This week I’ve been clearing clutter from a room in my parents’ home while my dad continues to recover from a fall he took five weeks ago. He has been at a nursing/rehab facility, doing physical therapy, and complaining about midwestern food served that doesn’t appeal to him.
Meanwhile my aunt implored me to “take advantage of this time” by cleaning. Since he’s not talking much these days, the cleaning feels more appropriate. His shrine room has walls covered in pictures of saints, and it is also known as the “junk room” to the rest of us.
I’m too embarrassed to post a photo, though I’ve taken many to contrast the Before and After for my own satisfaction.
Too often I stand in judgment about these “mad” collections of cassette tapes, video tapes, random notebooks recording odometer readings, and meals eaten. I’m not proud of that judgment.
Then I look at my iPhone and notice all of my digital clutter, the things I save for “someday” when I’ll have more time. I am definitely my father’s daughter. I consider the things I like to hoard: journals, books, podcast subscriptions, and judgments.
The joke is on me, as I curse the sticky corners of Dad’s room. My annoyance masks the sorrow I’m not willing to feel.
Missed opportunities because I thought of myself as different from my dad, distancing myself. Some of this was internalized white body supremacy, I realize now. And with deep compassion for myself and my family, I grieve this disconnection from myself, from my roots.
***
I could toss all this stuff without looking at it. Boxes of detritus, notes, scraps of saved Catholic material, school classroom pictures, a non-sensical jumble of piles.
I’ve decided to review it first, taking the longer route, trying to understand my dad and perhaps myself better. Where is it that I tend to get obsessed? What are the things I feel like I cannot relinquish?
How am I exactly like the people I come from?
Dad moved far away from his original home to Minnesota in 1970 at age 27 when he married Mom. He laughed as his youngest sisters kicked his suitcase when that Gringa came to take their oldest brother away.
I fled for college four states to the east at age 18. I came home the first summer after college, the last summer returned home for more than a week. It was hard to be home. Small town Delavan, while a safe place to grow up, wasn’t exciting enough for my curious nervous system and fierce ambitions.
Saltillo, Coahuila wasn’t big enough for Dad, despite the band he was in, the income he earned from teaching and playing music.
We returned to his home three times, once when I was one, once at age three, and once at age seven (with my sister). The first two times I was reinecita (little queen) and mariposa (butterfly) to my grandparents. My uncle Javier loved how I looked at my play watch when they asked “Que hora son?”
Only one year old, I already had a keen sense of the passage of time.
The life circumstances were totally different. But personalities have an odd way of being mirrored.
I have KonMari’d my life for the past ~8 years or so, tossing years of textbooks, course notes, and old clothing. Meanwhile my Dad refuses to throw away his years of books and lessons he taught to his bilingual classes. He keeps tangled piles of headphones, taped together when their soft foam has separated from the pair.
Nostalgia. A sense that there was a better time in his life, not wanting to be here in the present.
This is the opposite pole from my usual escape from the present: I go to the future rather than the past. But it doesn’t change the fact that we both find it hard to be present.
He documented so many life moments with the video camera and taping every one of our concerts. I write “future goals” in my journals and work on manifesting something different from what I have now.
It’s not that different. Again, the joke is on me.
***
When we visited Dad last Thursday, we opted to eat with him in the tiny cafeteria. He wouldn’t touch the turkey and mashed potatoes covered in gravy, that Mom and I graciously accepted. All he wanted was his chocolate nutritional drink and the orange jello with mandarins.
His partial denture hasn’t been as comfortable, I think. He’s not eating enough.
Now I see a place where my own anorexia toward self-care begins to peek behind the curtain of my judgement.
Forgiveness enters my mind. And then a cancellation of that in favor of compassion. How can we forgive ourselves for doing the best that we can?
My shame over judging my parents is what needs healing. Humans judge. That’s what we do. Maybe the recognition of this is the point. And restoring humanity to the people who raised us is also what helps us heal from any worthiness wounds.
***
Today we will celebrate Dad’s Saints Day, a tradition typically observed in Mexico. Even more than one’s birthday, the day of the saint that was the source of your name is observed.
We will bring one of his favorite meals, from Mi Rancho, a Mexican Restaurant in Bemidji. I’m almost certain this will be the last celebration of St. Joseph with my Dad.
Yesterday the rehab center was concerned that his behavior was confused. He was “looking for his family.” I’m not sure if they meant us, or family members that have passed, that he may wish to rejoin. Either way, I appreciate the warmth and care I received from him, his kindness toward everyone he met, and also his fun-loving and silly jokes.
Happy Saints Day, Dad.
Beautiful writing Cristy. ❤️ I’m so sorry about your dad’s fall. Also I hoard these things too — journals, books, podcast subscriptions. I’ve been working on being better with “paper” and “digital” clutter over the last few years, but they are the two hardest categories for me, especially if there’s any element of nostalgia involved. Sending hugs.