On this day when people all over the world are pausing to remember those who died on September 11th, I do the same. However, the one person I spend the most time thinking about is my Dad, the man who raised me. He died on the morning of September 11th, two years ago.
I have talked about how I am connected to what happened ten years ago in this blog. I know there must be many people who do not want to read what I have to say about ten years ago. They certainly don’t want to hear about how I felt about what people told me would happen on this day, fifteen years ago. The only thing I want to mention about that event is I was sleeping on that morning ten years ago when I remember the phone ringing and rushing to answer it because I knew it was urgent. It was my Dad who had called and I could only comprehend what he was talking about mid-sentence. He was telling me about how this was the “worst attack in history” and I barely was able to tell him I had just woken up and did not know what he was talking about. He told me to turn on the television. Most of those in New York had not died yet.
Despite my clear recollection of that day, I am more focused on all the things connected to Ted’s death two years ago. One thing that has never really left my mind is a picture, drawn in a style reminiscent of a political cartoon, one of my high school classmates showed me over thirty years ago. This picture was forever etched in my mind despite the fact I only saw it once. In this picture I was dressed in a crazy clown outfit. I had just pulled the rope on a guillotine and the one who had just been decapitated was my Dad. I seemed to be exultant and gloating over his demise. The most notable characteristics about my Dad’s head as it fell away from the guillotine was that he had a large forked tongue that was extended far out beyond his long fanged teeth. My classmate told me I had to do this and I asked in horror, “Why?”
While I was in high school I did not know why my Dad had to die nor why he was depicted in such a monstrous fashion. Soon afterwards, I remember my Mom telling me about a strange thing happening while she and my Dad were engaged in a heated argument. His eyes immediately changed color to a bright, light blue she had never seen before. This is not normal. Ordinary human being’s irises do not change color instantaneously. Only shape-shifter people’s irises do that. I had only begun to piece these facts together before I turned eighteen years old.
Many years later I understood how much my Dad, let alone my sister, stood in the way of God’s plan and His instructions for me. I understood why my Dad and my sister needed to die. Considering all the other things I had accomplished by that time, it was time for somebody else, let alone everyone else to do as I instructed. It was wrong for everyone else to try to pass it back to me; that I had to do these things. I am constantly reminded how frequently the rest of the world thinks I have to conform to its wishes, and why you refuse to obey my commands.
I also think about the last time I saw my Dad while he was alive. We spoke briefly; we both knew he was going to die soon. I had to see what had happened to him since I last saw him and he was interested in seeing my right foot that nearly had to be amputated because of the spread of MRSA. I concluded this visit by telling my Dad a very strange and horribly bad taste joke about an encounter between the two of us in a future after-world. I learned this type of shocking humor from him and I admit to enjoying the fact that he laughed as hard as he could in his very fragile condition because he understood this joke that only the two of us could truly appreciate. On some level, I felt I slayed him; that I had figuratively, but not literally, fulfilled the prophetic nature of the cartoon I saw when I was in high school. I experience many strange emotions when I think about my Dad; mostly, I feel relief that he is gone.