Wytewa is the tribal liaison at the University of San Diego and member of the Hopi tribe Piikyasngyam from the village of Misongnovi. She lives on the ancestral and unceded lands of the Kumeyaay.
Fatherhood in a cultural sense pulls together many genres of a gendered presence for a family. Outside of a singular meaning, we find a father’s gentle smile, tender eyes, weathered skin and bursts of laughter in coffee shops, boardwalks, on trails and in general passing. Recently while in Honolulu, Hawaii, I came upon a group of men sitting under the shade of trees while their friend sat in the sun keeping watch over fishing poles on Ala Moana Park Drive along the stretch to Magic Island.
As I got closer, they carried their banter through cheerful hellos and a wave of the hand that felt like home. A gentle tug at my heart. I smiled as I recalled the times my grandfather would take us fishing at Lees Ferry along the Colorado River in Arizona as soon as the weather was warm enough for a family outing. He’d lead with stern caution, model a few times how to bait a hook and cast the line, before he was confident he could settle into his chair and enjoy his time on the water. It never lasted long before someone got a hook stuck in a finger or the line caught between rocks. I don’t recall any complaints, just the twinkle in his eyes and the creases in the skin of his cheeks while taking great care of all of us.
The brown sugar skin and black beauty marks of these men woke up memories of my grandfather and uncles. In the fields at the crack of dawn and under the summer sun, digging out worms from the roots beneath early tendrils of corn, then packing up the trucks and securing horse trailers to get us all out to the ranch for a full day.
Our lunches were bologna on the white bread that gets stuck to the roof of your mouth and warm sodas to wash it down. On special days, there was the family hazing of bareback riding and Rocky Mountain oysters (cow testicles) roasting on an open fire. Unless we were trusted to drive, we rode home in the back of the truck with sweaty, tear-stained faces and summer-singed skin. The cruise out of Hopi rangelands included hopping out of the truck to secure barbed-wire gates and chasing the truck as it sped off in a final dig at our youthfulness.
Our matriarchs at home received us all after a day’s work with a table full of piping hot food and cold iced tea. Across the table, stories were exchanged with frustration and laughter, to celebrations for the champions of the day. Before getting tossed in the shower, we’d wrap up our nights watching the glowing red of our grandfather’s taillights through the cloud of dust kicked up from a well-worn dirt road.
My journey from the desert to the sea provides a million little touch points in a day to look upon a stranger and watch my memory unfold. I didn’t grow up with my father, but I appreciate the ways my culture reinforces the roles of a father in brothers, uncles and clan family. Watching my children continue to grow and take on characteristics of the male figures in their lives grants me the opportunity to close my eyes and just remember. Recalling their early coos, rambunctious laughter and searing cries, a flood of milestones to all the ways they continue to evolve.
In our culture and community, the impressions of fatherhood are extended beyond biology and are carried out in community through our lifetime. This Father’s Day, I hope that no matter where you are, that you’re able to connect fondly to a fatherly presence that gathers the skin at the corners of your eyes, jolts your entire being into laughter, and reconnects you to warm memories that feed your spirit and celebrate the life cycles of fatherhood.