I spent part of my father's day trying to write a letter to keep my father from being released to a parole officer on U.S. soil. A judge will make the final decision as to whether he should stay here or be deported to his country of birth. I am for deportation. Why should he be allowed to enjoy life in America? Life right now is hard in the U.S. but its even more difficult in his country of birth so I think he should go back to whence he came. So then, why is it so hard for me to write this letter?
I realize I am putting a lot of pressure on myself to write the most compelling letter ever written in scribal history. I feel that my letter will be that defining thing, being that I am the oldest child. So I must write it in a way so that it will influence the most unwavering judge. So it has been two days and I have not written anything of substance yet. I stepped back today just to try to figure this out. Yes, I want him to be deported. Yes, I am mad as hell that he is being released from jail for killing my mom-a crime that feels like it happened yesterday. And yes, I hate reliving all of the turmoil I witnessed as a child, living with my parents.
I realize that I am putting off writing this letter because I am afraid it won't be good enough. But hey, I'm not writing a dissertation. But I feel, once again, that all the pressure is on my shoulders to write the best emotionally tugging letter that will influence the immigration judge. I'm writing my thoughts, my experiences, my feelings which hold weight for me so why not the judge. Sometimes I just really want to forget that my father ever existed. But then I would have to forget that my mom existed and then I would have to forget about my existence. Do you see the confusion? My mother, my father-they are both a part of me. Regardless of the pain my father has exacted upon me, he has contributed to my existence. He is my only surviving parent and I have not seen him in over 16 years. The child in me yearns for a daddy but the adult in me has to write him off as dead.
Crazy enough, my father did show me love. I was like his little princess. Anything I wanted, he would give me. I didn't ask for much so he would give me more than I ever wanted. He used to drive me around, touring the city, giving me a lesson about the historical significance of each building. He would always send me birthday and Christmas cards in the mail and have a birthday cake with my favorite pineapple filling waiting for me when I came home from school. He never laid a hand on me to hit me ever but he was like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Although he never hurt me physically, he destroyed me emotionally as he hurt my mother over and over again. So really, is that love?
He really messed up a life that could have been wonderful. But anyway, I think this blog could be the letter I have been avoiding. Hmmmmm.