Tag Archives: grief and loss

Dad’s Coffee Pot

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sacred-space

Dad’s coffee counter

 

Dad loved his coffee pot. It had some fancy filter, but for one reason or another, the spring would pop off the filter and he would take out his tools, jiggle stuff around and fix it. I didn’t really pay too much attention, but I would offer to buy him another pot, which of course, he would refuse and would say something like ‘Aye mijita, it’s still good, you just need to fix it every now and then’.

When dad was in the hospital, he drank his coffee, but would quietly say he couldn’t wait to get back to his coffee at home, probably because he could put as much cream and sugar as he wanted without the watchful eyes of the nurses. When we finally made it home, he went straight to the kitchen and made his coffee. I remember thinking, I should have paid more attention to how he made his coffee, but he made it clear he didn’t need any help and would be making his own coffee. At that point, he was still strong and walking around and could do things for himself. It was hard for us to reconcile the fact that he was dying, but as he would say “I’m not dead yet.” He tried to cut the tension with some humor, so as hard as it was for me to swallow that humor, I laughed out loud, but cried inside.

A few days later, we were in the kitchen together. He was making us coffee and I was sitting at the kitchen table. I was home on leave supposedly taking care of dad, but there he was in the kitchen, taking care of me. That fancy coffee pot filter popped off again. I fully expected him to just take out his tools and fix it, but he just stood there looking at the broken coffee pot. He finally picked it up and brought it to the table. It was like watching a movie in slow motion. I felt my face getting red and as he started to talk to me, I could tell he was trying to show me how to fix it, but I couldn’t hear him. I didn’t want to hear him. I told him I didn’t want to know and he looked at me said, “Mijita, I need you to learn how to fix the coffee pot now.” So, we sat there at the table and he showed me how to fix that damn spring. He made me do it twice before he gave the thumbs up. He walked me through how to make his coffee to his exact taste. We both held back tears. We didn’t acknowledge anything verbally in that moment, we just did what we had to do, he taught me, I learned and we had our coffee and talked about life. That was our father daughter dance, don’t ask me, don’t tell me, just show me. There were many things that we didn’t acknowledge verbally, but our actions of love, acceptance, and forgiveness spoke louder than words.

I remember the first time that dang coffee pot broke after he died. I stood there, in that same spot where dad stood every day and where I stood every day after that and I found the strength to fix that spring through tears and sobs. I was so proud of myself for fixing that coffee pot. I knew he was proud of me and I could feel his presence there with me.

 

Vietnamese for Beginners

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Olivia came across a Vietnamese for Beginners book/cd set in her room the other day. She brought it to me assuming it belonged to Papa. She moved into his room after he died and she comes across some of his things here and there. She didn’t remember he bought the book/cd for her. My heart fluttered for a minute and then I reminded her about the day she told Papa she had a classmate who didn’t speak English and she wanted to learn some Vietnamese so he wouldn’t feel alone. A few weeks later, Papa gave her the book/cd to learn Vietnamese. She was so excited and grateful, but she was only in 1st grade and could barely read English. It was such a sweet gesture. I remember asking dad where and how he got the books. This was before you could click a button on your virtual shopping cart and boxes magically appeared at your door. He just smiled and said something like “I know people too..”

vietnamese
We put the book/cd away and just forgot about them. Finding those books made me think about dad speaking Vietnamese. Every now and then he would share tid-bits of stories about his time in Vietnam, but what I remember him sharing was him having to learn a little bit of Vietnamese to survive. He taught me how to count to 10 in Vietnamese, and would sometimes quiz me. I could rattle those ten words off without a problem when I was a kid. Today, I can only count to three, Một Hai Ba, and I cling to those three words like a family heirloom.

