My Father’s Obituary

My father died at the end of October this last year. He was homeless and penniless at the time of his death, and he was living with his drug addicted ex-wife at the home of one of her friends. He did not accept help from his friends or family but insisted on his own way, choosing to die alone. He wanted no service or obituary. He simply wanted to fade into the wind. How could a man who was once so charismatic, with the sort of magnetism that could light up any room simply wish to disappear?

My father was a formerly incarcerated man, who went to prison when I was a teenager. The experience was earth-shattering, and it was one of the first times I saw with my own eyes the side of humanity that can be cruel and unjust. I remember people calling our home with death threats, I remember a juror sleeping while I testified, and that a member of the community stood up to clap when my father’s guilty verdict was read out loud. My father had made more than his share of mistakes in life, the impacts of which weighed more heavily on those who loved him, but my father also had a sort of child-like naivety that led him down these twisted paths in the first place. He simply thought that he was immune to suffering, and that no one would ever harm him.

Prison is an inhumane experience. Upon entry, one is stripped of their identity and made a number in both name and being. A number. I remember that my father began smoking simply so that he could go outside. And since the lights are always on, the human body soon forgets how to sleep deeply. There is no true rest. You are reliant on small favors from others to survive, and all of the people who you thought were your friends quickly melt away. Your only human connection is recorded, overpriced phone calls to people on the outside and visits, some of which happen from behind a glass window and over a recorded phone line.

When my father got out of prison, he wasn’t the same. He was constantly harassed by parole agents, and while he was able to find work for a while, he was fired soon after a customer identified him as a felon. My father often retreated deep into himself for the years following, living quietly and accepting whatever, like a mouse.

After he died, for his last rights, I went to walk with my father through the doors of the bardo. As we walked together, I could see the moments that I too had thought or chosen wrong paths out of fear, desire, jealousy, or ignorance. My hope is that he discovered that he was not alone in that experience, and that no one is undeserving of compassion and refuge.

If my father had an obituary, perhaps it would go something like this:

A man was born
Unconventionally
Charismatic, bold, and a little wild
All that he touched was golden
Until it was not
Because the golden man also learned to fall
Many times
And he learned that things were not always as they seemed
People were not always as they seemed
He learned about the dark places
In himself and others
And he forgot that he was golden
On the inside

©Cardinal Speaks