This is part II of last week’s post Grief and the Other Side of the Veil. This piece was written by my nephew Xavier Resendiz. Also, you may notice I—after much deliberation—changed my publication’s name to The Joyful Dwelling, where I’ll strive to seek joy in the ordinary. I hope you join me.
When I was two years old, my father passed away. I was his only son. At the time of writing, I am now a young man of nineteen and have been asked by my father’s sister, my dear aunt, to write on how his loss has shaped me. The loss of a parent is oftentimes a great one—I say oftentimes because the world has no shortage of bad parents or absent ones. Nevertheless, a parent’s passing is apt to be one of the most difficult and significant events in anyone’s life. Only the latter of these two can be attributed to my experience, as I have no recollection of that day or his funeral. Indeed, though I am incredibly depressed to admit, I have no real memory of my father either.
Growing up, my relationship with my dad was defined through stories. My mother made an admirable job of keeping his memory alive through everything she would describe—she found ample opportunity in almost anything to talk about my dad; his favorite foods, music he liked, his habits, personality, and wow, how much I looked like him!
She—like any good mom—has kept many photos to share and these are what I think of when I imagine my dad. I always did feel a sense of deep sentimental joy seeing another man smile back at me with my teeth, my nose, and my ears (though I suppose he was the one to set the trend). This is to say my mom did a great job at making me aware of and loving my dad, but for the longest time, that’s all it really was: being aware of him.
I did not exactly lack interest in my father or care little for learning about his life, but circumstances did not keep him at the front of my mind for long. I was still very young and concerned with my own, much more important endeavors of trading Pokémon cards and wondering if that girl I sat next to in class really did like me (she probably didn’t).
There’s also something to be said about the role of my stepfather, whom I never refer to as such, except for the sake of clarity in this piece, in my growing up without my dad. From the year my mom married my stepdad, (in which I was four years old) I had two dads, and in being so young when introduced to this concept, I had grown up not really considering that my, we’ll say “dad dad” was gone. My stepdad didn’t replace my father, but it’s hard for a little boy to grasp that he has two dads who both deserve similar amounts of his love and attention, especially when the practical “relevance” of one obviously outweighs the other. My stepdad was a great father and I love him for his taking on the mantle in my dad’s place. However, there was the growth of an unfortunate sentiment, however subconscious and that in no way can be attributed to the fault of my stepfather, wondering well, sure I have a dad; he’s right there.
I wanted to know my dad, but there was only so much I could be told about him. That’s to say that for majority of my young life, my father was relegated to a somewhat mysterious man that I knew I loved, knew loved me, but that I would never focus on for long before realizing the inherent futility that arose from attempting to connect with him beyond the photos I had seen all several times and the stories I was told from his family.
On the topic of his and my family, it must be put down that I greatly appreciate the work his siblings—my aunt and uncle—and his parents did to ensure I would never have a question about him go unanswered or be at a loss for his memory. The vagueness of his presence came not from any lack of effort on behalf of those who wanted to share him with me, but rather from the inherent confusion a child has when trying to imagine the presence of a parent they have no memory of.
I think that growing up in this fashion created a sort of jealousy within my young heart. At times, I felt an envy for the memories it seemed everyone had with my father but me. Whenever a conversation came to my dad, I was the one listening, learning, but never able to contribute anything of my own. This is not to say I disliked the stories; indeed, I was always happy when my dad was brought up, but I did feel genuine remorse that I had missed what others described as a great man. At the risk of sounding selfish but with hope that any readers will sympathize with my fragile and immature mind, I believe that I felt a subconscious anger that my dad was never mine to know and therefore it may have been better not to think too hard about him anyway.
I mentioned visiting my father’s grave. About four or five times every year, my mom would take me to the cemetery where he lay, bordering his home city and mine. As a boy, the significance of these trips was largely lost on me. It had been something of a fact of life that throughout the year, on his birthday or on Christmas or other holidays, I went to the cemetery; I prayed, sat for the lesser part of a half hour with my mom (these times gradually became longer as I grew older), and went back home. I was happy to have time to speak with him in a more personal setting whenever I did visit his grave, but it would be a lie if I claimed to have always looked forward to these trips with meaningful anticipation.
