New York, New York by Laura Arias
“Jason and I are led upstairs by this man, our father, or papi”
Siblings Laura and Jason Arias each wrote about the shared experience of meeting their father for the first time as adults. NAILED Editor Kirsten Larson heard both stories side by side and collected them, adding an introduction essay about memoir, veracity, and art. You can read her essay here. There is a link to Jason Arias’s essay at the bottom of this page.
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Walking to our father's apartment for the first time, through the streets of New York, I am struck suddenly with the thought that I am still wearing my wrinkly travel clothes. We got off the plane just a few hours ago. I don't want to meet him like this. I didn’t know things would move this quickly. Quickly, ha, I've had 32 years of waiting. Why do I care how I look right now? Parents are supposed to love their kids no matter what, right?
A small, dark man comes out of an apartment. He looks like pictures I've seen.
Spotting us he says, “Whaaat! Nooo, my kids? You my kids?” I can't tell if it's his excitement or his Spanish accent that makes the vowel in every word extra-long.
I am pleased that I have been acknowledged right along with my big brother Jason—boys are more highly prized than girls in Dominican culture.
“Look. Look. Look how tall my son is. Oh, papi, you so big. You Jason, right?” His hand is around Jason’s hand.
“Yeah, and you’re Ramon, right?” Jason fires back coldly.
“Ramon? No, I your Daddy, Jason! Your papi.” Our father looks slightly insulted while he pulls Jason in for a hug.
And just like that I am forgotten.
“Why?” I want to ask. Why, are you paying attention to him, he doesn’t care, doesn’t want what you have to give. It’s me. Give your care to me. I will accept it. I will take it until the moment you fuck it up. I am the one that is just that desperate.
Suddenly he is talking to me.
“You Laura right? Look at you,” he says.
He waits for me to say something. I stare.
Don’t give me hope, I think.
He isn’t exactly tearing up over the reunion, but he smiles like he cares and tilts his head.
Hey, I do that! That’s my expression!
He hugs me then, briefly, but it's enough. Suddenly I trust beyond reason, taking a loan out on my emotional stability.
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Jason and I are led upstairs by this man, our father, or papi as he proclaimed himself, but I don't feel comfortable with that. He'll be my daddy.
I look at Jason behind me. He is angry, I can tell. He holds himself stiff and pulls his shoulders in. I wonder if the hug had stirred some subconscious anger over the very last time my father had touched my brother.
It wasn’t done in love.
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Before I was born our father had been asked to leave my grandparent’s house, where he and my mom were staying soon after they were married. Upon his refusal to leave things had escalated, and my Grandpa encouraged him to rethink his decision by pointing a shotgun at him. Our father had hauled Jason up, holding his baby between himself and the gun. Finally my mother called out, “Ramon the baby is turning blue,” and Jason was released.
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I wonder if we should leave. I could shut down and protect myself, and Jason, by taking us away from this man.
But I don’t.
Greed at getting love keeps me at my daddy's heels.
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A strange lady greets us in my daddy’s home. It’s his wife, Ruby. Ruby is the Puerto Rican incarnation of Rosie Perez. She is not happy to see us.
“Your son, he looks just like you Ramon, just like you.” Ruby says in her falsetto rasp.
I look at Jason in wonder. Jason looks more like our mom with his slightly more slender, white features.
“But you,” she turns to me, “you must look like your mother, because you don’t look nothin’ like my Ramon. Nothin’.”
I don't like her.
“Ramon,” I say as we sit on his black couch, “why did you never contact us?”
“How could I? I didn’t have your number,” he lies.
I change topics, and we learn that Ruby has a daughter also in her thirties. Our dad had raised Ruby’s daughter from the age of three. He’s her daddy too.
Our father doesn’t ask us any questions about ourselves.
Our father brings up the domestic abuse of his neighbor, and he's the hero of his own story.
"I protect her," he says gallantly.
Jason’s jaw clenches.
"Jason, I would never hit a lady.”
Our father; he knows we know.
Jason goes into the kitchen with Ruby. He’s giving me a chance to fix it.
