Memoirs of a Fatherless Young Man

Today is June 16th, 2013, and it's the eighth year that I'll be celebrating Father's Day without my dad.

For those of you who have known me since I began school at Divine Child, around fifth grade, the fact that my Father passed away when I was 11 years old is likely preexisting knowledge.

“And please pray for the father of Gabriel and Michael Gutierrez who passed away this past weekend.”

Eyes widened and turned toward me, staring in disbelief, as my personal life was announced through the TV speakers during the school's live morning announcements, the Monday following my father's passing. The halls were extraordinarily quiet that day in sixth grade.

Andy, a six-foot, slightly autistic man-boy, stood in the front of the line outside of Math class, and simply said, “Mike, I'm sorry,” nodding his head in sympathy while he walked into the room.

I probably enjoyed the attention for a short time, ya know? Who am I kidding, of course you don't know. Going from being the new kid who can't play sports and doesn't receive attention from anyone who really matters in the realm of sixth grade popularity, to being the sympathetic highlight of everyone's conversation – even the teachers, I'm sure – and thus, included in everyone's activities outside of class because all the kids' parents pitied the kid with no daddy... It's quite the experience.

Now, this (my father's death) is not a fact that I enjoy people knowing about. I just don't talk about it, and rarely with my closest friends. When people ask about my parents, I usually respond with, “Well, my mom blah blah blah,” and I allow them to make the presumption of my father's role, which is likely the stereotype that my parents are divorced, or that my mom raised me by herself, but those are naturally incorrect. I've learned that having that type of character handicap, in which any given person automatically knows that much about your past, is something of which I'm not very fond.

I suppose that last statement is ironic because I'm publishing this on the web for you to read, and you probably didn't know this about me. However, the point of this post isn't for me to gain your condolences, or your sympathy, or whatever; it's to remind myself that my character – who I am – is largely the result of my father's discipline, love, and death.

The young man that I am, and the man I hope to become, is because of that guy with the slick black hair and the stomach equal in size of two watermelons. His name was Ricardo Humberto Gutierrez – the name of a true Mexican – and I take pride knowing he named me after arguing with my mother as to “what kind of beaner is named Benjie?”

One would wonder: eleven years? Man, that's not a long time to know someone, especially your father.

Well, I'd agree with that person. I have very few true memories of my father that would ideally have the most impact on a person's life, so what results is the picture that other people paint of him. And man, do people have great things to say. If I've learned anything of my father's character, it's that he was a man's man, simply put. He raised children who weren't even his, whom, to this day, acknowledge him as their own father, raising their children to call him grandpa. I've learned that he was the type of guy to give you the shirt off his back. And although I may not have known him to the point of being able to answer “WWRD?”, I've come to conclude that he would say something like this:

“They say behind every great man there's a woman. While I'm not a great man, there's a great woman behind me.”

A small silver jewelry box lies stage center of my mother's bathroom counter, with the inscribed words “Richard and Lydia, Unforgettable Love.” Boy, did my dad love my mom. Crazily. In the lore of my family's stories, amongst his slightly racist jokes and hilarious anecdotes, my dad is famous for watching QVC, the TV home shopping channel, and buying nearly every product that he figured my mom could use. Even when he was in the hospital during his last few days, he was explaining to my mom how he planned to knock down all the walls separating the living spaces from the kitchen.

Classic Richard, if I may say so myself, always looking to get stuff done, always looking past his current situation and onto the next one. Similarly, he informed my mother that when God took him for good, she better go out and find another man. Pretty crazy, huh? I still can't quite grasp the realities behind those words, and while it's probably not an easy task for another fellow to step in just like that, he encouraged her to go and make another man's life just as amazing as she had made his.

All came in due time, and my mother did find someone – my middle school football coach. Shortly after I found myself starting both ways.

Joking, of course. But really, everything had taken its course and she found someone again. To be quite honest, the guy makes my mom happy, and if he can manage to do that, he's got my approval. Tim is a whole 'notha story for another blog post, but I digress.

My mom's effort to keep us above water during those hard times have proven successful. Ya know, I look back and wonder how things could've ended up had my mom not been so strong: depression, possible loss of the tortilla shop, stop going to church, etc. But I'd say my mom did a damn good job balancing the love of a mother and the discipline of a father after my own had passed. To you, Mom, I wish a happy Father's Day. You play both roles when some parents can't even manage to play one.

It's unfortunate that I didn't have my father there to see me break my own track records, or to see me go to my first Prom, or to see me graduate, or to see me living on my own here in California. I really do wish I had those experiences. You all are so lucky, because you don't have to wonder, “am I the man that my father wanted me to be?” Your fathers watched the first film you shot and cheered for you when you made your first touchdown and shared your first beer with you. Yeah, I guess I can say that I'm definitely jealous of you.

I don't know if he'd like the music I listen to, or my taste in women, or my choice of career. Whether he'd like my new watch, or my new haircut, or my new job, or the way I handled my breakup, and I definitely wouldn't want to know what he would have done if he had found my fake ID, but...

While my father lacks physical presence, he most definitely is here spiritually, and I pray every single night that God will allow him to intercede in my life as if he were still here. 

Until the day comes when we meet again, Pops, just know that I love you, and I'd give anything to spend another day with you.

Shouting from Earth to the Heavens, Happy Father's Day.