An ode

"Daddy, how did you know I was a girl when I was born? Did I have tiny earings?"
How my dad laughed at that. Ask him and he'll tell you all about it. Over and over and over again. He'll also tell you how I used to say "I wanna do it my byself". If you can believe it, I was stubborn. Well read and well spoken by the age of three thanks to my pops, and I was still dyslexic when it came to certain phrases and naive as to the ways of the world. But he was always there to softly giggle and humor my beliefs.

Growing up, he was a columnist for the El Paso Times and the El Paso Herald Post, respectively. About twice a year he would write a story or other about me, his, at the time, youngest. Most children would shy away from and be embarassed about said articles. But surprisingly enough, not me. I read his column every day. And if there was even a smidge about me in it, I would rip the article out of the paper and take it to school waving it in the air for all to see and admire. "My daddy's a famous journalist!" I would say, chest swelled with pride, old articles crumpling with sweat in my little hand. "He likes to write stories about me on my birthday! I'm special!" I would brag to all who would listen, friends and strangers alike. I pretty much thought I was the shit.

An accomplished playwright, poet, opinionist and published author, he was recently named El Paso's very own journalistic icon. Using his words to paint pictures about a life in Mexico, to support Chicano Activism or simply to entertain. He is my dad. And I was, AM, proud.

Being the literary lothario that he is, he had high expectations for my sister and me. Though at times, they seemed higher for me. I would get grounded if any of my grades dropped below a C. However, C's were just as unacceptable as F's. He always told me I was smarter than the average kid. That I could do anything I wanted. Granted I attend college. Preferably an above-average university. I'd hoped of attending his alma matter Colombia. I wanted to be just like him. Traveled, relaxed, an intellect in his own right. Hearing about all his adventures and travels, I'd decided at a young age that I would travel. Experience life before I got tied down by the proverbial travails that are suburban America. My dad shared in my future dreams for me. He often told me that he always pictured his baby girl traveling the world, writing poems and basically just enjoying life.

Then came the day I found out I was pregnant. At the ripe young age of 17, I was terrified to tell anyone. Though completely lax in attitude, I still felt pressure from the expectations my family had of me. After telling my mom and sister, it was time to tell my dad. I. Was. Petrified. I cried and pleaded with my sister to not make me tell him. Or worse yet, for her not to spill the beans. We argued for about 20 minutes. "You have to tell him!" she said, "This is not something you can keep from him, he's your father!" To which I redundantly replied, "Why?! I can just be pregnant and he doesn't have to know. Ever. He's in El Paso, we're here! Don't make me tell him, please. He's gonna be so pissed!" I eventually relented at the behest of my sister. She dialed the number. "Daddy, I have something to tell you," I said somberly. When I broke the news, the floodgates opened. "How could you get pregnant mija?! You had so much going for you. Your life is going to be so hard." I involuntarily received a new ass hole. Four years later the second pregnancy wouldn't go over so well either. Lectures about how now being a mother of two and a housewife would make it even harder for me to go to college, get a degree, be a writer like I'd so wished. " I'll go to college daddy. I'll be a writer. I promise."

Twenty-eight years later, his baby girl is all grown up. A mother of a six year old girl and a soon to be ten year old son, I've somehow reached adult hood, no matter how immature I may seem at times. A writer in my own right, a soon to be licensed cosmotologist and most importantly, still a dreamer, I owe a lot of my wit, charm and sardonic humor to him. Granted, the other players in my life who made me who I am today are my mother and my big sister, but in different ways. Every time I talk to my dad is like sitting with Plato, Socrates, Chuck Pahlaniuk. At least in my eyes. So tonight I'll raise my glass to him. A little late on the sentiment, but you know me, better late than never, right. Happy Father's day daddy. Now I get to write stories about you.