My father was my first hero, the center of my world. I grew up in a quiet neighborhood in Brussels and, with my Dad around, there was no lack of adventure and exploration. He was a young Argentinean man who had evaded the 70's dictatorship in his country with just a one-month salary in his pocket, crossing an ocean by boat to build a new life and family in Europe; for him, fear was not a barrier. I remember being a toddler, seated on a small seat on the back of his bike, my small hands on the rails, one cheek against his soft sweater, the other feeling the wind blow, riding through the neighborhood, feeling both free and safe. Nothing could stop us. If it had been up to him, our childhood would have been only smiles. Instead, we had to learn early that life and people are complicated. Compliments of my mother who had the habit to love with hate those closest to her, communicating through violence, and changing personalities and moods without notice. At the time, I could not understand why my father wouldn't stand up to her and make her stop. Come adolescence, I distanced myself from both of them. At 19, I left home and started the road of adulthood, moving to Brazil on my own. Many times I would feel sad, lost, and lonely. Without someone to talk to, my heart would hurt with emptiness and sorrow. This pain convinced me I needed to see a cardiologist, which I did, making an appointment with the one closest to my apartment. The universe conspired so that this man, the cardiologist, was a generous and kind doctor who not only did not dismiss the ridiculous teenager I was but welcomed me every time I went to his office, assured me my heart was ok, and would ask me about my life, my worries, my fears. He often would make me laugh and always would give me sound advice. I wonder what he is doing today, my sweet cardiologist; I imagine him smiling, and I hope him happy. I still follow his advice to never watch "The Bridges of Madison", too sad he said. My years by myself in Brazil were cut short, and some years later, I found myself in Chicago, studying film, working during the day in retail, and meeting all kinds of people. Most of them bohemians, the best of them my dear friend Tim, whom we used to call "the man." We had a special bond, which I never fully understood but one I always fully embraced. He made me laugh, I was 23, and he was 40, but we both behaved as if we were 15. He taught me a lot about street life, hardship, hidden things, the black market, and such. He had studied musical composition and had beautiful hands. He loved to dress well and taught me what it meant to be dandy. Introduced me to psychedelics and the world of the foolishly silly. When I met him, he had been a taxi driver for seven years; he had a really old brown car and lived in a rented loft on Milwaukee Ave. It was the 90's. Wicker Park belonged to broke artists back then. He was starting a new illegal business venture, which over the years grew so much that his heart became dark and full of paranoia. After I left Chicago, I tried to stay in touch, but how do you stay in touch with someone that has to constantly change numbers? I will always love and miss who we were. It may sound odd to consider him one of my father figures, he certainly would hate it, but he was, in a way, fatherly. One can be, in many ways, fatherly to those we love. Throughout my travels, I always looked for one, consciously or unconsciously. The best my dear friend Omar; I met him too at 24; he was the older boyfriend of my beloved friend Roberto. I will never forget the first time I met him; Roberto brought him over to my apartment on Noble Street; it was nighttime, and he was very handsome, had a thin mustache, and a beige v-neck t-shirt. He was a simple man, yet there was something about him that always made him elegant. Today I know it was his kindness. Omar was from Colombia, an artist and shaman who over the years, became my closest friend. Saved my life, giving me shelter in his home at my worst moment, always generous with his time, ears, and heart. The years we lived and worked together will always be among my happiest. Unfortunately, the good go early, and he passed away two years ago. I think of him every day. I have not encountered another father figure since, and today I hold the hand of my actual father as he lays in a hospital bed, the shadow of who he was, living between the fear of dying and the lack of will to live. Uncertain of what is to come, I ask myself: what now? Who will give me shelter and guidance? The answer comes from the memories of those who have guided me in the past and is simple: No one. Everyone. Myself most of all.
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