I wasn’t supposed to write tonight, but I’m moved again.Excuse me for getting a little too personal, but over the last week, I’ve noticed the vital role that fathers play in their offspring’s role. Unfortunately, we still have fathers who won’t own up to being fathers, mothers who berate fathers regardless of how integral a person that man is, fathers who want to be great fathers but never learned, fathers who never wanted to be fathers to begin with but ended up liking it, fathers who love, who kill, who cheat, who work until their bones show, fathers who abuse their positions in life by projecting death, and fathers who despite their faults are fathers to their children.

Some social scientists and psychologists point to how many boys watch their own mothers and sisters go through some sort of abuse and at some point sympathizing with the mother but eventually turning on the victim and wondering how they could allow that to happen. When they grow up, they go on to mimic the behaviors they observed, subconsciously becoming the person they wish they weren’t, but isn’t that the beauty? It leads me to believe that there’s a potential, then, to reverse the negative, and redefine the role of a father, even in the most dire of straits.

This weekend, for instance, I got the chance to go see my fully recovered father in Miami, as I mentioned before. The effect he’s had on his children is profound, even when they don’t realize it themselves. The way they project themselves and treat others has traces of my father all over it. All of his children have a serious sense of humor and a charm about us that translates socially. Yet, each of us have a varying degree of cynicism towards the world, and that comes through in the sarcasm and insecurities some of us display (or displayed). Maybe it’s the way some of us belittle others, or aggrandize ourselves when it’s not that necessary. As water beings, we have a constant need to find a balance of some sort, and by going to one extreme, we can balance out the other extreme. Yet, that’s a reflection of whatever role our father played in our lives, how our mothers reacted to his oscillating presence, and how / if we ever grew from that experience.

Yet, in his most dire moment, close to death, we still made our presence felt near his bed in that ICU, hovering around him, in pain. Fortunately for us, he came back to consciousness. I can’t say the same for one of my good friends. Kel wrote a eulogy to his father on his Xanga, and honestly, it really cut me deep:

However, I did come to know that my father lived life by his own set of rules. And in accordance with his rules decided it was best to pursue his relationship with god on his own terms. In fact, my father said very little to me about life in general. My father never asked me if I did my homework or anything of that nature, which for a child I considered weird. Though my father never said much to me I was fortunate enough to observe his actions and decide for myself if those were actions I wanted to replicate. To some this may be a reckless, haphazard means of parenting, but I will say that it allowed me to become a man in my own right in accordance to my own precepts.

Damn. Underneath his admittedly apathetic exterior lies a man whose soul and heart no one could capture. He lives by his own rules, and thinks as critically as any human being as I’ve ever met. I discover today that influence is paternally genetic. It also makes me wonder if I’m ready to be a father. I’m already a bit of a perfectionist, and my experiences have only led me to believe strongly in the idea of a father, whatever that might mean when I’m ready. I’m far from. I have an ideal for what I want to be as a father, consisting of a boundless list of “not”’s and “don’t”s. Most of my friends have a negative experience with their father, but the ones who had a father in their family are as well-adjusted as people get.

So while I send my friend his condolences over the loss of his father and appreciate the traits I adapted from my father, I try to redefine for myself what a father means these days. Because G_d forbid if I dishonor the title of a father. It’s not just about being 1/2 of someone’s DNA: it’s helping to compose your offspring’s whole humanity.

jose, who’s still trying to understand his own father’s impact on his life …

I recently read on Slate.com that not only is Big Brother watching, but he’s also trying to get into my library, keeping records of the types of personal items I keep and stuff I do on their planes. I wonder what Osama bin Laden’s reading list looks like and if they compare it to my own. I was recently on an airplane on my way to Florida, and everyone but me on the plane was wearing a suit. On my left was a lady who was reminiscent of Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada and a dude on my right wearing a distinctive red turban, and I facetiously thought, “Who’s really the terrorist?”

Speaking of which, I had a discussion of sorts with some anonymous guy in front of the airport as I was waiting to get picked up. (He was smoking a fragrant, green substance wrapped in brown paper). As we get to talking about the 9/11 stories and such, he said something very interesting: “I knew that whole shit was rigged, ’cause I was watching this television interview, I’ll never forget it, 3 years after the attacks, someone asked him what his thoughts were on Osama, and you know what he had the nerve to say? ‘You know, I don’t really think about Osama much these days.’”

Wow.

By the way, I’m sorry if I have a hard time giving thanks to bloggers who namedrop me. I’m usually so humbled, I don’t even know what to say except thanks. To that end, thanks to Hasta Los Gatos Quieren Zapatos, Siobhan Curious, Teaching is Learning, and anyone else I didn’t mention. Just because you’re not on my blogroll doesn’t mean I’m not watchin’.

On another note, the Jena 6 march looked like it was a success. What disappointed me that day was the lack of all-black wearers in my own school (For those that didn’t know, on September 20th, people were asked to wear all black in support of the Jena students). With the density of Blacks and Latinos at the school, I would have thought that there’d be more than 3 teachers wearing it. Then again, people either never “heard of” the Jena 6, ignored it, or realized that most of our kids have never / might never leave past a mile of the school’s region. Sadness.

My father’s in better shape, so thanks to everyone who had him and my family in their thoughts and prayers.

The Yankees look like they’re closing in on another playoff berth huh? …

jose, who’s in heaven right now …

edit: by the way, now my blog is black, white, and read all over, too. har har har …

2nd edit: My Blogcritics article about Black History Month was published. Check it out when you get the chance.

Thanks everyone for your prayers and thoughts. I finally arrived to Florida after a somewhat long trip here. I had a short stop at Washington, DC, and of course, I had to wait a while before someone picked me up. It was weird.