Dad had this embarrassing habit of trying to start a conversation with every Vietnamese person he saw. I remember walking in with him into convenience stores or grocery stores in Fifth Ward where he lived and delivered mail for 20 years and I would stand there embarrassed as he would try to engage the cashiers in Vietnamese. Those that knew him as “Checko-The Mailman” laughed and spoke back to him, those that didn’t know him, would soon learn to know and love him. I don’t know what they talked about, it was never a very long conversation, just pleasantries I assumed.
Years later, when dad moved away from his neighborhood and moved into mine, he looked for those opportunities to engage with cashier, Vietnamese or not. He was just a talker and sometimes he got a response, and sometimes, he didn’t. He was no longer “Checko-The Mailman” and I could tell he missed the small talk.

In my neighborhood, on the other side of Houston, he would sit out on my front porch and waive to people as they walked their dogs or took powerwalks at 6am. Again, some people waived back, and some people didn’t, but he kept waiving each time they passed in front of our house.
On the day our new neighbors moved in down the street, I remember my dad saying “I think I know them.” I remember feeling like that embarrassed kid standing next to him as he spoke to the cashier in Vietnamese. I told him, “Dad, are you saying that because they are Vietnamese?” He knew I didn’t believe him.

A few days later, he told me about his encounter with our new neighbors. He said there was a lady who would go walking in the morning and he recognized her as a cashier from his old neighborhood. So, of course, my dad tried calling to her as she walked by the house. She didn’t look or respond. The next morning, he tried calling to her and again she didn’t look or respond, but this time she had a large stick with her. The following day, he was there at 6am in the morning sitting on the porch waiting for her to walk by the house. He just knew if she looked at him, she would recognize him.On this day, the neighbor had her large stick AND her husband with her and when my dad called out, the husband recognized “Checko-The Mailman!” They had a good laugh and talked about how funny it was they ended up from in the same neighborhood all these years later.

Dad continued to call out and waive to them in the mornings, this time, embarrassing Julia as he walked her to the bus stop and he would do it again as he waited with Olivia at her bus stop and called out and waived her to friends parents. One day I hope they will look back and remember those embarrassing moments and cherish them like family heirlooms. Olivia was so touched by the stories I told her about Papa and the books, she has decided to try to teacher herself Vietnamese. I told her I could help her get started…Một Hai Ba.

My Dad, My Daddy

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me and dad

It’s that time of year again and I’m still trying to figure out how to “celebrate” Father’s Day without my dad but the days leading up to Father’s Day are emotional and I write as a way to cope and deal with another Father’s Day without my dad and my daddy.

I used to carefully select my Father’s Day cards for dad. Always choosing one cheesy sentimental dad card and choosing one cute daddy/daughter card. I saw him as both, a dad and a daddy. A dad, who gave me advice and guidance, a dad who was strong and firm but he was also a daddy. A daddy who knew when I was hurting, a daddy who knew when to give me space or to just pull me in for a hug and say things like “Ay mijita, it will be ok. What do you need?” That was daddy, always ready to make things better, whatever the problem. If he could do something about it, he would, or he would find somebody to help. If none of that worked, he would just try to feed you, bacon mostly.

As Father’s Day approaches, I move from sadness to guilt to gratitude and back to sadness again. I have learned not to fight the sadness, but to embrace it. I linger in that sad space and let the hot tear drops fall on my cheeks. I close my eyes, put some Freddy Fender classics on and just sit with my memories for a little while.

One Freddy Fender song that is especially meaningful to me is “Before the Next Teardrop Falls” When I hear this song, it makes me think of my daddy consoling me over a heartbreak or a loss. I knew he would always be there for me in life and now I know his love will always be with me, even in death. I miss you daddy!

“Before The Next Teardrop Falls”
FREDDY FENDER
If he brings you happiness
Then i wish you all the best
It’s your happiness that matters most of all
But if he ever breaks your heart
If the teardrops ever start
I’ll be there before the next teardrop falls
Si te quire de verdad
Y te da felicidad
Te deseo lo mas bueno pa’los dos
Pero si te hace llorar
A mime puedes hablar
Y estare contigo cuando treste estas
I’ll be there anytime
You need me by your side
To drive away every teardrop that you cried
And if he ever leaves you blue
Just remember, I love you
And I’ll be there before the next teardrop falls
And I’ll be there before the next teardrop falls

