Tonight I went to see 50/50. Highly recommended, major tear jerker, Joseph Gordon-Levitt did an amazing job. Anyway, we went as a crew of five, two couples, so I was the 5th wheel. I often dread going to movies with the parents, mostly because Alzheimer's is so prevalent now and there is always someone in the movie who has it and I'm constantly wondering if my momma is going to get sad or resentful or my dad is going to start balling like he did in "The Notebook". This was true once again. The protagonist's dad has the disease and for me, though subtle, the most tragic part (other than the obviously sad cancer storyline) was when his dad gets out of the car and introduces himself to his son. I think about that day coming and how devastating it will be the first time it happens. I'm sure it will get easier once I get used to it, but it still sucks. In PA school I used to tell people I wish my dad had cancer or ALS or anything that left his mind and memory intact and took his body away. My study buddy told me I was crazy and cruel and I didn't know what I was saying, that's when I knew that only those who live it truly understand the pain of this disease.
So instead of focusing on my the current craziness of my pops, I want to share the past magnificence of what he was. As described above, he was the coolest of cool cats. Everyone loved him. He was born and raised in Brooklyn, NY. Born to a Filipino father and Puerto Rican mother in the projects of Hopkins street. Those were the days, so he says. Hand ball, wall ball, kick the bucket, king of the mountain, that's when his ultimate jock status began to take form. Once that became his thang, that's when his popularity came to be and he was adored by girls and idolized by guys, even as a wee little guy: Exhibit #1
See the dude on the left staring in awe and the girls on the right wide-eyed in adoration? That was my dad the majority of his life. His love for women and sports and competition has been evident in my time back home. He's a flirt whenever he is around a good-looking lady and any time we play bocce ball he's one of the best shit talkers around and I'm his daughter! He does have the right to shit talk though, he beats me every time.
My earliest memory of my dad was when I was maybe one or two and he would balance me on one hand. I think he was trying to pass on his athleticism through skin to skin contact, it might have worked, I was in gymnastics by three years old and doing back handsprings by age five. I also remember him teaching me how to ride a bike outside our Wrightwood home in Chicago, the one on the corner with the picket fence. He actually held my seat and told me to petal until I was off like a bandit, that's what dad's are supposed to do. Another incident I remember vividly at the Wrightwood house was some riff-raff hanging out late at night, fighting or trying to break into a car or something and my dad ran down our green stairs out the front door, broke off one of the picket fence sticks and chased them away. That's legit stuff right there, born and raised on the streets of Brooklyn yo!
He was a fun dad and such a kind man. When he worked for the foster grandparents program in El Paso, those people just ate him up. They would come up to my mom and just rave about how much they loved my dad and how he changed their life. That was my pops, true life changer. From building a road as a Peace Corps volunteer in the small town of Guapiles, Costa Rica to working with Lulac to improve the lives of Hispanics, he was a true hero.
The tragedy is not that I don't get to have a dad, the tragedy is that the world doesn't get to know him as we knew and remember him. To this day, though he doesn't know you, he looks at you, scans your energy and will automatically decide if you can be in his space. If you're allowed to be, like Jesse has gotten to be a few times, he still has that kind spirit, the essence that is Matias Benedicto, Jr., daddy, Benny, Ben, and friend.
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