DANCE WITH MY FATHER.

It was Thursday, September 6, 2001. Four years ago today...

I had been suffering greatly with anxiety disorder the previous months that summer, and it was horrible. Panic attacks, unbearable dizziness, a general bleakness about life. Why me? Why these symptoms? Why this condition? Heaven knows, but it was definitely due to unresolved issues and emotional problems I was going through and dealing with. Maybe I was foreseeing the tragedies to come. I had only been at my new job for a few months, and was struggling to keep it. Went to work as normal that day, and went home for lunch as usual, feeling like shit.

Then the phone rang. It was my uncle. To tell me my father was dead. Dead at 58. Of an "accident" he said. His few months down in the old country, El Salvador, had ended tragically.

I hung up on my uncle immediately, in total shock and disbelief. If anxiety had plagued me all summer long, now it was going to get worse. It was the last thing I needed to hear. News spread to all my family that afternoon, but then the real cause of his death was revealed later: he was murdered. In cold blood. Like John Lennon. IT ONLY MADE THE PAIN WORSE.

The story goes that Dad and Grandpa were leaving some bank, and that they both got into my Dad's blue pick-up truck. Two guys in scooters pulled up to the driver's side window. I don't know if Dad resisted the robbery attempt, but possibly he did, most of us knew how "macho" and tough he could be at times. It was no match for the weapon, several shots were fired, two hit my dad and one grazed my Grandpa in the hand. My father's last words were, "¡Me mataste hijo de puta!" , which translates to, "You killed me you motherfucker!" And he painfully and horrifically looked at Grandpa (his father), knowing he would die, tried to drive off for help, and simply passed out in the driver's seat, on the steering wheel, as he bled to death...

The culprits? They got away, never to be caught, the damage permanently done.

I never flew down to the old country for services. Many of my half brothers and sisters did. Grandma (Dad's mom) says there was so much fighting over property and material possessions down there, it got pretty sickening. She thinks it was a better idea to remain here in California, and mourn. I had no other choice, I had to stay, I was too sick to fly anyway.

I hate the way my father died. I could've accepted a car accident, a heart attack, or a stroke a lot easier than murder. It was rough to deal with this blow. I cried and cried all that weekend. Couldn't believe my old man got knocked off that way. My mom and him had not been together for years, but it still hit her hard. She still loved him no doubt. We all did.

I miss him terribly, and although he was not the perfect father and I had lots of issues to resolve with him, my conscience is clear, in that I was the best I could be, and so was he. He was a great son and friend. Espero algún día ir a ver su tumba (I hope one day to go see your grave).

And so it went, I was in deep mourning from September 6, 2001 right on through that very weekend...

THEN CAME TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 2001...