Kermit, Texas Church of the Nazarene

Sometimes, my father would joke, “I feel like I’m fading.” Other times, sitting across the table from me at breakfast, he’d tell me he felt out of sorts. I’d ask him what he meant, and he’d wave a firm palm in front of his face and say, “Just out of it.”

Sometimes, his eyes would grow glassy with tears and he’d stare straight ahead. Even then, I was mad he was sick.

Denial about Alzheimer’s

For so long, we were all in denial about my dad’s disease. Diseases. Alzheimer’s, Neimann-Pick Disease, general dementia, does it matter? We’d come to believe it was just the way he was.

Seven or eight years ago, we got a letter from the United States Department of Navy telling us the atomic bomb tests he’d been exposed to could be responsible for his disease, but they could not entirely correlate them as health effects because of his age. There would be no reparations for my father, reparations that might provide him with far better care.

All I could think of was he’d been sick since I was 14, maybe longer, which means we needed to contact the Navy 25 years before we did. It was then that I began to come to terms with how long my dad had been suffering and just how long we’d all been clueless. We’d made excuses for him, sometimes even blamed him for his illness. I think as long as I thought it was his fault, we could change it.

Everywhere I Go

I think of my father everywhere I go these days. I thought of him last night when we were at the International Finals Rodeo. He loved cowboy culture and would have loved watching all the events. He loved to take road trips and scout out new haunts. He never called them cokes. They were always sodas. He embraced culture and music on a daily basis. I get my sense of local adventure from him. He never had the money to travel very far, but he was always going somewhere new. This used to drive us all crazy, and now, I’m kind of like him in this way. Without the brown suit and cowboy hat; red bandanna and whistle.

Freak Flags

The truth is, my dad and I both had freak flags and we were happiest when we were flying them together.

In the late 1950s, prior to desegregation, my father pastored one of the only Black Nazarene churches in Los Angeles. He loved that church, even if he hated Fat Albert, Sanford and Sons and The Cosby Show. I hated it that he hated those shows. Today, as I sat in church, I thought of him, like I do every Sunday. He was devoted to the teachings of John Wesley and the doctrine of holiness, and that’s how he raised me.

A committed Democrat, he would loathe how so many evangelical churches have transformed into Republican precincts. He wouldn’t like it that my kids are being raised Catholic or that Robert has converted and that it’s like I will, too. But, I think he would understand. I am not rejecting or betraying him, and my love for God has not waned.

Gilmer, Texas, 1980

Dreams of My Father

My father had many dreams for me, and I know behind the tiny locked doors of his mind he still does. He still believes in me as a writer. He didn’t take kindly to the idea of me being in PR. It perplexed him. I think he thought it was a distraction or a detractor. He was probably right, it was both.

More than anything, my father wanted me to write the truth. He was fine with any risk I might take to accomplish this. He didn’t want me to play it safe. When I became oriented to a cause he would say, “Let it rip.”

Tell The Truth

When we lived in Arkansas, my father often conducted services at the local convalescent home. During his sermons, an old, gray Black gentleman would repeat the phrase, “You tellin’ the trut, you tellin’ the trut.” I loved that. That man reminded me of a song of the same era, Old Dogs and Children and Watermelon Wine. 

I love to tell the truth, which is different than telling people what I think. The truth is independent of thought. All we can do is shine a light on it. I want to search for the truth in every situation. It’s the only way to put down the lies that destroy us.

If I wrote the truth about just one, 24-hour day, or last night or two weeks ago or five years ago or told you what happened in 1979, my writing would be transformed. My boring, uneventful world would be less ho-hum because mostly, everybody lies and everybody pretends.

Someday, I will write the whole truth. That’s why I hope it was the atomic bombs or the lead paint my father swathed on the decks of ships that took him away from us. Because if it’s just bad genes, that could change my timeline for everything.

***

Dearest Dad,
Your yearling daughter has sent a message through…I still love you.
(Borrowed from Grandaddy and Disconnecty)

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