One Year, One Month, One Day

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39th sig bn

In my search for pieces of dad, I found myself looking for anything related to his life as a soldier. It took over a year of submitting multiple requests for access to his military records. In the application, you have to indicate what you are looking for and why. I asked for records with names of his units, medals and of course, for me, the most important record, pictures. I had my heart set on finding a picture of him in uniform for my genealogy research.
After months and months of waiting, the envelope finally arrived. It didn’t look too thick, but I was glad it wasn’t a single letter sized envelope noting there was nothing found. I asked the girls to open the envelope with me. I just didn’t want to be alone with whatever was in there.
I skimmed the letter, scanned the documents and there it was, on the last page, a picture of my dad, Manuel Pacheco, Jr.

dad.army

United States Army

I was excited to see dad as a clean shaven young man, but the look in his eyes and the worry lines on his face told a story I could only guess. The longer I stared at the picture, the more questions I had. Was it taken as he entered or as he left the military? I compared his graduation picture to this only picture of record to see if I could determine when it was taken. Based on what looks like a much darker complexion from possible sun exposure and those glazed over eyes, this had to be taken after his time in Vietnam. When I look at the pictures side by side, I see the same man at heart. They were separated by only a few years but also by a life time of experience. I see the youth and optimism fade into the face of war. It’s deep in his eyes and etched in his face.

dads grad

dad.army

I know he enlisted. It was a voluntary decision at 18 years old, but did he really know what he was getting into? Did he know what he would have to endure? All for the hope of a better life, a chance at education he would otherwise not have. I wonder if he thought it was worth it all.
I look at this young man, this clean shaven soldier who voluntary served his country, was injured and returned home to be turned away, to be yelled at and spit on by war protesters, at least that’s the story dad told. I remember once dad and I were watching the news and we saw some soldiers coming home to parades and cheers and welcoming people. He just stared through the TV and said something like ‘we never got that kind of welcome.’ I wanted to ask him if he could chose again, would he enlist, but I knew better. I didn’t ask questions like that.
Even before really digging into the details of the military records, I had to just sit with them; literally, sit with them. I held each document and thought about my dad and his mom, my grandma Lala. As a mom of two boys, I couldn’t imagine what she thought or felt about her son going off to war. I wonder if he ever wrote home. How worried she must have been all those years he was away and how relieved she must have been to have him back home. I saw a heartbreaking statistic that 61% of soldiers killed in Vietnam were younger than 21. Dad was one of the lucky ones to make it back in one piece, at least on the outside.
I had the choice to request medical records, but decided against it. There were war injury stories he openly shared about getting shot in the back while he was on his way home. He was not shy about showing us the scars of his skin grafts on his arm and leg and scars from his back surgery. What I didn’t know, was none of my business and I didn’t feel compelled to look into his medical records.
After several days of reflecting and sitting with the documents, I was ready to start really digging into the details but first, I wanted to read up on the Vietnam War. I had been reluctant to really learn about the war because I knew very little about dad’s time in the service. I had no clue what applied to his time and experience. Now, with this new information, I had a little bit more to go on.
I have to admit, I was overwhelmed by the extent of the information I found, but it was so interesting to be able to place dad’s time in the service alongside history. Intriguing as it was, I felt like I was getting too deep into “research” and really losing the purpose of my search for context.
A few things I pieced together was that at the time dad enlisted, 1961, the Vietnam War had not officially started. It wasn’t clear that there was an actual start date, but there are many milestone dates. What I understood the “war” to be, was actually in 1965 when the ground war begin and thousands of troops were sent to Vietnam. Then campus protests grew louder and the Vietnam war was all over TV. At that point, dad was already back home in the United States recovering from his injuries.
So, it turns out dad’s first unit in Vietnam is listed as a MAAG-Military Assistance and Advisory Group. What I gathered from my search is that in the early 1960’s the military sent over special personnel to assist with setting up a communication system before things really started to turn into an official war time situation. Later that year, he was assigned to an official unit. I’m not sure at what point he saw combat, but he did. Official or unofficial, there was a war going on and young men were dying and putting their lives on the line to build the infrastructure to eventually sustain an all out war. Dad had the scars, both inside and out to prove it. The way dad would tell it, they could not fire unless fired upon.
As much as I wanted to keep reading the details of the war, I turned my attention to the documents. What I received were several service documents and his DD214, separation papers. I already had a copy of the DD214, but it was interesting to note that the copy they provided had his “race” whited out and written over it with “n/a.” I double checked the copy I had and his race was listed as “Caucasian.” I know back then, Latinos were often labeled “Caucasian” on official records. That small detail infuriated me and reminded me how Latinos are often “whited out” of American history, but our Latino bodies were good enough to send to the front line.
Even though I had a copy of the DD214 since 1993, I didn’t really have a context for all the information on the form and didn’t really give it a second thought. Taking another look at it now, in context with the other documents, a little internet research and some help from Jennifer and her military expertise, here are some facts that helped me piece together a picture of dad’s life as a soldier.

