Spring 2014

The Good Liar

I imagined my father would defend himself
a littlelie someand then hed quiet down
until he fell silent. He didnt have a great
relationship with his own father. He had
been raised like me. He never used his
fathers surname, he used Fernandez, his
maiden namedocumented and all. Same as
my brother, Franchy. Same as me.
Its a strange feeling to look at a man you never had the pleasure meeting and know him perfectly.
The sentiment is doubled when that man has a title that hes never championed, only to finally share it
with me for five dayspreserved in vinegar. Te amo, Papi. I love you, Son. He looks over at my little
brother, Dale un abrazo y un beso a tu hermano mayor. Franchetty, my younger brother, another dear
stranger, with familiar eyesmy eyesholds me for a moment. His long arms pressing down were like the
sealing of an important letter in an unsealed envelopea message written to me. It settled wrong that in my
own country, with my own people, amongst mi propria familia, my own family, I felt foreign. I loved them.
More than any young man in my circumstance should havemy brother because it was out of his thirteen
year old hands
a
n

By Gianfranco Fernandez Ruiz

Lorem Ipsum
For five days I sat with him, drinking batidas de lechosa, fresa, y pia. Some of my favorite drinks I had while
breathing in the sea salt air. While we drank my father lied his lies. Lies he told himself, regularly, believing. But, for the
sake of the music in the air, I let him lie to me, and then danced to them, so that I could feel the soul and rhythm of the
Dominican. The one I never became. Con Dios adelante, mi hijo, With God willing, my son. His honest, good-willed
lieswith God willing. Hed ask me about my life, the one he helped create but didnt help raise. He would tell me he
wanted to be there, but it didnt work out, that he was deported and that he and my mother couldnt figure it out. I could
only remember the truth: when he was deported, I was eleven. And that infidelity business would be a tough one for any
woman to figure out. The thing is, I wanted to believe every one of his pathetic excuses. He had fooled himself, and his
earnestness would make it difficult for anyone to not want to believe. I pitied him.
Still, every night he would bring traditional food for my wife to try. He had given us his room, made me breakfast
and stopped wherever I liked, as often as I liked. He did everything so willingly. There was no question whether he loved
me or not. I could feel it. I had just never felt it before. He was trying to return as my father and make up for lost time.
So, when time came I didnt call him a liar, out of love. I wanted to tell him for every year my mother worked
from eight to ten. I wanted to tell him for everyday I ever met a kid with a dad and how it made me feel. Not wanted.

I imagined my father would defend himself a littlelie someand then hed quiet down until he fell silent.
He didnt have a great relationship with his own father. He had been raised like me. He never used his fathers
surname, he used Fernandez, his maiden namedocumented and all. Same as my brother, Franchy. Same as me.
Franchy used Castillo; I used Ruiz. His laugh was ours as was his fatherless anger and genuine heart. I could see the
good in my estranged father, like I saw it in Franchy and in myself. The only difference had been that I learned to
take pride in my tainted name. My origin. My struggles. My family. I wore them around my neck like the Catholics
wore theirs. I allowed for his name to be attached to
my mothersto give his hope.

3
On the plane, I thought about that hug and what message my brother mightve left me. I imagined the words he
meant to say. Something like, I havent known you, always, but I have loved you always. Papi isnt a bad man, just stupid.
Love him. It is the same as loving me, and our people, and our land. Love him. It will change our family. Love him.
Looking out the window of the plane, I think about my people here, and my people in Bostonhandicapped by no-
father syndrome. The wind blows on the palm trees that dance back and forth, the music still in the air. I think of my
brothers quiet message. I whisper back: Franchy, I do. I love that small pathetic man. He is a good liar. I will hug and
kiss him on his neck when he falls. I will let the prodigal father return.