“You beat our mom,” I say blatantly.
“No, no, no mami.” He looks hurt. “Who says this?”
“Just tell the truth. Lying makes it worse.”
He is a bastard. Why don’t I care more that daddy's horrible?
“Okay, yes. I did, but a long time ago.”
My quiet disturbs him.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
His remorse is because he got caught, not because of regret.
I find Jason alone in the kitchen, and tell him of our father's admission. His eyes are firm, narrowed slits as I talk.
When I finish he says quietly, “It’s a good thing I don’t believe in an eye for an eye. He wouldn’t make it out of here alive.”
The night ends with our father saying, "I love you. Love you both."
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My daddy graces Jason and me with his presence the next day, though Jason warned me not to count on it. Our father took us to his sisters’ house, our Aunties.
Jason is in his element, charming Aunties and making friends with our cousins, he's even talking to our father. The Aunties take pictures, Jason and me with my daddy between us. Jason is no longer angry and I should feel better, but I don't.
Now I'm past the initial wonder of just having a father, I'm starting to see him for who he really is. He has no interest in who we are at all.
He's not a daddy.
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On the subway platform, after we leave our aunts, I am lost in thought as absolute fury breaks loose in Jason. His fury doesn't so much break loose, as much as it breaks him. His face twists and he balls his hands.
“Why did you have me lie for you, if you were just going to tell her?” Jason's voice is deep, more growl than words.
His anger carries him and his gestures toward our father.
“Ay Jason. She crazy. She crazy.” He tilts his head, looking up at Jason, a little smile on his face, like it was all a joke.
They're talking about our father's wife, Ruby. Jason had lied about not knowing where our father was. That was the only part of the day I had felt loved by him, felt like I had a daddy. Felt special because my daddy had Jason lie in order to stay with us.
Jason is barely under control. I panic at what to do, but before I can do anything Jason walks away from our father to the edge of the platform.
Suddenly our father is all smiles my way.
“You brother, he mad at me, mami.” His accent is extra thick.
“Yes,” I agree.
Our father looks at me, twisting his smile to the side and raising his eyebrows, “You... think I should go talk to him?”
“No,” I say too quickly.
I'm scared. If my daddy goes over there, Jason is going to throw him under the subway. My daddy seems pleased that I told him no.
“Oh yes, okay you go Laura. You his sister.”
That's why he's pleased. He doesn't want to fix it, he wants me to.
I hate him then, but I can't hate him. If I do, I really won't have a daddy. I can't accept that.
I walk to Jason, stand with him. “Ju, you're pissed.”
Maybe he hears the fear in my voice, the desperation because by the time the subway comes his anger is under control. Not control. Probably pain. We board, and no one’s happy except our pleased-as-punch father who seems oblivious at having used his son.
He tells us he'll see us tomorrow as he gets off. We ride on, knowing we won't see him again.
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I am kneeling on my bathroom floor calling my daddy.
I haven’t called since we returned home a month ago.
Next to his number he had written ‘I love you so much.’
I waited for him to call, hoping against common sense that he would. I waited for Jason to call him, because I'm scared to, but he never did.
Finally, now I'm calling. Calling my daddy, because beyond the fear I want to have something left; something now.
I dial.
“We’re sorry you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error please check the number and try again.”
I stare at the number, knowing I didn't push the wrong buttons, and then masochistically call again.
“We’re sorry you have reached a number that has been disconnected…”
I hang up faster this time, wiping my face with my hand. Fighting my ridiculous innocence no one should have unless they’re blessed with coping mechanisms.
I’m not blessed.
I dial again.
“We’re sorry…”
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Read Jason Arias's essay "On the Road to Thebes" about this shared experience of meeting his father for the first time, here.
Header image courtesy of Jay Torres. To view a gallery of his illustrations, go here.
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Laura Arias is an artist and writer. She is also the mother of a wonderful teenage son, lover of bicycle rides, and a believer in preserving the weird. She is fortunate enough to live in Portland, Oregon: a beautiful, rainy place within reasonable proximity to all of the things she loves.