IMG_2325

Dad’s military records

While in the military, dad went to Signal school, which determined which bases he would be transferred to and which units he would be assigned. He trained as a Communications Center Specialist and more specifically, a Cryptographer. Mom says he was “the radio man” and didn’t carry a weapon. He also received training on the Military Justice Code of Conduct. The records show he was trained on two specific types of rifles and received two medals including the Good Conduct Medal and the Armed Forces Expeditionary Medal (for his time in combat). He was promoted in rank to Private First Class E-3 at the time of his honorable discharge on May 31, 1967. He had served 3 years in total with his time in Vietnam totally, One Year, One Month and One Day.

 

Good Conduct Medal

 

ArmedForcesExpeditionaryMedal

Armed Forces Expeditionary Medal

 

I was most fascinated by the Chronological Service Record. There it was, in black and white, all the bases and units in a perfect timeline. All this time, I wondered about where he was stationed and what units he was assigned; and there it was. It’s amazing to think that the sum of his experience could be documented in thirteen lines on a piece of paper, but it was him all the same.
It never occurred to me that he spent more time out of Vietnam, than in Vietnam. I just always assumed he enlisted and went straight over to Vietnam and returned home, but what the records show is something different.
Over a three year period, he went from Ft. Hood, TX for basic training to Ft. Gordon, GA, for Signal School back to Ft. Hood, then left from Travis Air Force Base in California to Saigon, Vietnam, and finally left Tan Son Nhut Vietnam, back to the United States through Travis Air Force Base where he was finally stationed at Ft. Huachuca, AZ.
I was so curious about the bases and units I decided to focused on looking for visual representations. I learned that each unit and even the Signal school have their own insignia’s. I did my best trying to connect the units and dates with the correct insignia.

142nd Signal Battalion
142nd sig bn
Ft. Hood, TX

Signal School
Image40
Ft. Gordon, GA

MAAG (Military Assistance and Advisory Group)
Maag-vn
Vietnam

39th Signal Battalion
39th
Vietnam

72nd Signal Battalion
72_Sig_Bn_DUI
Ft. Huachuca, AZ

Looking at the insignia’s helps me feel connected to dad. To me, I see them as symbols of his identity as a soldier and his purpose in the military. I feel proud and sad at the same time. I don’t know what feelings he would have had looking at them as a veteran. He was never one for attending military parades or wearing any kind of veteran or military related clothing. I think they reminded him of his deep dark secrets, of what he witnessed, what he was asked to do and a reminder of those he lost in Vietnam. At the same time, I do know he was proud to have served his country.
Below are images of bases I found in my image search of the four bases Ft. Hood, TX; Ft. Gordon GA; Camp Gaylor; and Ft. Huachuca; that I believe he was stationed during the time periods. I’m not 100% sure of their accuracy but I just wanted a visual of where he might have lived during that time. I also found a random picture of what I imagined might be something related to his duty as a communications specialist. I used this picture purely to give me a visual representation, and not an exact picture of his job.

ft hood 1961

gordon 1

vietnam base

ProvingGround1965.preview

3

 

There are some missing pieces in the records, for example, his last unit assignment shows an end date of 1964, which accounts for his 3 years total documented in his record; but there is another record that shows his discharge date as May 31, 1967. I’m sure there is an explanation somewhere, but those details are not as important and the details of the official start of the war or the official insignia’s are not what I wanted to focus on and share.
To be honest, I’m not sure if I’ll continue to search for Manuel Pacheco, Jr’s life as a soldier. I found my picture, got my dates and units and I feel pretty content. This glimpse into dad’s life as a solider is as far as I want to go into a private and sensitive world of a Vietnam Veteran. I learned a lot and feel like I know more about dad, but the deep dark secrets he kept inside, are his to keep.

