A Good Man

My father was a good man. Not a great one, but certainly not bad in the least. He was known by friends, family, and acquaintances alike as the man who gave too much, even to those who did not seem to deserve his kindness or generosity. There were also many people who saw him, this small 5’5” man, words laced thick with the love for his home country of Mexico, skin tanned and firm like the leather of his favorite huaraches, and thought,

“ There is no way this little, immigrant man can offer more than just the clothes off his back. “

They would be wrong.

His name was Manuel. His eyes were dark brown, round, and full of mischief. His hair was soft with short curls of deep earth that I loved so much I’d run my young fingers through each tuft of unruly warmth when he came home from a long day working at a tire shop. In recent years he lost so much weight due to chronic illness, but I can still barely remember the beer belly he carried, adorned by a white - collared uniform shirt, and the fullness of his cheeks. My father was a fan of jokes and loved making people laugh, especially younger people and kids. It’s one of the first aspects about him that I can call a good deed. An act he carried without needing or expecting anything in return.

Whenever we’d go to the store, my father, my younger brother, and I, it would feel a little bit embarrassing seeing him walk up to a crying baby or toddler and do his best to make them smile. A silly face here, some baby talk there.

“ Que tienes, papacito ? Porque lloras, princesita ? “, he’d coo and squat down to their level, mustache entering the child’s short field of vision. Questioning them as if they were able to communicate right back at him.

During a time long before the infamous COVID-19 began destroying families, and with consent from whichever frustrated mother gave to this strange man in the middle of a Wal-Mart, my father would even pluck these kids up from their strollers and bounce them around. Of course, you’d just hear a cacophony of gurgling cries and fussing, but that was only at first. Not long after, his magic, my beloved father’s kind aura, would begin to work. Relief would soon adorn the face of the frustrated mother as their previously fussy child’s cries would cease, transforming into a song of giggles and happy babbling. Tiny fists making a grab for his thick whiskers and beaming laughter.

Seeing that happiness made it a little less embarrassing to my adolescent eyes.

His good deeds also extended themselves into financial help for whomever asked. Many times I’ve seen a friend of my father’s, a coworker down on their luck, a distant family member needing money for medicine or bills ask for a small loan. But my father could not oblige to small loans, instead turning them into not so small gifts.

“ Don’t worry about paying me back. As long as you really, truly needed the money, I don’t want anything in return. “, a laugh and good wishes for their families would follow. My father genuinely had nothing but the best wishes for people, even if the sum of money was big enough to cover more than one month’s worth of rent.

Sometimes, money wasn’t what was asked for. You see, as not only a great manager but a jovial, out - going man, he had a lot of acquaintances and connections made. If ever a favor was needed, maybe a discount here or a tactful introduction there, he would be the man for the job. As a kid I didn’t know the importance of having big friends in big places and just found my introverted, little self being more afraid of the amount of people my father knew, but I see now that part of his charm and kind hand was in the connections he so easily made. For my dad was such an easy - going and high - spirited man. His aura was unlike any other, so many people can attest to that.

Most of his kindness was seen in how he loved and cared for his family. My father came from a large family with more siblings than I could count on both hands, immigrating to California at the tender age of sixteen. As soon as he found his footing in such a strange, new place, his life became nothing but work, work, and more work. As he grew to acclimate to this new country, my father never once left his family behind to fend for themselves.

He sent hundreds of dollars to all of his siblings, their families, and his own parents, too. Never once failed to make sure everyone had food in their bellies and pocket money to spend. Our yearly trips to Mexico always started off with calling all of his siblings, even months in advanced, asking what they needed. Clothing, shoes, electronics, cosmetics, personal items, accessories, he’d start accumulating it all. The cost never bothered him. He somehow always had money to spare, and I know my extended family took every dollar with glee. They depended on him even after he became blind and developed an inoperable knee injury.

Of course when he couldn’t work anymore, when the money stopped flowing, it was then that the plethora of friends and acquaintances began to vanish. Many family members suddenly didn’t know what his phone number was, or where he lived, and although it clearly bothered him as a social man, he never spoke ill of anyone.

“ It’s the hard reality, mija, but when everyone depends on you because of all the material items you give them, and then you lose those materials, you lose a lot of ‘ friends ‘, too. “

“Aren’t you mad, dad ? I would be. “

“ At first, yes. Of course. They still remembered my name when they needed something from me, but now that I have nothing left to give, they don’t know who I am anymore. But the fine thing about becoming sick is getting to know who really cares. It’s the people who matter and truly love you that stick around. “

I’d sit on the sofa next to his recliner, make it known that I’m there so he wouldn’t struggle to feel around for my arm to feel or touch my hair and tell me it’s too short.

To say my father was a good man might not be enough if I start to think about it. He was a great man. A wonderful friend. The most loving brother, son, uncle, and dad anyone could have known. I’ve heard stories of him in his youth in years way before he even dreamt of life outside Mexico where he lived and loved to protect his siblings and can only be grateful that I got to live 23 years of my life knowing, loving, laughing, crying, and annoying the crap out of that man. To witness even just a fraction of his good deeds, even when he was being taken advantage of, was the greatest honor.

I hope someone out there could see some light in the life my father, Manuel, left behind.

Te amo un chingo, dad. Until we meet again.