Colombian Odyssey

LIKE MANY LATINO FATHERS OF HIS GENERATION, mine never talked much about himself. He was the head of the household, and we were to respect him at all times. We were never to make him angry or ask him uncomfortable questions.

Papi, as I call him, would wake up around 5:30 a.m. every weekday to get ready for work. He would always wear a collared shirt, dress pants and a fedora, even though he was going to spend his day taking trays of food to patients' rooms. Work ended around 3 p.m., and he would be home by about 4:30 p.m., usually with a bag of M&M's or a KitKat for us kids. By then, my mom would be on her way to her evening job. At night, my siblings and I would do homework and watch TV. My dad would have his dinner alone, then watch TV or read the newspapers. Sometimes, I would sit and translate the dialogue for him or define a word he did not recognize in a Daily News story. We never talked about his past, or our feelings about anything.

That's not to say I didn't think he loved me. I knew he did. I would hear him bragging to a friend or relative on the phone about how good my grades were. He would Scotch-tape every one of my little arts and crafts projects to a wall in his bedroom. And when we walked in the neighborhood, he held my hand and affectionately called me "Nancisita." But my dad's life in Colombia was a mystery to me. I knew I had relatives there, yet it wasn't until I was about 8 that I realized his life there was more complicated than I'd thought.

One evening, we were watching TV when my father -- or maybe it was my mother -- told me that my sister would be stopping by for a visit.

My sister, Lucy? I asked, confused, because she was watching TV in the next room.

No, I was told. My father's daughter from his first marriage.

His first marriage? I asked.

I believe it was my mother who explained to me that my father had been married in Colombia. He had a daughter with his first wife, whom he'd divorced. My father had arranged for his daughter to come to America.

Okay, I said, and I quietly finished my cheese sandwich.

I remember Luz Marina walking into the house. She was in her late 20s then and wore a lovely dress that flattered her thin figure. She had long black hair and dark eyes. Her skin was light brown, as is my father's. She looked so exotic, so beautiful, I thought. She sat down to talk with my parents, but I don't remember what was said.

Luz Marina, who was living nearby with a maternal aunt, stopped by occasionally for a while after that first visit. But then she and my father had a falling out. We children never understood what caused it. It just became an unstated rule in our home: Luz Marina was not to be spoken of. I heard through other relatives that she had had a child and settled down in Jackson Heights. When I was about 13, there was a break from the ban when Luz Marina was diagnosed with stomach cancer. My father took flowers to her at the hospital and prayed for her. But after her recovery, the old resentments resurfaced. One day, my dad and I were walking on Roosevelt Avenue when I spotted Luz Marina across the street with her daughter. Hey, look, it's Luz Marina, I said to my dad.

He looked briefly and continued walking.