We headed directly to the hospital, and when I saw him, I was in shock. It was the first time I thought I was looking into a mirror; he looked so much more like me than I remembered. It was even scarier with all those tubes flying out of him, for everything he needed like food, water, and air. We take for granted the essentials, and here was this man who couldn’t get those simple elements into his system on his own. He was sedated so he’s stop resisting the treatment. Yikes.

I couldn’t handle it. I mean, we tried to wake him up, and when he heard my name, he reacted by raising his arm. He could hear everything I was saying. That’s a plus. (My other siblings on his side of the family were joking that I must have the Jesus voice, because they couldn’t get that out of him.)

The irony of the whole situation is that everyone around him is starting to help sew the rifts he helped create.

Thanks everyone for keeping me and my family in your prayers, thoughts, and meditations.

and before I forget, R.I.P. 2Pac Amaru Shakur. You’re missed.

jose, who’s not mad at him …

“Find your dreams come true
And I wonder if you know
What it means
To find your dreams …”

I’ve been forced to do a lot of reflection as far as my father’s terrible health right now. The growth I’ve gone through since I’ve seen him has been tremendous. I don’t think I’ve gone through this much growth in such a short period of time since adolescence, and it’s been more inner growth than anything. I’ve come to a bunch of realizations:

- I can’t stand when kids keep getting switched from class to class; it’s bad enough they don’t have stable situations at home. Now we have to switch them constantly in school too? Everything’s in flux for them and school should be more stable than that. I’m going to write a letter to the principal about that. Just when we were starting to gel as a class, and getting things in order, this abrupt change happens. Kinda like a father who comes and goes as he pleases, we have to wonder how the student will react to that constant change.

- I’m completely not ready for children. As much as I’m excited about the prospect of having a child someday, I also realize it’s hard work, and it takes a certain mentality to be a good parent. I’m not ready for that responsibility, and I’m not willing to bend my definition of what it means to be a father for my own selfish purposes. I’d like to be there through and through, but that’s the whole thing about being my age: much more mature than most people in my age group, yet not mature enough to just shut down all that comes with this youth. I’ve resisted becoming so much like my father that it scares me when I even get an inkling that I might be following his path.

- I’m over it. That visit to him in February really helped me grow as a person. I thought I’d swear him off forever, but I made my peace with that man. For those who’ve just met me, check the next poem.

“Original of the Species” by JLV 2007 ©

He’s got this raspy bass about his voice
A French accent to accompany the vocals, too
His dark, rough, weathered, and brown skin
Glistened against the reflected light from the dashboard
His frames tinted, as any Miami resident should have
I envisioned this rather handsome gentleman seducing the women
Who soon became my brothers’ and sisters’ mothers
And mine as well
The ID hanging from his rear view mirror took me aback
For it felt that the ID had some sort of mirror
I started to scan his face for the manly features in my own frame
My lips were certainly fuller than his
And my eyes bulged while his just barely opened
Yet his head and mine were almost identical
His mind and mine worked similarly
And his squint reminded me of mine
I felt like that kid again
The one who admired the other half of his DNA
His intonations through some of his questions yielding a sense of promise
As if the past was too quickly gone and
The future was ours
His charm only enhanced by the fact that I knew who he passed it onto
I came to this city seeking some sort of completeness from seeing him
And showing him that I am a man now
Despite his own faults
Instead, I am a man because of his faults
I inherit all from him
And as I grew, I had to filter out that which was not me about him
Become someone
Become that man
Become me
I am now the original of my species …

jose, who flies out on Thursday …

Man, it’s been a crazy weekend. Unfortunately, I can’t go into specifics, but it’s all accumulating with my father’s worsening health. (If you know how to decrypt, then this is the post for you.) It’s been astonishing to see the feedback I’ve gotten about him, especially with the mixed relationships his children have with him. Some of his children love him All of his children love him, but each has a different way of approaching the father we all share. Some of us are openly affectionate to him, and others are condescending and even hostile to him, but most of us are somewhere in between. I’m just wishing for the best.

For the children on the angrier side of the spectrum, they feel like they have to exact some sort of revenge for how they or their respective mothers were wronged, and that’s where things get messy. Even with other situations I’m noticing, that revenge can get really ugly, where people often feel more pity and taken aback by the person seeking the vengeance for whatever happened.

Revenge is a dish best served well. Some might use the cliche “success is the best revenge,” but success is such a variant term that it can mean anything from actually capturing Osama bin Laden or standing on a boat and telling the country that your mission is accomplished. That’s why when I’ve seen revenge played out in various circles, it makes me feel bad for both parties: there’s usually no sense that the person who messed up to begin with gets that chance to reflect, and the avenger usually doesn’t know how to take the appropriate steps towards revenge. In other words, revenge isn’t being served; it’s just a mess of $#!+ that never ends.

I’ve personally felt the need for revenge, and usually I turn it into something positive. Someone calls me fat, so I lose 20 lbs. in a summer. Someone said I couldn’t make it up a mountain, so I get up the highest mountain in New York State. Someone slighted me academically, so I get the highest grades and win all the awards in the school. Reason #5 as to why I became an educator was to prove to doubters that I’d be making a real difference in someone’s life and not just preaching it. Our actions speak much louder than our words.

For the many people who get hurt, it’s hard to know when to draw the line, but that usually takes some experience and a lot of foresight. Some don’t do it well enough and end up still feeling a bit of resentment. Others go overboard and make themselves look all the more foolish for the whole episode. For most of us, it should give us another opportunity to reflect, improve, and bring something positive to the world. And you don’t even have to be on the precipice of winning another MVP for a New York team … That truly is the best revenge …

jose, who might have to go to Florida on Thursday