Author's note

From half a continent away, I tried my best to help my sister care for our ailing and aging father. When he passed, I asked if could write the obituary, saying it'd be one thing off her plate. This is what I wrote. I really tried; I promise I did. But I was also being selfish and wrote it not just from my perspective, but for me. It is an obituary not for the man, but for my relationship to the man. It is the beginning of my grief.

-jey, 20260111

Fernando was my father, and the father to three others, all younger than me. He was also son, brother, uncle, and grandfather. And he was my friend. My pops taught me the value of hard work, how to drive a stick shift, how to play chess, and the complex art of forgiveness. He also built the closet I spent most of my life trying to escape.

Fernando was born in 1957, the second son of Daniel (1934-1999) and Nicolasa (1933-2021). With only 11 months between him and older brother Danny (1956-1991), the two were inseparable. Youngest brother Nayo (1961-) joined a few years later, completing their small family.

"Nano," as he was known to family and friends, graduated high school in 1976, and, by the mid 80s, was making a living in the oilfield to provide for two small children. I never really understood what he did at work, but he'd come home smelling of grease and gas, the sweat-stained hat tipped back on his head struggling to contain curly locks--a feature I inherited. I was seven, maybe eight, when my parents split. He wasn't always sure what to do with his quiet, bookish son. His perception of family life was a direct reflection of how he was raised, and, in the 80s, no one really had the language to talk about the pitfalls and complexities of masculinity in latine culture.

In the early 90s, my pops spent six weeks working in the North Sea, on an offshore oil rig near Amsterdam. He later told me his favorite thing about being in Amsterdam was seeing Terminator 2: Judgement Day in a local theater. He was surprised, then confused, when the film abruptly paused and everyone left the theater. He sat in the empty room for a moment, then followed to the lobby. There he found the other moviegoers using the intermission to freshen drinks and snacks.

"I got a cold mug of beer and went back in to finish the movie," he said to me, "a glass mug, mijo. It was great."

I was scared of my father by ten. Angry by twelve. Resentful by seventeen. The life he wanted for me was a mirror of his own, and my rejection of that--of marrying young and having children, of staying close to home, of finding work in the oilfield ("It pays good, mijo.")--confused and saddened him. I didn't know how to tell him I needed something different, that the wide, flat scrubland of Texas felt claustrophobic, the daytime sky suffocating. I didn't know how to tell him I had a crush on my best friend.

Fernando looked forward to football season every year as a lifelong superfan of the Pittsburgh Steelers and lifelong tolerator of the Dallas Cowboys. While some may have questioned his taste in footbal teams, he had undeniably excellent taste in music. I grew up on The Beatles, KISS, Queen, Johnny Cash. Later, after he passed, my newphew and I dug through his records, rescued from storage by my sister. In there, a pristine copy of Ladies' Night by Kool & The Gang, to my great surprise and delight.

My father loved motorcycles of all kinds, and was a regular attendee of bike rallies throughout West Texas and New Mexico. Even when age and ill health took his ability to ride, he was always ready to go to a bike show or car show and talk shop. This enthusiasm for horsepower and open roads runs in the blood, something he shared with his brother, nephew, and, eventually, his grandson.

Fernando was especially close to his grandson, who got a lot of the same lectures I did--including the one about condoms--but they were delivered with the wisdom of a longer life, a sober life. My sister said to me this week "I realize we had two very different fathers, two different childhoods." I stared, unsure what to say. I didn't realize those things, but it's so evident in Pop's relationship with his grandson, and I am so glad for it.

Over the years I did my best to rebuild my connection with Fernando. It was hard; in my 20s I could never measure up to his ideals of family and career. In my 30s, he started to come around but there was so much ground to cover. In my 40s, a cautious friendship emerged. When we talked, we followed the script, carefully nudging boundaries over time, giving the conversation room to breathe.

I wrote him a letter, in 2020 or maybe 2021, to share some personal achievements. In it, I connected growing up in his car culture to my career careening into the automotive world unexpectedly. I was hoping this was a new bridge; I could tell him about what we were building at work, trading the normal technical jargon for more familiar concepts.

I also sent along an album. He always favored Paul McCartney while I leaned John Lennon. We'd talked about the two and the music they'd made many times. The John Lennon album I'd included was my favorite, a rare early pressing in excellent condition. The letter contained details about the pressing, how I'd identified it, why it was special, and why the record was my favorite.

He said, "Thanks mijo. I'm going to frame it and hang it on the wall."

We never talked about it again.

Fernando passed away on August 21st, 2025, just before noon. He'd been in the hospital for a few days, with family coming and going. It was quiet, that last morning, just him and I--not by plan but just by chance--and while my world is poorer without him, his passing was peaceful and I am grateful for that.

Nano is survived and celebrated by his four children, his younger brother, three newphews, one niece, and a grandson. There are more--many more than can be named here--that will miss Fernando and the humor and care he brought to their lives. Per his request, Fernando's body will be cremated and interred alongside his brother and parents. The living will honor his memory on September 6th at 10am, with food and fellowship following.