I don't know what to say in Magical Realism

An Early Valentine - 2/4/2004

“In telling the story of my father’s life, it is impossible to separate the fact from the fiction, the man from the myth.
The best I can do is to tell it the way he told me. It doesn’t always make sense, but that’s the kind of story this is.”
- Big Fish

My dad was born on Valentine’s Day 1947, in a close-knit Irish neighborhood in the Bronx. It was the kind of place where kids really did play stickball in the street, scattering whenever a car passed through. He was the second of three boys and they were the kind of brothers who would roughhouse and tease each other, but never let an outsider say an unkind word about the others. From the pictures, he and my uncles were all scrawny freckled limbs and big blue eyes, looking sweetly innocent when they were anything but. In my family we all have the type of thick dark lashes people say are just wasted on boys.

In the summers, when he was older, he took the bus out to the beach, to trudge through the hot sand bearing coolers of sodas to sell to all the swimmers and sunbathers. He liked earning his own money, kept a little for pocket money and saved the rest up toward nothing in particular.

He went to Catholic schools. As he grew he graduated from watch plaid pants and white collared shirts to letterman sweaters and pressed flannel trousers. From the yearbook photos I’d classify him as the Big Man on Campus type. He played football, a big linebacker like my brother. He met my mother when they were kids. She was a recent immigrant and his family made fun of her, calling her “the little Dutch girl.” She had blonde hair and an accent but she wasn’t Dutch. They dated on and off though high school and took a long break while he was overseas in the Navy.

He sent postcards to her and his family, a few of which still remain. They have exotic postmarks and short scrawled messages, often referring to my mom as “Kid.” When he returned he was stationed in Boston, and every weekend he drove the three hour trip home, often making it in just two. They went on dates and said many goodbyes and one day he came back for good. He joined the NYPD and rose quickly through the ranks, studying for his promotion exams and working hard at making Detective. He did stakeouts and undercover work and risked his life everyday on the streets of a pre-Guiliani era New York City.

They got married and moved in together and honeymooned in Aruba. This was the first of many beachy vacations and roadtrips together, exploring the country for years before I finally came around in 1979. I was an only child for three years before my brother came along, and my little sister followed three years after that. After she was born we moved again, to a beautiful new house in a better neighborhood, and an extra bedroom to accommodate the new baby. There are pictures of my dad holding each of us, in jeans and flannels or in full police regalia.

We all grew up. I remember so many punishments and thoughts of “I hate you,” but I also remember working my butt off in the pool because I once caught him bragging to a neighbor about my swimming. I always got straight A’s because I knew it made him proud. He couldn’t hide his excitement when I won first-prize in an scholarship competition and our whole family went to dinner with the Police Commissioner. In college he drove 6 hours, unannounced, to watch me in my State Championship meet and I’ll never forget the feeling of seeing him in the bleachers as I stood on the awards stand. Those were some of the happiest days.

Some of the worst ones came afterwards. Fall 2001 he was finally promoted again, but then September 11th happened and he was working 48 hour shifts at the age of 53. Some of the things he must have seen those days are more awful than I can imagine. What he told us was just the tip of the iceberg. Truly horrific. Every holiday I went home he seemed a bit older, a bit thinner, a bit quieter. It wasn’t just old age creeping up. It was cancer. Last winter he was diagnosed and has since centered his life on fighting it, on willing away the long hours after chemo, in between appointments, all the extra time he was not working. I watched him lose his hair. I watched him struggle to get up from a chair.

I watched him get stronger. In the summer he finally beat it, and every time I go my parents house now he seems a bit better. I hope he will be able to return to work soon. Because he loves it, so much that he hasn’t retired even though he’s been eligible since 2001. It’s so hard to see him puttering around the house when I know he wants to be back at work again. Because a couch and a TV are no kind of life for a man who has seen and experienced as much as he has. I wonder what the future will hold.

Happy Birthday Daddy.

Pride - 2/18/2009

Last week, my dad retired from the NYPD after more than 40 years on the force.

On Thursday, two days before his 63rd birthday on Valentine’s day, he walked out of his squad room for the final time. With more than four decades on the job, he is one of the few remaining detectives to have worked through some of the most dangerous and complicated times in New York City’s history.

Most police officers do a straight shot of 20 years and not a day more. They retire with a pension and a safer, more comfortable job. But somehow my dad managed to stretch his career to 40 years, right up until mandatory retirement. His years of service included undercover work against street crime and narcotics during some of the worst times New York City has ever seen. September 11th. And then his own cancer and recovery.

People retire every day, but for him, they closed down the East River Drive. They brought him down from his station house in the Bronx via motorcade to receive a formal farewell with the Chief of Police. There, a cordon of police brass, detectives and uniformed precinct cops lined up outside and gave him a long round of applause. With tears welling up in his eyes, he turned and threw them one last crisp salute. “It was,” he said, “a good run.”

He’s not the kind of man who enjoys a fuss made over him, but a fuss was made indeed, and he enjoyed it.

Every dad is a hero in the mind of his daughter, but mine really is.

Last updated October 23, 2014