Imagine me—a 12-year-old, anime-loving, glasses-wearing, fashion-challenged girl, smiling ear to ear while running home after school because Rick* had just asked me to be his girlfriend—forced to suddenly grow up and leave the simplistic world I knew called childhood.
On January 22, 2008, that is exactly what happened.
. . .
“Hurry up, Mantha! It’s gonna rain and I just freakin’ straightened my hair yesterday!” my then 11-year-old sister called over her shoulder as we hopped off the flashing school bus.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” my 12-year-old smart mouth said. “I can’t believe he asked me out! Oh. My. God.” I never really had much luck with the boys, so I was pretty excited at the time.
“Just wait until Papi finds out!” my 10-year-old brother shot back. Our Papi (“Dad” in Spanish) was very traditional when it came to dating. I remember him telling me once that I wouldn’t be allowed to date until I was 100 years old.
My sister didn’t want to get her hair wet from the looming rain, I wanted to tell everyone about the boy I had a crush on and my little brother wanted to play some computer game, so we all dashed home from the bus stop.
We were ignorant to the reality that was waiting for us at home.
My brother was the one who found Papi first. “Mantha, Papi is here,” he said.
I was confused. The door had been locked when we’d arrived home a few minutes ago—it usually wasn’t, since none of us had an extra copy of the house key. I was forced to climb over the balcony (we lived on the first floor) and open another door, which was always unlocked, to let my siblings and me in.
“Why didn’t he open the door, then?” I asked. I followed my brother into my mother’s bedroom. My brother was right. Papi was here—right in front of us, his feet dangling in the air.
“Papi?”
He didn’t respond.
My father was known to be a trickster and a bit of a goofball. He loved to tell corny jokes (ones that he usually got from Comedy Central) and make us smile. But this wasn’t one of his usual tricks.
I grabbed the phone and dialed my mother’s cell.
“Hello? Mantha?”
“Papi… Papi hanged himself.”
[pagebreak]
That day, everyone around me cried. My siblings and I were kept inside one of the police officer’s cars. My mother, who had rushed home from work, tried to run into the house, but she was stopped by the firefighters. She threw herself on the ground and cried. I never saw my mom scream like that before.
It was then, as if by coincidence or fate, that the rain finally started to fall. I don’t think I even cried, partially because I knew I had to be strong for my family, and partially because it felt as if the sky was already crying for me.
My mother was temporarily taken away somewhere because they were concerned about her well-being. My siblings and I were taken to our aunt’s house for a few days while my mother recovered. I had to be a grown-up now for my siblings; I needed to be strong for them, for my family. For what remained of my family, anyway. I needed to be someone they could look up to.
At 12 years old, I was a grown-up. My siblings looked to me as a role model. Without a father figure anymore, they needed another parent. And it was up to me to fill that role.
I remembered the words my father used to tell me when I was younger: “Don’t become like me. Finish school, get an education and get a good job. People treat you like sh*t when you don’t have a degree. Life sh*ts on you.” I remember those words because not only did he say the “S word,” but also because I already knew that life had given us the short end of the stick.
Both my parents were high school dropouts. My mom was knocked up when she was 18 years old. My father quit school to work two jobs. Life didn’t get any easier as time went on. Our heat and hot water had been turned off after collecting an impressive amount of “past due” letters on our kitchen table. It wasn’t a problem until winter came (and trust me, being without heat in the winter, especially in Rhode Island, is brutal). My mother used to use our neighbor’s stove to heat up water in pots for us to bathe. So when my father told me to finish school and not to live his life, I listened with every ounce in my being. I wanted to be the “something” my father wanted and my siblings needed.
In order to be both a role model to my siblings and to honor my father’s advice, I began to push myself in school. Studying for long hours into the night and taking on advanced classes, I vowed I would be a living example for my siblings. I wanted to prove to them that, despite us having to grow up faster—living in poverty, experiencing our father’s suicide and me battling depression—we could still have the same opportunities as anyone else. It would just take work.
It’s not easy. Every Father’s Day is lonely—glancing at happy families eating out at the local IHOP is hard. Every thought of my wedding day seems disheartening, as I will be walking down the altar alone.
Sometimes life just seems so pointless. But I remember my father’s spirit. Despite what he did, I believe his spirit is strong and unbreakable. He worked for so long and so hard for our family, and it’s my turn to do the same. And because I am my father’s daughter, I have his unbreakable spirit.
When my sister comes to me crying because she can’t do her English essay, I tell her, “How much have you tried?” She can do anything she wants—she just has to keep working harder.
Almost six years later, I am now a sophomore at UNC-Wilmington. I’m determined to make it as a journalist. My sister has recently moved to Charlotte, North Carolina, for her first year of college and is studying psychology. My brother is completing his senior year of high school and wants to protect his community by becoming a police officer, like the one who gave us a warm blanket on the cold night my father died.
Yes, we have had a hard life as children who had to grow up quicker than most, but because of that, we all have a better idea of what we want to do with our lives, and we have unbreakable spirits. So maybe, just maybe, my father will be smiling his goofy smile when we all finally reach those goals.
I love you, Papi. I miss your corny jokes.
*Name has been changed.
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