These trips began to change around the time I got my driver’s license at sixteen. I attribute the beginning of this change to my first trip to his grave alone. Up until then, I had not once gone to see him without my mother or, at the very least, one of my family. That evening, I believe it was the day after his birthday, I sat with him for about an hour, marginally longer than I had before. We talked some, but most significantly I had begun to recognize the importance these visits—the acknowledgement and recognition of my father—had held. That was, I think, the first time I let tears fall for my dad. My grief was perhaps late in its blooming, but I think more accurate is to say it has been growing backwards for a long time.
To preface my exploration of what it means to grieve backwards, I should mention that these feelings, although not born, were more clearly defined through a recent conversation that took place with my aunt, whom I mentioned in the introduction.
Grieving backwards is the experience of coming to terms with (it seems) an exponentially growing rate of confusion and sadness regarding a tragedy as time passes. I first noticed that this was what I had been experiencing around my previously mentioned trip to the cemetery. Taking note of my perception of my mother’s own grief, I had been surprised to realize that there lay an inherent, defining difference between her experience and mine: that my father’s passing had hurt her at the time it had happened. This obvious difference had then led to another comprehension on my part: that my hurt could reasonably be described, in a very theoretical sense, as the inverse of hers. If my mother’s process of understanding and healing through this tragedy began on the day my dad passed, then mine would not begin in a recognizable sense until years later; this comes from the fact that, though it is with confused discomfort I write this, I did not hurt at my dad’s departure. Thus, pain arrived (because it was unlikely that I could escape it) when I was old enough to comprehend the situation I had previously been ignorant to. Therefore, my current understanding of this grief is that the “turbulence” that comes with trying to process a pain such as death grows and morphs at a rate akin to what my mother likely experienced seventeen years ago, only at the present time for me. However, I will not say that I am shaken with sadness to the degree that my family probably were going through when that time came. My own sadness is very heavily leaned toward confusion on the scales of grief, rather than outright, tear-jerking sorrow. It is a pain I likely won’t have to describe, even if its larger context may be less relatable for any readers. All this is to say that I believe my grief has evolved at a much quicker rate over the past two or so years, instead of slowing down to a calmer, more “mature” understanding of the pain like how I expect my mom and others to have adopted.
The “hard part” of grief’s passing over me is not a bad thing. I am not regretful that grief is finally catching up with me after flying over my head for so many years, nor do I envy those who my dad loved and who I love and who have already come to terms (though who are not at all less saddened now than they were years back) with the loss of my dad. On the contrary, I am glad that I have finally broken through to my feelings of confusion, sadness and longing in a way that allows me to understand and process them for the betterment of myself. The fact is that these feelings will never go away, and they are an integral part of who I am. Grief like this defines a person, and though that may sound unfavorable, it is with a passionate and assured conscience that I put down that grief is a very important thing to encounter because of the lessons it teaches its recipients. I wished and will forever wish that my dad was here, but it would not do to be burdened with thoughts that present no way of moving forward. Indeed, it is as my mother has said many times to me regarding pain and what I will leave any readers who have ventured to take interest in this extremely theoretical and perhaps melodramatic (I do not doubt the melancholic in me) piece: “You do not get over it, you get through it.” Thus, I live my life in earnest memory of my father, keeping him with me always as I grow throughout all I am to encounter.
Diana--thank you for bringing this essay to us. Xavier, thank you for sharing your thoughts. This is a remarkable essay. And if you'll forgive my saying so--you write with a clarity and maturity that is uncommon, and speaks very highly of you.
There is so much that is (unfortunately) relatable in this essay and so much that is (unfortunately) alien to me. Suffice it to say that rising to the age of understanding and grabbing grief with both hands and processing it deliberately, rather than running from it or using it as an eternal excuse for some behavior or other, is incredibly mature and I'm not sure I even have the power to process my own various griefs in this way.
I don't know what else to say. Thank you so much for sharing your thoughts and your example and giving me something to think on and pray over. Prayers are assured today for you, your father, and your family. God bless you 🙏
This is absolutely beautiful and so powerful. The line that hit me the most is, "You do not get over it, you get through it." Thank you, Xavier, for writing this. Your maturity and eloquence are incredible, and you have given voice to something that most of us struggle to articulate. This essay is so beautiful and healing, and I know that I will be quoting the above quote to my family in the coming days. Thank you again for writing this, and may God bless you and your family.