"Celebrating ends in tragedy. Tragedy ends in celebration. As for me, I want to live my life between celebrations and tragedy...and learning from them. Being a better person that knows how to deal with both, without escaping to a bottle. I will break that cycle. I will not be the past." ~YIP
I think I was 3 and that's the first clear memories I have of going to dinner on weekends with my family to our favorite italian restaurant for gourmet pizza. I think the place was called Palermo's. Dad always ordered beer with our pizza, so did my uncles and aunts. Even Mom ordered this beer called Pink Champale...just one. But, I remember me sitting next to my dad in that poorly lit restaurant, glasses clinking left and right, and me struggling to look over the table since I was so short. Every new beer they brought my dad, in a frosty mug, he'd dip his pinky finger and let me taste it. I thought it tasted horrible the first few times, but the smile my dad gave me...almost like he was proud of me...always made me ask for more. Mom would give him a glare, that I didn't understand back then. He'd simply say "It's just a taste".
The older I got, he'd let me sip from it or finish off the mug. Again, I thought it tasted something awful, but I didn't gag anymore. He'd smile at me and pat my head or tuck my hair behind my ear and call me "muñeca". His little minime. His doll.
There was always beer at home. One six pack at a time, but always in our fridge. If he was working outside and it was hot, he wouldn't drink water. He'd drink a few beers. If he got home from a long day at work, he'd drink beer. If he was doing laundry or building a toy for me, there was beer. When family died, there was a lot of beer. When someone got married or there was a party, there was beer. When we'd go out and eat, there was beer. When he took me on sales calls with him, and I'm talking about me being 4 or 5 years old, we'd go to lunch at some hole in the wall bar and shoot pool, while he drank. Never more than 3 or 4 beers. But there I was, a child in a bar, shooting pool with my dad at 1 p.m. on a Wednesday while he sipped on his beer and I drank a Coke, with a few sips of his beer.
I do not remember a moment where Dad chose not to drink. I do, however, remember the fights. Mom asking him why he had to always drink. He'd claim he wasn't drunk. That he only had one or two. Mom would ask "But why do you NEED to drink every day? Yari is watching that. Your dad died of liver issues and was a drunk. You don't need to keep the cycle going, Carlos!". He'd say "I drink because I want to, not because I need to. If I didn't want to drink I wouldn't. Simple. It's hot out. It was a bad day at work. I just want a beer without having to fight, Coly." Mom would leave in a huff...I'd be confused. He wasn't drunk, so why did Mom mind?
He started getting home late every night. He claimed he had meetings with clients and they could only meet at bars or restaurants. He'd reek of beer, but didn't seem drunk. Then again he just came in and hop in the shower and go to bed. He didn't have time for me anymore, and when he did, he had to go buy a case instead of a six pack. If we went to the beach we'd spend half a day getting beers and getting his cooler ready. He played with me some in the water, but always went back to get more beers. The fights got worse at home. I was 7...and one night...9 o'clock rolled around and he never got there.
I remember Mom sitting on the porch, in our rocking chair and me sitting on the swing next to her. She didn't say a word, but I knew we were waiting for him. It got later. This was not an age where we had cell phones. So if he was dead in a ditch, we'd find out late at night when the cops came knocking our door. We finally went to bed, in an absurdly quiet house. Mom didn't even lay down with me, even though I needed the comfort. I was worried. Uneasy. Then, I heard the front door opening, his keys jiggling against it and scraping. I laid still in my bed, not wanting any of them to know I was still awake. I heard dad mumble something, and Mom yelling hysterically "What happened to you? Why are you covered in blood? What happened to your arm?? Carlos! It's 2 am where were you?!". There was more yelling, things slamming...mostly from Mom. Dad just seemed quiet. Then everything went silent. I heard him open the door to my room, where I laid in my twin bed with a canopy. Staring at the Rainbow Brite design on my bed sheet and canopy sheet, concentrating on the red stars and counting them. The moon always shone into my bedroom so it was light enough that I could make out details. He sat at the edge of my bed and I scooted over. He laid next to me, in his work clothes and laid his right arm over his forehead. I saw it wrapped up in a cast and bloody...and I felt like crying. I was terrified. But I stayed quiet. Then, he just cried. Not loudly. Not saying anything. He just laid there and cried. I didn't ask anything, just turned my back against him and stared at the wall. It felt like he needed privacy...or maybe I didn't know how to handle it. The next day details emerged. He had gotten drunk with a client, fell asleep at the wheel on the drive home and had a head on collision with a family that was traveling in a station wagon. He almost killed everyone, including 3 kids. He almost got his ass beat by the drivers of that other car who were in a rage that a drunk driver almost ended their family.
He stopped drinking. Completely. For a few years. Then it was back to just one every now and then...then one every day...then 4 or 5 every day. Never drunk. But drinking, nonetheless. When he left us and went to live with that lady, I was 16 and knew better. This time he'd call me drunk. Piss ass drunk. She'd let him drink all he wanted. So I'd get a 10 minute call with him saying "I love you so much Yari. Please forgive me"...and the rest was an endless babble of slurred words. Promising this. Promising that. I'd say "Dad, stop drinking. Please". He'd get incensed and say he wasn't a drunk. That he didn't have a problem. I said "Fine, then bring me a case of beer. I'm not old enough to buy yet".
And he did. He was living with that lady but stopped by the house every afternoon after work and drop me off a case of Michelob or Lowenbrau. I can't imagine what it did to my mom to see me drinking at 16. One beer...two beers. At most. Not drunk. Not even buzzing. But I drank every day. Then it got out of hand when I was old enough to buy in PR (18). I was drunk every night...but I could stop. If I wanted to. Right?
Nowadays, he gives me a sad look when I'm drinking...why? Hypocrite. You taught me the best, Dad. When I'm agitated, I drink. When I'm happy, I drink. When I'm hanging with friends, I drink. When I'm feeling alone, I drink. Sad? Drink. Monday? Drink. Wednesday? Drink. BBQ with family? Drink. Lunch after church on a Sunday? Drink. Funny thing is that I remember exactly why I started drinking. One night, as I was getting drunk for the first time with my buddies in PR, I said "I'm not drinking because it tastes good...I'm drinking because it helps". So I forced myself to like everything I drank.
Is that what I want for my children? For my family? Friends? The fact that every time they see me or hang out with me I have a beer in my hand? I will be damned if I turn into my father.
Just like I can choose to drink, just one. I can choose not to drink. That gives me power. That gives me faith. That makes me better than my blood line. That is ensuring that, whenever I do have kids, they see that I only drink...moderately...when it merits it. Not using life's events...or non-events as an excuse.
I won't be stuck with another one like my father. Ever again.
