My paternal grandfather Joaquim Pereira, who died in 1995, was, as they say, a terrible husband and absent father to each of his four children. However, he was the best grandfather in the world for me. The memories I have of him are from a time when my grandmother, tired of suffering, had already resolved the matter with a divorce, and the children were all grown up, so I didn't know Joaquim, husband or father. Grandpa is left.
He lived with us in a typical country house, and when I heard the bats, I ran into his lap.
Next to our house there was a pasture with a tree right in the middle and in it lived an owl. My grandfather took advantage of this scenario and put his imagination to work, unraveling from his inexhaustible skein of stories the most diverse theories about the owl, the tree and the bats, taking away from me all the fear I felt. He would walk with me on his shoulders and ask me to greet each person who passed us.
— Tell the young man late, fia!
— Afternoon, young man.
And so we continued that early childhood.
When I turned six years old, we moved to SĂŁo Paulo, and the contact with my grandfather became rare, being limited to vacation trips. But he wrote letters and letters telling me the continuation of the stories about the owl and the bats.
In the letters, I told my mother that “children are our greatest treasure”.
Was it the result of an afterthought?
Approximately two years after that, my parents separated. I haven't heard from my father for five years. By the time we got back in touch, unfortunately, alcoholism had taken an important place in his history—and ours. I tried to stay by his side within the possibilities that life allowed, I don't know if it was enough… As with my grandfather, my contact with my father was also rare. Only occasionally did he see us and I always had the feeling that he was disconcerted. So, we were invariably quiet and holding hands and, at this time, the holidays started to be at the house of my aunt Sônia and my uncle Márcio.
It was he, my uncle Márcio, who taught me the first words in English (perhaps he doesn't remember or know that). He danced the waltz of my 15th birthday with me (perhaps he remembers, but he doesn't measure the importance of it). He was the one who gave me advice, who accompanied my adolescence by donating his paternal love and saw me become a woman.
Remembering what happened until this woman came along, I think about those parents: my dear grandfather, who was a grandfather because he was probably better at it than being a father; in my favorite uncle, who was my father without reservation; and my father who, in 2003, gave me the joy and pride of seeing him after a long treatment — supported by my uncles Márcio and Sônia — recover and revive.
My story shouldn't be very different from that of many people with better or worse experiences than mine, in many ways.
The fact is that the father figure, whether for a cultural or affective issue — I bet more on the second — will always be a heroic figure.
A present and loving father will mark the lives of his children, just as parents with problems will also, although not always in a positive way.
Anyway, I think what we learned from the lessons of this interaction is that the look we dedicate to these lessons will set the tone for this “heroism”.
I think this for all types of parents: those who adopt and those who are adopted; the absent and the present; the brave and the cowards; the affectionate and the violent; the hidden and the aware; the loved and the hated; those who are here and those who are gone.
I think of them because, whether we are tired or homesick, whether for love or pain, for feeling resentment or pride, for something they did or failed to do, no one goes through life without thinking about their father.
