Carrying My Father’s Stories, Light, and Unwavering Enthusiasm Into an Uncertain Future Abroad.
I think about my father often. He passed last year in May. He had been dealing with Alzheimer’s for at least a decade. In the video interview (that I’m so grateful was captured of him!) filmed in 2016, before the famous Caffe Mediterraneum closed, you could see him begin to struggle with his memory. It’s a wonderful interview nonetheless, his charismatic storytelling nature is evident, and it was there until the end, as best he could. We were very blessed that he retained his upbeat, positive zest for life. He would marvel at the sunlight coming through the beautiful French windows of his 1920s Berkeley apartment — windows that he fought to keep decades ago, when they wanted all the tenants to be “upgraded” to safer, more “modern” windows. I was always afraid that he might fall out, but he would always demonstrate how the older French windows were superior in allowing one to naturally ventilate the apartment and would not obstruct the enjoyment of the outdoor surroundings. He had views of beautiful trees and the sunset from one side, and views of the mountain on the other. I’m so grateful that he spent his last days comfortable, listening to the music of Richard Galliano, sipping cups of tea, surrounded by his art in that beloved space.
My father was full of praise for things he would observe. He was an artist who looked at everything in life through that passionate lens. He would especially shower his loved ones with words of adoration, whether for their character or a dashing scarf they were wearing. The older he got, the more his attention was spent on enjoying people and creative things. The other thing that I’m most grateful for was that in his last year he took no notice of politics, which would have unnecessarily stolen joy from him.
My father was an artist, a philosopher, and he had worked most of his life as a cab driver in San Francisco. He was also a lover of music, mythology, travel, films, and literature. He was pro-Union and a lifelong Democrat. I remember years ago when he was really discouraged by the economic way of things after the ’90s – the ways in which the Tech industry ravaged San Francisco and really made the entire region unaffordable … and, by extension, less creative. I remember him telling me about the (now infamous) skit by George Carlin about the ‘big club’ that we’re ‘not in.’ He would tell me that Carlin really nailed it completely. Things only got worse in San Francisco when the ride share apps came on the scene and the SF government bent over backward for them. My father and many other cab drivers struggled to keep driving into their ’70s to maintain their medallions and earn a living. This is a complicated topic for another post – but suffice it to say, the SF City Council and their lawyers threw local cab drivers under the bus to bring profit to Uber and Lyft.
Lately I find myself feeling adrift – it’s been a year since I was laid off by my tech job of many years. I’ve been applying for positions relentlessly to no avail. I’ve sat through 7 rounds of interviews at top companies, only to be told they’ve gone with someone else. I created two LLCs – one for my metadata and knowledge-management consulting – the other for my creative projects. But it takes time to build clientele, followers, and subscribers. As I look at our dwindling savings and at mortgage interest payments that mirror what we used to pay for a large apartment – I question staying here at all.
I find myself wishing that I could talk to him again to ground myself in what we hold dear. I really don’t recognize this country anymore. I certainly don’t recognize much of my hometown anymore — not the built-up corridors of condominium towers. I am grateful that I have many volumes from his large book collection and some of his artwork. Eventually I will digitize the slides of his art, go through his notebooks and develop a website for him. I’m bitter that I had to move away from California decades ago because I was priced out. I could have done this work years ago. There’s much that I could have done. But I left in search of affordability – thanks, Silicon Valley.
As I box up our belongings to move abroad – hoping that we are making a safe and right move – in an increasingly shifting world – I spy a small framed photo of me that I brought back from my dad’s apartment. I must be about three in the photo – I’m wearing overalls, my bangs hanging in my eyes. I’m looking up with an innocent yet anxious look on my face. I still feel like this child inside – and I miss my dad. I miss his funny, joyful stories, taking me to new and interesting places, whether they were cafés or restaurants, or a museum or bookstore. I’d have an Italian soda or a steamed milk with honey, or we’d grab a bratwurst at Top Dog or he’d get me a shrimp nigiri from the tiny sushi stand that was in the back of the old North Berkeley Fish Market, that used to neighbor the Cheese Board Collective. I miss his guidance and his relentless enthusiasm the most. I must remember that I have that inside me in my memories and draw on these things in these difficult days. I know that he would be excited and delighted for me for the adventure that we’re about to undertake. I will do my best to see myself through his adoring eyes.