Rest in Peace Manuel Pacheco, Jr.

For my sisters who may want to do their own “digging” below are some places to start.

http://www.history.army.mil/html/books/060/60-15-1/cmh_pub_60-15-1.pdf
http://the178th.tripod.com/2011/hist-39th.html
http://huachuca-www.army.mil/pages/history.html
http://www.5sigcmd.army.mil/units/72ND/index.htm
http://www.5sigcmd.army.mil/units/39TH/index.htm
ARMY GOOD CONDUCT MEDAL http://www.afpc.af.mil/library/factsheets/factsheet.asp?id=7791

Why We Celebrate Dia de los Muertos

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Manuel Pacheco Jr Class of 1961

Manuel Pacheco Jr
Class of 1961

It was a tragic twist of fate that dad died so close to Halloween. We are not that big on Halloween as it is, but we would decorate; nothing scary, just happy ghosts and pumpkins and cute costumes. Donald would walk the block with the kids in search of candy and dad would stay home and hand out the candy. Dad would usually let me rest and watch TV and get ready for the kids to come home and sort candy. But 2011 was different. We didn’t have time to decorate or celebrate Halloween with all the chaos going on.

That year, I was consumed with dad’s hospice care all during the month of October. Every day presented a new challenge, but things were settling down. We celebrated my birthday on the 18th with what would be our final celebration with dad. I recently found a hidden treasure, a video clip of him singing “Happy Birthday” to me. He seemed so strong and hopeful that day. Three days later however, on my sister’s birthday, he took a sudden turn for the worse and died three days after that, on October 24, 2011.
Dad’s funeral was so tightly scheduled with the VA National Cemetery that our only option for a military burial was on Halloween. It took a lot to keep things as normal as possible for the kids. We were trying to help them grieve and still try to “celebrate” Halloween.

I couldn’t bring myself to think about how to grieve and celebrate on the same day, but we did it. It’s all somewhat of a blur from the service to the procession to the the military burial. We made our way home, skipping the gathering at my sisters. We had to recoup and recover. I made my way to the gathering alone, but, only for a short visit. I had to get back home to “celebrate” Halloween. I tried my best to keep up appearances as we put the kids in their costumes and prepared the candy for our neighbors. The little ones seemed to be excited, but maybe their masks were hiding more than just their face. Julia was not having any of it. This was the first Halloween she was going to skip trick or treating. Dad had been telling her she was going to be his “helper” handing out candy. She was excited to spend alone time with her Papa, but it wasn’t meant to be.

Instead, she and I took over Papa’s job of handing out candy on our first Halloween without him. We didn’t talk much, just handed out candy and watched Charlie Brown together, but this time, she sat next to me. Donald kept his duty of walking the block with the kids. It was strange not to have dad there handing out candy. I couldn’t imagine how I was going to get through Halloween or Thanksgiving or Christmas or even the next day.

Ironically, the next day was Dia de los Muertos. I was first introduced to the holiday when I was in college as part of a cultural event put on by my sorority. It’s funny how things come rushing back even if you haven’t thought about them for so long. We learned all about how to set up an ofrenda, an altar in honor of welcoming your loved one’s spirits back to earth and about the colorful gatherings at the cemetery. We even took a road-trip across the border to take part in a celebration.

I remember walking along the path to the cemetery, just like everyone else. It was loud and joyful. Cemeteries were supposed to be somber, silent places. You honored your loved ones with silence and prayer, or so I was taught.

