My father is from Guadalajara, Mexico. He told me that he lived in California before he ended up in Texas. He once detailed to me a time when he was working in the fields of California, picking strawberries. I try to imagine what that must have been like for him: Having to bend over for hours in the blazing heat, picking hundreds, maybe thousands of strawberries. Working so hard to afford a place to live and food to feed himself. I wonder if he ever thinks about that time while he cuts up the strawberries he buys at the grocery store.

I recall a time when we were watching T.V., and a commercial for Disneyland came on. Sitting on our tattered couch, I said “Quiero ir allí algún día.” He replied, “Cuando yo vivía en California, podía ver los cohetes de Disney desde donde dormía. Los vide todo el tiempo.” I just hummed in acknowledgment. I had so many questions, but I didn’t dare voice them. Did he enjoy living in California? What was it like for him there? 

When I grew up, I began to see how the events in his life molded him into who he was. My father was strict and hot-headed. I think I inherited his temper. When we spoke, it always resulted in an argument. While I showed resentment towards my father, I still loved him. My mom died when I was only a baby, I had only known my father and his love. I felt obligated to slink back to him once I was “done” being angry. My father was not the best at comforting me in times of need. Sure, he would wrap an arm around my shoulders while they shook because I was crying when visiting my mom’s grave, but that was the extent of his comfort.

There was one time I was able to experience genuine love from my father. It was during my sophomore year of high school, an incredibly dark time in my adolescent life. I walked into my house after school, and there he was on the weathered couch. He was home from work early. The sight of him, I couldn’t help tears filling my eyes. I wiped them away discreetly and sat next to him. We sat in silence watching the news in Spanish. I needed something I knew he couldn’t provide. Still, I moved closer to his side and leaned against him. He did what he knew best and put his arm around my shoulder, then he asked, “¿Cómo te fue en escuela?” As those words left his mouth, I broke down. I cried the hardest I had ever dared in front of him. He hugged my head to his chest while I sobbed until I couldn’t breathe. My father held me and let me cry until there were no more tears left. He asked me what was wrong, but I didn’t know what to tell him, so I just shrugged my shoulders, wiped my eyes, and escaped to my room.

We never talked about that day. We never talked about anything. I have since moved out of our house and I don’t call him as often as I should. There are so many things I wish I had the guts to ask him about. I want to know more about him. I want to know more about his life and his experiences, the good and the bad. Maybe one day we will sit down and talk about everything. I still wait for that day.