Father’s Day self-portrait

Being a father has helped me become a much better person. For this, I want to thank my children.

It was only after the birth of my first son 24 years ago that I learned patience. When my second son entered the world four years later, I enhanced my multi-tasking skills so that each of my boys could feel how important they were to me.

Through raising my two sons, I’ve been reacquainted with appreciating the simple pleasures of life, like waiting for fish to bite a worm on a hook. I’ve experienced joys and other feelings I nearly forget about after growing up.

Fatherhood has taught me the nuances of baseball and soccer that can be passed on to young children, and how much fun it can be to get soaking wet running around a field with them. I’ve learned every rule of soccer, a knowledge that has enabled me to appreciate a match at any level more than ever.

By being a dad, I’ve learned to appreciate different kinds of music, be it jazz or classical or pop. I’ve learned how important a drummer is to the sound of a small band or big ensemble. I’ve even learned what it takes to pack, assemble and break down a drum set.

Being a father has enabled me to appreciate the value of trying different things, like wrestling or playing lacrosse, acoustic or bass guitar, blackjack, or performing in a school musical. I’ve also learned that it’s fine to move on from one activity to another after giving it an honest try, even after a significant investment in equipment or time.

I've learned to be less selfish by being a father because, when I looked around, I realized I was not the center of my universe. There were children who needed my time, my attention, my energy, and whatever else I could willingly share with them, day after day, in blocks of hours or, at least, minutes.

I’ve become less materialistic by being a father and seeing my children borrow my clothes and cars. I’ve learned that I actually own nothing in life. I’m merely in temporary possession of various items, a very liberating feeling, as is the knowledge that money has little value if you don’t have loved ones to share it with.

Love? I’ve felt a fuller, more meaningful sense of love by being a father, be it by changing a diaper, sitting through a late game or performance on a weeknight, providing comfort while watching a doctor stitch a cut, listening and providing support as a hope is born or vanishes...or, more often than not, simply by being in the same room with them.

More than anything, I’ve wanted to help my children in life by being a good father to them. I had no idea, however, that being a father would be so helpful in my own life. For this, I will always remain grateful to my children.



(photo) Kevin, Charley and Steven on Memorial Day weekend 2011

Neighbors

If you’re in New York City for any period of time, you’re bound to come across some interesting characters. If you live in the city, like I did for much of my childhood, some of these people will even be neighbors.

When I lived in the Amsterdam Houses neighborhood for much of the 1960s, Fermin and Carmen lived in the apartment next door with five children, the two youngest of which were theirs, the oldest three hers from a previous marriage. I’m not sure how Fermin made his livelihood, but I did see him walk on Amsterdam Avenue more than once with a parrot perched on his shoulder. He also boxed, which together with his goatee and penetrating eyes and sly smile, made him seem both a cool and tough Puerto Rican.

Carmen and my mother conspired on Christmas Eves to help keep my brother and me believing Santa Claus would arrive at out apartment only after we fell asleep. As we approached our apartment door after dinner at my Abuela’s, Carmen would open her door and say that Santa Claus had not yet arrived, so we needed to get to bed as soon as possible. She was right – there were no gifts under our Christmas tree that night, but they were there the next morning.

Carmen’s oldest three kids were called Papo, Moosie, and Choocho. At least, that’s what everyone called them. Papo’s real name was Cristobal, and he had the best baseball glove, a Maury Wills model, of anyone I knew. He was nice enough to let me use it sometimes.

On the opposite side of our apartment lived the Harts, an African-American family whose members I never recall smiling. I rarely talked to them; they seemed very serious all the time. Mr. Hart and one or both of his sons sometimes stared out the hallway window with what seemed like tan-colored stockings on their skulls. It seemed unusual to me, so I once out of curiosity asked them about it. They explained it helped relieve their headaches.

I can only recall speaking to Mrs. Hart once. She rang our doorbell one afternoon collecting donations for the March of Dimes. I quickly looked around our apartment for all the dimes I could find, and I gave her a few. She still didn’t smile, but I’m sure she said “thank you.”

I don’t know who lived directly upstairs from me, but I know they loved Latin music. Many times, when my brother and I laid down to sleep, we would hear the sounds of Tito Puente and other Latin artists blare from the record player above our bedroom. It sounded good, and we often fell asleep with those beats in our head.

In those days well before Facebook and inexpensive phone calls, our family lost touch with these neighbors shortly after moving to New Jersey. But, they’re not forgotten.