Sins of the Flesh
Today, my roommate and I went to "see a man about a horse." Not really, but we did go get him a tattoo. I'm not too big on tattoos, because I do have somewhat a phobia of needles and more so of commitment - but that's a whole 'nother blog site to begin with - therefore I will not tread.
When we got there, the 'tattooist' was sitting next to a little seven-ish year old boy playing a Gameboy Advance while stroking the blonde hair of a little four-ish year old girl. Cute kids I thought - even the little 'very white' looking girl. The little boy, no doubt had some Aztec blood - it was obvious due to his arrogant, fuck you demeanor that I see in my little cousins. Don't ask how I know this - it's just an hecho mendigo thing.
Quickly he got up from the zebra stripped couch, putting "daddy time" on hold for a couple of hours as he tended to my friend, some dark skin, an enormous nipple, and ink. Three hours later I noticed that the interaction with the kiddies had been limited to "what do you want? Okay baby go sit down."
As I watched dad begin work on my roommate's tattoo, I realized these kids must be used to Korn pounding from 12" woofers, while daddy and his tattoo covered body ink aesthetic emotions by way of tribal bands, Spanish Armada type ships, Irish last names in Olde English font, and an infinite list of skin propaganda. Sunday's are spent in a back room in Whittier eating chocolate chip cookies, drinking soda, and bouncing around on a dirty couch while daddy splits fatherly duties and work time.
But all good things come to an end... In conservative mommy attire - like Jesus appearing before the devout, she returns. They storm towards her like Bryant Gumble towards a group of Stepford Wives look-a-likes. Pobresitos, the kids and Gumble. I knew it... she's speaking Spanish to the kids - "que quieres mi amor, has comido?" and the gripes about Daddy begin, but he ignores them and finds an escape route in his art. These kids aren't worth a simple good-bye from daddy. Mom is surely upset and walks out with kids, cookies, and a bad taste in her mouth... she never looks back, but the little ones do.
So I wonder what runs through his mind as his kids leave with mom and he continues with his mundane construction life, while vying for sanity on the weekends by tattooing young and old. Does he know that the permanent ink blots he tats on strangers aren't the only permanent memories he's fabricating. His kids will surely remember these weekends, their father, and his distance. I have no idea what kind of man he is... I try not to judge, but I do form opinions. I hope he's more of a father outside of this place - preferably where it counts, but that's unlikely and doesn't it always count?
A not so funny thing happened - he screwed up my roommate's tat... he shaded an area that wasn't supposed to be shaded (I had left by then). He apologized, said he'd fix it, and chalked it up to lost concentration... did he remember his little girl, his little boy? Was he thinking of them and of what kind of impression they had of their father? Has he done enough? It's definitely not too late if he hasn't, but it's too early to tell he has. Like the ink on his neck, shoulders and arms, these memories stay with children/teens/adults forever.
As I recall my dad spanking me with a thick leather belt for saying or doing the wrong thing, I thank him. I respect him for the man that he was back then and continues to be. Memories of him working two jobs and coming home late and tired tattoo the soul, the memory... But these tats, leave me with the guilt that not many others are fortunate to have the father that I did/do.
I have a deep appreciation for fathers who surpass unreasonable expectations, those who go above and beyond the call of duty by not just putting food on the table, instilling some kind of human perspective, and showing some love, but by doing everything in their power to make a better life for their offspring - as Malcolm said, "by any means necessary." These trailblazers set the blue print for good people who can change the world, who can inspire those around them... it's not to say those without amount to shit, because we all know underdogs overcome and we cheer with glee when they do... but the underdogs remain just that.
When we got there, the 'tattooist' was sitting next to a little seven-ish year old boy playing a Gameboy Advance while stroking the blonde hair of a little four-ish year old girl. Cute kids I thought - even the little 'very white' looking girl. The little boy, no doubt had some Aztec blood - it was obvious due to his arrogant, fuck you demeanor that I see in my little cousins. Don't ask how I know this - it's just an hecho mendigo thing.
Quickly he got up from the zebra stripped couch, putting "daddy time" on hold for a couple of hours as he tended to my friend, some dark skin, an enormous nipple, and ink. Three hours later I noticed that the interaction with the kiddies had been limited to "what do you want? Okay baby go sit down."
As I watched dad begin work on my roommate's tattoo, I realized these kids must be used to Korn pounding from 12" woofers, while daddy and his tattoo covered body ink aesthetic emotions by way of tribal bands, Spanish Armada type ships, Irish last names in Olde English font, and an infinite list of skin propaganda. Sunday's are spent in a back room in Whittier eating chocolate chip cookies, drinking soda, and bouncing around on a dirty couch while daddy splits fatherly duties and work time.
But all good things come to an end... In conservative mommy attire - like Jesus appearing before the devout, she returns. They storm towards her like Bryant Gumble towards a group of Stepford Wives look-a-likes. Pobresitos, the kids and Gumble. I knew it... she's speaking Spanish to the kids - "que quieres mi amor, has comido?" and the gripes about Daddy begin, but he ignores them and finds an escape route in his art. These kids aren't worth a simple good-bye from daddy. Mom is surely upset and walks out with kids, cookies, and a bad taste in her mouth... she never looks back, but the little ones do.
So I wonder what runs through his mind as his kids leave with mom and he continues with his mundane construction life, while vying for sanity on the weekends by tattooing young and old. Does he know that the permanent ink blots he tats on strangers aren't the only permanent memories he's fabricating. His kids will surely remember these weekends, their father, and his distance. I have no idea what kind of man he is... I try not to judge, but I do form opinions. I hope he's more of a father outside of this place - preferably where it counts, but that's unlikely and doesn't it always count?
A not so funny thing happened - he screwed up my roommate's tat... he shaded an area that wasn't supposed to be shaded (I had left by then). He apologized, said he'd fix it, and chalked it up to lost concentration... did he remember his little girl, his little boy? Was he thinking of them and of what kind of impression they had of their father? Has he done enough? It's definitely not too late if he hasn't, but it's too early to tell he has. Like the ink on his neck, shoulders and arms, these memories stay with children/teens/adults forever.
As I recall my dad spanking me with a thick leather belt for saying or doing the wrong thing, I thank him. I respect him for the man that he was back then and continues to be. Memories of him working two jobs and coming home late and tired tattoo the soul, the memory... But these tats, leave me with the guilt that not many others are fortunate to have the father that I did/do.
I have a deep appreciation for fathers who surpass unreasonable expectations, those who go above and beyond the call of duty by not just putting food on the table, instilling some kind of human perspective, and showing some love, but by doing everything in their power to make a better life for their offspring - as Malcolm said, "by any means necessary." These trailblazers set the blue print for good people who can change the world, who can inspire those around them... it's not to say those without amount to shit, because we all know underdogs overcome and we cheer with glee when they do... but the underdogs remain just that.
posted by Lucio Rodriguez at 12:55 AM
1 Comments:
you are right, lucio. it is as simple and perfect as that. you are right. good for you and good for your father for being the role model he owed it to you to be.
i never met my biological father. he was 16, my mom was 14, the rest is just different names and faces. but i was lucky enough to have an uncle step up to the plate for me when i was 12. and before that i had a few different father figures, some serviceable, others horribly inept. but my uncle who became my father is surely a saint, (and i have said so quite clearly in a number of pieces for which he was the subject.)
it's a big deal. if not for him, i guess i would be in prison today. it's the biggest deal of them all. preach on, brothah.
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