Last Sunday was Father’s Day and while I was celebrating with my dad, I was thinking about his dad. I have a hard time wrapping my head around that man, Jose. Often, I wish he was still alive as I miss him but I find it so strange to miss someone I barely knew. This has been the theme in many of my relationships with men. I miss them but I hardly knew them. It’s been five months that Zach broke up with me and I miss him. I often berate myself for this fact. But back to my grandfather.
My grandfather was born in Michoacan, Mexico. He was the youngest of two children. Whether the family was rich or poor, I do not know. I do know that my grandfather lost his father at age 6. Emiliano (my father, nephew, and cousin would be named after him) was murdered
, which was a tragedy as he was a good-looking man. By age 29, my great-grandmother was a single mother and in those days, not having a husband, she was worth less than dirt. I think of my great-grandmother as well; she never remarried. She devoted herself to her family particularly, almost fanatically, she was devoted to my grandfather and then my father.
Growing up must have been hard for my grandfather especially knowing that his father had been murdered. I wonder if he obsessed over it, as I often obsess over things that hurt me. Did he vow revenge? Did he ever forgive? I imagine the possibilities that he would have had if he would had simply had a father-figure. I picture his childhood relationship with his mother a bit like Norman Bate minus the serial killer. My great-grandmother was very religious and had a hate for other women, particularly women who married into the family. The relationship with his mother would later have negative consequences during every known marriage in the family. That’s a lot of power to have consolidated by one crazy bitch. I secretly admire it and covet it.
I have no idea if he dated. Like I said, I don’t know much about him except for many of the grandiose tales of murder, child molestation accusations and federal tax evasion. This is one of the main reasons I loved my grandfather, he lead a very ambiguous life. As a kid growing up, I thought of him as a spy. The reason I don’t know much about him is because he was a spy, duh. They lead extraordinary lives but they also keep lots of secrets. This is also one of the reasons I am attracted to the Cigarette Smoking Man in the X-files. Creepy, right?
My grandfather came to the US, first to Oregon, maybe in the late 60s or early 70s, again no one in the family can confirm anything. He came to escape a murder trial. He was accused of killing the man who killed his father. Very Shakespearean; strangely, it was true, or so he says. He left four or five children, maybe all seven, and his first wife, my grandmother. And then his life got blurry or it was so traumatic that no one talks about it. And I mean no one. The End.
What do they mean “The End”? That is not how it ended. I was born in ’84!! It’s incredibly frustrating trying to get details. I met the man for crying out loud. I formed my own sick, twisted, infatuation with this man. I was there until the day he died. I visited him when he was in prison. He sent me letters and I sent him letters. I loved him when no one else would. I was there on his deathbed. I was the only one who received advice. I made him proud. HE EVEN TOLD ME!!! But I still have questions and I demand answers!
Did my grandparents ever love each other? No idea. But they had a total of seven kids (my dad being right in the middle but the first male)! Does anyone in my family have the Hollywood tale of falling in love, getting wooed, marriage, a big wedding? Not really. No. Why are we so fucked up? Is it because my grandfather’s dad was murdered? Why did my grandparents get married? Why have seven children? Why did he have to go and kill someone? Why did he come to the USA? Why not Guatemala or England?
I’m fucked. I just feel fucked. All. the. time.