The memories of the celebration were calming. I closed my eyes and could see the kids selling beautiful bright colored flowers and I could taste the delicious sugar cane. Families surrounded their loved ones graves. I could hear music and laughter everywhere. It was such a surreal experience in the middle of a cemetery.

I remember appreciating the experience and being intrigued about the idea of welcoming your loved ones souls back to earth for a visit. Up to that point, I had not had anyone close to me die since I was a kid. The idea of “celebrating” Dia de los Muertos was not personal, but I appreciated it from afar.

And then in 2011, afar became near, up close and personal. Here I was, having just lost my dad, deep in grief, struggling to keep it together for myself and my kids with no idea how I was going to do it and then it occurred to me that Dia de los Muertos was exactly what we needed, a way to honor and remember, a way to celebrate and reflect with food, family, friends and faith.

While the kids were still out trick or treating, I looked up Dia de los Muertos events in Houston and another ironic twist was waiting for me. The largest Dia de los Muertos event was being held at MECA-Multicultural Education and Counseling through the Arts , which was housed in dad’s former elementary school, Dow Elementary. I had always wanted to visit the school, but never took the time.
We attended the MECA event, participated in the celebration and community altar. Placing dad’s picture right there, in the middle of the community altar, helped me exhale. It gave the kids a chance to see expressions of love and loss through a cultural and artistic lens in the form of an altar. It made death less scary and unknown and gave us language to talk to the kids about life and death and love.

MECA Community Altar

Hope and Olivia admiring the altar

MECA Community Altar

MECA Community Altar

We went home and made our first attempt at an altar. What we didn’t realize at the time was that we were already building an altar with the flowers from the funeral and little mementos we placed on the fire place at home. We added a few things here and there and made our first altar.

Our first altar

Our first altar

David, Olivia, and Julia

We found ourselves “celebrating” Dia de los Muertos and “participating” in Halloween the next two years. Dia de los Muertos helped us find peace in the middle of pain, life in the middle of death, meaning in the middle of what we thought were unanswerable questions.
The next year, we set up an altar at MECA. I felt compelled to honor dad in a public display in the same hallways he walked as a kid. The girls and I attended Casa Ramirez’s class on how to build a traditional altar. My brother-in-law took dad’s old bed side table and turned it into an altar connected to a display board. It was our very own, portable altar. Donald and I carried it up the steep steps and the kids helped decorate the altar for the MECA display. Building the altar was a beautiful process! Each item was carefully selected. It was like dad’s essence, his soul was present in the tangible things that represented some of his favorite things; like his coffee cup, his crossword puzzle and dictionary, his beer, his eye glasses,his lottery tickets, his hat and Dr. Bear—the stuffed teddy bear the kids gave him to keep company during his hospital stays.

MECA altar

MECA altar

Over the last couple of years, we have built the altars at home. Initially, it was more out of convenience, the portable altar was getting heavy. In preparing for this year’s altar building, I realized that I had integrated many of the pieces of the altar into my home décor and it all made sense to me. Just the like the spirit of the holiday recognizes the fluidity of life and death, love and loss, the altar pieces have become integrated into our home, our way of life and family tradition of honoring our loved ones. This year, I’m especially proud that Julia took part in lighting the candles for the altar, the kids colored the skulls with such artistic talent, and Donald felt compelled to add his parents to the altar. It is not a tradition his family knew or celebrated, but he was always supportive and embraced it as we honored my dad and now we honor his parents.

Julia lighting the altar candles

Julia lighting the altar candles

Dennis and Jewel Goodley

Dennis and Jewel Goodley

Jewel and Dennis Goodley

Jewel and Dennis Goodley

2015 2

The kiddos artistic coloring skulls–Guess who colored theirs orange?

Daniel Goodley age 5

Daniel Goodley age 5

Celebrating Dia de los Muertos has blessed our family, has saved us from the taboo nature of death, has given us language to talk about life and death and love in a healthy, healing way. We will continue to “participate” in Halloween, but we will most definitely CELEBRATE Dia de los Muertos from here on out.

2015 altar 3

2015 Pacheco Goodley Home Altar