The Man, The Legend, My Father, John "Marty" Etchemendy

 

Today marks the 26^th anniversary of the day my biological father was taken from this mortal realm, and that, along with comments from others, have caused me to ponder on the matter more than I typically would I think… 

I was slightly over 2.5 years old when he was killed and sadly I have no clear memory of him.  Sometimes in my mind’s eye I feel like I can see a staircase that I was being carried down in our old house while in his arms, but is this an actual memory or something I’ve subconsciously constructed in an attempt to have some “real” memory of him?  Friends of the family bought our old house, so I’ve walked down that very staircase several times when I was still young.  Do those experiences inform that the memory of being carried by my father is true, or are they simply the cause of a falsely created image?  Does it even matter? Probably not.

I’m told that my dad didn’t like having pictures or videos taken of him and that’s why there are precious few of them remaining today.  Would he have changed his mind about that particular idiosyncrasy if he knew he wouldn’t make it past his 23^rd year of life?  Again, does it really matter all that much?  The answer to that question this time doesn’t feel quite as simple.  I click through facebook looking at past pictures of myself, of my friends, of my siblings… Those pictures paint an even larger picture of the lives we have lived.  I can rewatch my baby sister growing up into the woman she is today.  I can relive the memories of vacations I’ve been on with friends I don’t get to see as often anymore.  I can share in the triumphs and accomplishments of the people I hold most dear.  I can see what moments my friends choose to share with the world and thanks to “comments” which of those moments are the most emotionally charged.  You can get a sense of someone’s humor, their strengths, their beliefs, their social circles.  In an age of seemingly unlimited data sharing, the massive void of documented memories of my father seems much deeper than I once thought it was.

So where does that leave me?  Completely reliant on the spoken memories of those who were lucky enough to grow up with him, to raise him, to marry him, to play football with him.  How are those experiences colored?  I don’t have journals that he wrote.  I don’t have any firsthand accounts from him.  The only windows I have into the life of my father are memories others have chosen to share with me, and when remembering somebody you loved who was taken abruptly and brutally out of your life, you tend to only remember the very best things about him.  So I’ll ask the question a third time, does any of this REALLY matter?

I think the real answer all three times is the same, and it’s complicated.  Yes & No.  All of these things matter to me, but at the same time, they kind of don’t. 

The single “memory” I have of my father, whether it’s real or not, provides me with the only personal experience I have to back up what I’ve been told my whole life: that my dad loved me.  You may think that’s an overly simplistic thought to take away and maybe something many would take for granted, but when you don’t have a lifetime of experiences, both literally spoken or merely shown by his day to day actions, proving that your dad loves you, something as modest as a foggy memory of being embraced is a treasure.

Do I wish I had the ridiculous amount of photo and video data of my father that I can find for just about any of my friends or family on the internet?  Of course I do.  I want to know how he lived and how his looks changed over time.  I want to share in the triumphant moments of his short life.  I want to see the events he went to and how he acted in those situations.  Then again…. I don’t think it would change much.  Sure, getting to know my father through photo/video documentation would be great, but I think it would also make me think more often about all the pictures and videos it would have erased if he were still alive.  The childhood videos that I made with my friends shortly after we moved to Utah probably wouldn’t exist because what are the chances that we would have lived in the little apartment on 1300 East & 8600 South?  I never would have met the people that I have shared the vast majority of the most important experiences of my life with.  Those pictures of my baby sister growing up wouldn’t be either, because she wouldn’t have been born.  Pictures of me with my nieces and nephews wouldn’t have happened either because they’d be strangers to me. 

Obviously I miss him and wish I could have had more time with him so I could know who he was for real.  I will always love him for the gift of life he gave me, for the love he showed my mother, and for taking me everywhere he ever went when I was too young to remember that’s what he did.  However, the life I have today is precious to me.  The people in my life are the absolute most important thing to me and I’d do anything for my friends or family.  And from the memories of my father that have been shared with me by his friends and family I feel like he’d feel the same way.  Since I was just a boy I was told I looked just like him, I walked with the same swagger he did, the inflection in my voice was similar to his, we had the same smile, even voiced the same ideas.  If I can take all the accounts of him at face value, I think I know my father just a little bit every time I look in the mirror, or sit down for some quiet contemplation.   

I love you dad.  Thank you for leaving such a powerful legacy that your influence has continued to shape my life from beyond the veil... 

I actually had much more written, but I cut out parts that felt too personal or preachy, so please forgive me if this post seems fragmented.  I'd be happy to share the removed portions in a more private forum for those interested.