Victor is big for thirteen, Last night I asked him if his father was at home. "my father?" He said, and he drew his finger across his neck. I didn't quite get that, so ... Victor continued, "My father is dead, they cut his throat in prison." I mentioned I was sorry. He seemed indifferent.
I often ask the boys about their father, most have a different yet painful answer about their father. Many simply don't know and they don't seem embarrassed about it.
"Where is your father Daniel?" "He's in south Mexico somewhere." "How long has it been since you've seen him?" "Oh a long time, I think I was three or four."
"Efren, where is your father?" "He's dead, I have a step-father and I hate him, he beats us when he's high; he beats my mother; they're always fighting!"
"Michael?" "Oh, my father? He's with his girlfriend in another barrio."
Some years back I brought a happy load of teen boys home from our camp down from Ensenada. Everyone in the van was chatting happily. As we pulled into barrio Trinchi, Jorge 14, and his younger brother were last to get off. Their little shack was in a canyon below the road. The boys took their blankets and ran down the hill only to find that their father had hung himself that morning. Jorge came up and gave me the news. I walked down to the grieving family, I noted the rope the father used was still on the porch. I brought Jorge back up to my van and we talked for a time.
In barrio Trinchi, men don't cry, but I could see Jorge was fighting back the tears. His father wasn't a good man, but he was all that they had. I prayed for him and pressed a hundred dollars in Jorge's hand and told him he now was the man of the house ... and the money was to help with the funeral.
I could fill several pages with "Father Stories." Unfortunately most of these stories would be a tear-jerker. These are teen boys that have seen too much of the wrong kind of father
The unfortunate thing is that in many cases these kids are growing up to be what they have learned to hate ... a father.
