CLE Airport at the Gate

I just left my family. Every time I have embarked on a new travel or moved away, I cannot remember crying. I do not think I have ever cried. Maybe it is because I knew that I would be back soon or that I was just a short plane trip away.

This time is different. I did not think I would cry, but I did. I will miss them all, my sister, my brother, my mother and father – especially my father. I will miss him the most. His stories, his anecdotes, his nervousness and him yelling at me, but trying to convince me that he is not yelling at all. “Honey I am not yelling at you. No, no I am just talking loud,” he says that every time I ask him to stop yelling at me. Oh God he makes me laugh just writing about him.

Everyone likes my Dad. I mean everyone; if they do not, I know there is something wrong with that person. He has always been a likable guy. He and I even had a conversation once about how he really gets along with everyone. He is easygoing, unless . . . unless someone crosses him, than that is a different story.

When he was younger they used to call him Spike because he was cool and everyone knew not to mess with him. They respected him, because he did not let anyone push him around. Even the guys or bullies, who tried to push him around, after they fought him, would end up apologizing to him and eventually they became friends.

My dad and I used to belong to the same gym. I never had to look for him because from the floor above I could hear people excitedly greeting him. Even at parties, when he walks into the room, the entire crowd greets him.

My father always taught us to be nice to people, but at the same time, if someone disrespected us the treatment must be reciprocated. I guess it is Old Testament, “a tooth for a tooth.”

He used to have long talks with me when I was little in his red Ford pickup truck. He would corner me in the place that emitted his aura, all around inside and out that truck was T.T., T. Trusso.

Sometimes I just wanted to run out and scream, “I get, I get. I won’t do anything bad. Just please let me out.” I was like Meryl Streep in Bridges of Madison County with my fingers clutching the handle waiting for the right moment to flee. All the father-daughter talks were in that truck. “Don’t sleep around . . . Don’t let someone use you . . . If you disrespect the family do not bother coming home . . . mi figlita (my child).”

Now that I am older, he still corners me in the truck. When I had may break up, I weighed about, hmm 100 pounds — wet, looked sickly and could not crack a smile. But this did not stop T.T. He was just waiting for the moment. He was waiting for me to seek out his advice and confess that I had made a mistake.

One day in his truck, while trying to hold back my tears, I broke. I turned to him and said “Dad I think he is cheating on me.” Well I did not receive the expected words of comfort, like “honey it is okay, you can do better” ending with a nice hug. Oh no, not T.T.

“Of course he is fucking cheating on you,” he screamed with anger. “What do you expect he is only 23 and you’re in another country. He is just a boy. Don’t be so fucking stupid!”

For dramatic Sicilian emphasis, his one hand pounded the seat with each “fuck,” “cheat” and “stupid” that gushed from his mouth.

Now the tears were flowing down my cheeks.

“Listen, listen, the writing is on the wall, this guy is just looking for a ticket, he has nothing. You are so much better than that what the fuck were you thinking!”

He continued pounding the seat.

“He has nothing! Nothing to offer you, nothing at all . . . he does not even have a degree. You have traveled and your getting your masters, you’re not on the same level!”

Then I think he felt bad, because the tone changed; only slightly, he lowered his voice about one decibel. “Now you knew it was not gonna work . . . you knew it deep down, mi filgita. It’s just not gonna work. It’s just not.”

This would be one of the times where my father says he is not yelling. No, no, he is just talking loud.

Later I thought about it, and I think my dad, being a man, knew I was being played, and was so upset and angry to see it and know that he could not warn me. I had to find out for myself.

He was just waiting for the moment when I would come to him, in confidence, to tell me how dumb I had been.

Our last truck talk was just a couple of days ago. Me, back to myself, happy and eating again. “People will betray you, you cannot trust anyone. You can be friends with someone for a hundred years and still not know them,” he said.

In the end it was three words that resonated with me the most. I think this is the best advice yet. "Fuck that guy!”