I hungered for revenge. I wanted venom to pour from my mouth, and I craved to rip him apart, to collect payback for all those years of debasement. A lifetime of hostility came to a point. “I’ll tell her you called.”
“What?” he said. I took a beat of silence as the anger coursed through me.
Without thought or restriction, the words flew out of my mouth. My temper, like his, came to an instant boil as I hurled his words back at him. “I said, I will tell her you called.” I slammed the phone down.
Feeling a freedom I had never recognized before, I had told him how I felt with just eight words. For days, the sound of his voice constantly resonated in my mind. I kept repeating those last words—once his, now mine—over and over again. Words never to be said again in his presence caused the tall wall surrounding me, built for protection, to begin to crumble. The barricade fell when I saw him in his coffin four years later.
Today, the memories are not as intense, and the script of my recollection emphasizes the intensity of my words to my father. “I said, I will tell her you called.” I didn’t think I could ever say anything like that to the man who enjoyed inflicting pain as his knuckles bounced across my flattened nose, or the leather strap danced on delicate five-year-old skin.
In recovery, the twelve steps of Alcoholics Anonymous are an important set of tools used to get a person’s life back in order. A part of those steps is to make amends to those you have wronged. Step nine tells us to make direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others. My attempts to make amends with my father were met with failure. He refused all my requests; an appeal through his sister was denied.
I went years working my program as best as I could, and to live a life as a decent human being. Once in an AA meeting, a person with a similar problem shared how a campfire was lit, then a letter of amends was read and placed into the flames, allowing the restitution to burn. The smoke floated up to the air currents, and the wind carried the memories away. I followed these instructions, and my amends to my father were made with fire and wind. I was finally able to release him.
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David Herrera is a native-born Coloradoan with a mixture of indigenous Tewa (of Taos, New Mexico), Mestizo and Spanish colonial bloodlines which result in a proud Chicano and Disabled American Veteran.
“Welcome to my world, as I share my experience, strength, and hope, ‘Un Dia a La Vez.’”
