He was a father, named for his father; a leader; an icon for his and future generations and a symbol that perhaps one day we will not look at people by the color of their skin, but instead by the substance of their person.
But today is also the anniversary of something much more personal to me. Today is the 46th anniversary of my father's death.
My father, also named for his father, died in Kenbridge, VA on Jan. 18, 1964. I was ten years old, the oldest of four children.
I remember that our landlord Tommy Maybush and a police officer came to our door in Staunton to tell my mother. Her first words, as I remember, were expressing concern for us, her children.
My father fell from a water tower that he was painting in a distant town in the southwest corner of our state, away from his family. He was a steeplejack; a person that painted tall and dangerous structures like steeples, bridges, water towers.... As best as anyone knows, he became overcome by the odor of the paint and fell down the inside of the tower. They told my mom he was probably dead before he hit the bottom, but I don't believe that. I think that is something that people tell the loved ones so they won't suffer as much, thinking of the pain that such a fall would bring.
Martin Luther King, Jr. was a savior of sorts and the death of my father in a way brought salvation to me. My father was a troubled person, an alcoholic, who struggled with his life and who had tried to end it on more than one occasion. I have often wondered what would have happened to our family if he had lived. I don't know if we would have even had a chance. He drove us in his car when he was drunk; he threatened the lives of our mother and us if she would ever try to leave. He was a binger and we never knew when he would show up, drunk. Who knows what would have become of four little children in such an unstable and volatile environment?
The many good qualities of my dad were overshadowed to me by the realities of his alcoholism, though I have long ago dealt with the facts of his life and death. It's not even that painful to me anymore, but on this day, a day when we celebrate the birth of someone who brought hope to so many people, I feel emotional thinking about it.
I loved my father. I wish that he could have been healthy and lived. I missed him. I still miss him, not so much that he died but that he lived in a way that he could not be a real father.
He was handsome. He was charming. He was an alcoholic. He was my father.
No comments:
Post a Comment