August 12, 1993
Dear Jake,
Jacob Diego Marsh was born yesterday morning. “He’s so beautiful, Eddie,” that’s the first thing she said. It was still dark outside, but it was almost dawn. He was three weeks late, blena was very brave. The minute she was having hard labor pains, she lost her English completely. My Spanish is still really bad, so I didn’t know what she was saying—except my name, and I now know the word “dolor,” and now I really know how to perfectly say “Dios mío.” I’ll never forget those words, or how she looked. Her sweat smelled new and fresh like a tree after the rain.
She was strong, Jake, incredible! I thought she’d take my arm off its socket. And yet when it was over, she kept staring at this little child. She kept repeating my name, “Eddie, Eddie,” she kept saying. “Look. Look what we’ve made. Look, amor.” I know I was just one more man staring at his wife holding their new child—just one more man among a million others. One more child. Before I had him, in the back of my head I asked myself: “Does the world need another child?” And I know the world doesn’t need him, doesn’t need him at all. But, Jake, I need him—and Nena needs him. And if we do right by him, maybe he will do something good for the world, something really good, so good that the world will be changed forever. I’m probably thinking the same thoughts as the million other fathers who had a child today. Maybe we are all hoping the same things.
It’s so strange, Jake, to hold a child—and to feel that kind of love. Did you know that when you love a child your heart hurts. I didn’t know that. It hurts. It’s the best pain (sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?)—but it’s the best pain—to feel the heart literally hurt, strange and awesome and, well, mortal. Jake, I’m a dad. I was too happy and tired and excited to sleep. I just wanted to be with her and with him, and I wish you could have been there so you could have driven me home and listened to me babble about the whole thing. I’m a father. In my cynical moments, I think to myself that I’m just perpetuating a system that’s gone bankrupt. Isn’t that what our parents tried to make us do? They thought we’d grow up to be big white boys who believed in big white gods. And we didn’t, did we? Tell me we didn’t, Jake.
He has Maria Elena’s eyes, and his skin is going to be dark. I can tell. But he has light fine hair—maybe he’ll be blond like you. Actually, right now it’s fuzz, but I think he might have your hair. It’s not my hair, that’s for sure. He’s very handsome. He has some very Indian features—Maria Elena’s genes. I want him to know all about you. I want him to know all about his past. I’m not going to hide anything from this kid—I swear I’m not—not about the country he lives in, not about the rich and the poor, not about sex, not about the families he comes from. I want him to know. I want him to carry that knowledge in the deepest parts of him. I don’t want him to wake up some day and say: “Why didn’t they tell me? Why didn’t they trust me with the truth?”
It’s very beautiful outside. The baby and Nena are coming home today. I’m bringing them home. I’m taking a month off from work. Actually, I don’t know if I’ll ever go back. Every day I sit there and think I’d rather be someplace else—doesn’t matter where. But it does matter where—I just don’t know what I’d like to do. I have choices. The rich always do—that’s what Lizzie always says. She’s right. I’m wasting my life for a buck I don’t even need. If I hate my job, then why keep punishing myself. Punishing myself is so easy—for what? For surviving? Right after Mom kilted Dad, and then herself, I had a dream. I dreamed I was in the room, and it was me kilting them. I woke as I put the gun to my own head. I sometimes think I should have died with them. Then it would be over for all of us. But then I think of Maria Elena. And now I think of my son. Maybe that’s why I wanted to have children—I’m hoping they’ll set me free. I hope they’ll give me another chance at something, another chance at my own life. I hope I’m not too heavy for my son. I hope he’ll be strong enough to carry his father in his body. One way or another, the poor little guy is stuck. If I believed in God, I would ask him to make me a good father. Please.