Gabriel, My Dad
It was 4 am on 4 April 2008 that I learned that my dad had died. He was 71, and had been ill for maybe three or four weeks.
Here's the tribute I wrote for his memorial service:
"Some tributes share the qualities and the memories of a person everyone knew; its a chance to remember together. Other tributes open the door for everyone to see that person from a different angle. You get to see a side of them perhaps you didn't realise existed, you discover some of the qualities that made them a unique individual. That's the kind of tribute I want to share with you about my father. It may not be the man you knew; but it is the man he was with me.
I think we can be honest enough with ourselves and each other to admit that my dad wasn't perfect. I think its fair to say that he was a complex man. Maybe we all wanted to know what he was thinking - at least understand some of his choices. I met my father during my adolescence, a time when every young person is trying to work out who they really are and piece together their identity. When I looked at him I couldn't believe what I saw. In him, I saw my eyes, my face, my skin tone. In him I saw my long limbs, my height, even my feet. And yet...we had no meaningful relationship.
It wasn't until I was in my 20's that we actually got to know one another. I spent 3 weeks in Nigeria, and during that time got to spend an afternoon with my dad. It was there I learned about a part of me, his part of me, that had been unknown until then. He told me my history, stories from his family, painted a picture of his life. He learned about my interests and my plans and dreams. But even then we still remained awkwardly distant. How do you get to know someone, how do you start again with your child after 25 years? But my father wanted to try.
We made a decision once, during an exchange of letters, to see if we could discover what a father daughter relationship could look like. We both knew that there was little point in looking back, but perhaps we could build a future. It would take effort, but we would try.So we wrote to one another, and talked sometimes. Not regularly, but enough. And over time this father daughter relationship found its place. And no it didn't look like many I've seen. But it did steadily begin to work. It wasn't always easy. Our cultures clashed from time to time. I think sometimes he was surprised by how outspoken I was. But we came to accept one another in our own way.
When I called him in March, he said "Jo, is that you?" and he wept. And even though many would call us strangers, I knew exactly what he was saying, and why he wanted me to call. I knew it was the last conversation we would have. He wept for a long time, and he didn't need to explain why. He talked when he was able. Our last words were important words, the kind of things he needed to say to me, and the kind of things I needed to say to him. We prayed together and then said goodbye. It was a gift.
Perhaps you wonder what kind of legacy my father leaves behind. Like I said at the start, he wasn't perfect. Or maybe its just that his mistakes were public - many of us get to keep our mistakes and bad choices secret. But in regards to his legacy, I will say this: What I loved about my father is that it was never too late to start again. Even though it was hard work, instead of ignoring the past, he began to face it. After years of separation, he began to face this daughter; and I began to face him. And so in the end our relationship ended in a way that was very different to its painful beginnings. It ended with love, with peace, with healing and with forgiveness."
Here's the tribute I wrote for his memorial service:
"Some tributes share the qualities and the memories of a person everyone knew; its a chance to remember together. Other tributes open the door for everyone to see that person from a different angle. You get to see a side of them perhaps you didn't realise existed, you discover some of the qualities that made them a unique individual. That's the kind of tribute I want to share with you about my father. It may not be the man you knew; but it is the man he was with me.
I think we can be honest enough with ourselves and each other to admit that my dad wasn't perfect. I think its fair to say that he was a complex man. Maybe we all wanted to know what he was thinking - at least understand some of his choices. I met my father during my adolescence, a time when every young person is trying to work out who they really are and piece together their identity. When I looked at him I couldn't believe what I saw. In him, I saw my eyes, my face, my skin tone. In him I saw my long limbs, my height, even my feet. And yet...we had no meaningful relationship.
It wasn't until I was in my 20's that we actually got to know one another. I spent 3 weeks in Nigeria, and during that time got to spend an afternoon with my dad. It was there I learned about a part of me, his part of me, that had been unknown until then. He told me my history, stories from his family, painted a picture of his life. He learned about my interests and my plans and dreams. But even then we still remained awkwardly distant. How do you get to know someone, how do you start again with your child after 25 years? But my father wanted to try.
We made a decision once, during an exchange of letters, to see if we could discover what a father daughter relationship could look like. We both knew that there was little point in looking back, but perhaps we could build a future. It would take effort, but we would try.So we wrote to one another, and talked sometimes. Not regularly, but enough. And over time this father daughter relationship found its place. And no it didn't look like many I've seen. But it did steadily begin to work. It wasn't always easy. Our cultures clashed from time to time. I think sometimes he was surprised by how outspoken I was. But we came to accept one another in our own way.
When I called him in March, he said "Jo, is that you?" and he wept. And even though many would call us strangers, I knew exactly what he was saying, and why he wanted me to call. I knew it was the last conversation we would have. He wept for a long time, and he didn't need to explain why. He talked when he was able. Our last words were important words, the kind of things he needed to say to me, and the kind of things I needed to say to him. We prayed together and then said goodbye. It was a gift.
Perhaps you wonder what kind of legacy my father leaves behind. Like I said at the start, he wasn't perfect. Or maybe its just that his mistakes were public - many of us get to keep our mistakes and bad choices secret. But in regards to his legacy, I will say this: What I loved about my father is that it was never too late to start again. Even though it was hard work, instead of ignoring the past, he began to face it. After years of separation, he began to face this daughter; and I began to face him. And so in the end our relationship ended in a way that was very different to its painful beginnings. It ended with love, with peace, with healing and with forgiveness."
Labels: gabriel oyeniran
posted by Jo Saxton at 3:42 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home