NO, DON. SAMUEL WAS NOT PERFECT. FAR FROM IT; BUT NEITHER WAS DON FELIPE..NEITHER AM I, NOR ARE YOU. WE CHILDREN ASK TOO MUCH OF OUR PARENTS: WE ASK THEY SOMEHOW STOW AWAY THEIR BAGGAGE, HEAL THEIR SCARS, REPAIR WHAT’S BROKEN, HIDE AWAY THE PAIN AND SOMEHOW EMERGE PRISTINE, UNBLEMISHED AND PURE TO NURTURE US

Don Samuel: Bailando en el Cielo In D Dorian

ALBERTI ROMANI · 21 min read · Apr 6, 2025

I am a reflection of my parents’ glory. The way I choose to honor them — both in their lifetime and forever after — is by unfurling my wings, ascending high beyond the treetops, basking in the light of the sun, and displaying all my happiness. I am Don Samuel’s son. Bitch, deal with it. The swagger I have — it was well earned. I am standing on the shoulders of a giant…

Background

The weight of parenthood is not measured in grand gestures or flawless execution but in the quiet, unyielding labor of survival. It is in the long hours worked without complaint, the dreams sacrificed in silence, the meals portioned carefully to ensure every mouth is fed.

It is found in the strength to endure hardship without faltering, in the refusal to let obstacles dictate the future of the child they raise. A parent is not an architect of perfection but a sculptor of resilience, shaping a child not with extravagant gifts but with the raw materials of effort, discipline, and love.

The long hours worked without complaint, the dreams sacrificed in silence

Effort is not merely the act of providing shelter, food, and education

Effort is not merely the act of providing shelter, food, and education — it is the unseen struggle, the sleepless nights spent worrying about a future they may never fully control. It is in the choices made when there are no easy solutions, in the sacrifices that go unnoticed because they are woven into the fabric of everyday life.

Parents do not announce their hardships; they bear them silently, constructing a foundation sturdy enough for their children to step forward without fear. And perhaps that is the true act of parenting — carrying burdens so that their children might feel lighter.

“I am a reflection of my parents glory. The way I choose to honor them — both in their lifetime and forever after — is by unfurling my wings, ascending high, beyond the treetops and bask in the light of the sun in all my happiness. I am Don Samuel’s son. Bitch, deal with it…”

“The swagger I have, it was well earned. I am standing on the shoulders of a giant — A man that managed, though self-surmounting, and sher force of will, transcend the limitations, abuse and the cruelty of a world that was, and still is, cold and unflinching…”

There is an inherent cruelty in the comfort of hindsight

There is an inherent cruelty in the comfort of hindsight. The child, grown and secure, sees only the flaws, the moments of weakness, the decisions that might have been made differently. From the vantage point of stability, it becomes easy to critique the hands that carved a path through uncertainty.

But what of the days when they had nothing but hope? What of the years spent navigating a world that showed them little kindness? To dismiss their effort is to dismiss the battles fought in the shadows, the wars waged against adversity in order to create something greater.

Why is parental love is so often misunderstood?

Perhaps that is why parental love is so often misunderstood — it is not a flawless symphony but a song sung in defiance of hardship, sometimes off-key, sometimes rushed, but always with conviction.

It is an act of faith, believing that despite the mistakes and missteps, despite the limitations of the world, a child will rise and surpass all expectations. Parents do not ask for recognition, nor do they expect perfection from themselves. They ask only that their children stand, whole and capable, proof that their struggles were not in vain.

Survival does not grant reprieve to the weary

Survival is a language spoken fluently by those who have faced its relentless demands. It is neither passive nor forgiving — it does not wait for permission, does not grant reprieve to the weary. For Don Samuel, survival was not merely a challenge but a daily covenant with fate, a contract signed in labor, sacrifice, and endurance.

There was no luxury of introspection, no indulgence in childhood innocence. The world expected toil, and so he toiled. The farm, the unforgiving sun, the scarcity of resources — all of it shaped him, sculpted him into something more durable than the fleeting comforts others might take for granted. In a world that demanded strength, weakness was simply not an option.

“Any two human beings that can manage to create someone like me (believe me, I’m quite something), gets a pass-go! Straight to the parenting hall of fame. Whatever scars, baggage, or emotional burden I carry, it’s the simple cost of doing business — I get to be me, every day of my life. Not by the material things I have, or lack; but by the foundation they laid for me…”

“Sure, I can and do disagree with their methods — I even believe they could have attained the same results, even by sparing the rod more than they did; but that is semantics. What matters is that I am here, today. I am a fully and complete person. One with towering intellect, limitless agency and boundless confidence. They built this temple. I say thank you for the fine work, and leave at that…”

To grasp the weight of a reality I have never carried

To imagine such a life from my vantage point — where shelter is a given, where choices are abundant, where my energy is spent chasing intellectual pursuits rather than scraping for survival — is to attempt to grasp the weight of a reality I have never carried. The distance between his struggles and my own is immeasurable, a chasm that cannot be bridged by speculation alone.

What does hunger taste like when it is not a temporary inconvenience but a familiar specter? What does exhaustion feel like when it does not end with sleep but is passed down through generations? These are truths I cannot fully understand, only acknowledge from a respectful distance.

One cannot truly grasp the depths of another’s suffering

There is an inherent arrogance in believing one can truly grasp the depths of another’s suffering, especially when time and comfort have softened its edges. It is easy to critique decisions made under duress when one has never known true duress. It is easy to wish for gentler hands when one has never had to shape a life with bare, calloused fingers.

“There is a story he often recounted that is the genesis of my insatiable thirst for knowledge; my relentless drive to learn, to understand as much as I can about as many things as I can. As he tells it, his father Don Felipe was a brutal man — himself a product of his own environment: Slavery, Colonialism, Colorism and Social Stratification…”

“Don Felipe wanted sons simply as hands that could toil in the fields alongside him — not just useless mouths to feed. He had little time for bourgeoisie pursuits like learning to read and write. Education to him meant knowing how to birth a calf, plow a field, or mend a broken fence — he forbade his son to learn to read!”

Don Samuel did not wake each morning with the luxury of choice

Don Samuel did not wake each morning with the luxury of choice — he rose because he had to, because the world did not care for hesitation. His childhood was not measured in moments of joy but in the tasks completed, the fields worked, the burdens carried without complaint. To judge him from any other perspective would be to misunderstand the essence of survival itself.

And yet, survival was not just endurance — it was resistance, resilience, the stubborn refusal to be defeated by circumstances. Don Samuel did not merely exist; he pushed forward, carving out a future where none had been promised to him. He stood against forces greater than himself, not as a man free of mistakes, but as one unwilling to let those mistakes define him.

To look upon his life through the softened lens of hindsight

To look upon his life through the softened lens of hindsight and demand perfection would be not just unfair but ignorant. His story is not one of a man unscathed, but of a man unbroken. And that, above all else, is something worth honoring.

“If not for a friend of the family, that would on occasion take my father under the stilts of the house, beyond the knowledge of Don Felipe, and Doña Lidia’s fearful acquiescence, he would have never learned basic reading and writing skills. But despite no formal education, he managed to continue learning…”

“A few years of night schools, soaking up whatever knowledge he brushed up against. The radio, the TV, the news — in these days news was informative, as opposed to per-packaged gas-lighting. He picked up a multitude of skills, mastered several languages, even managed to be short-listed for a scholarship to divinity school — only for this chance of a lifetime to be scuttled by Don Felipe…”

This is parental relativism

This is parental relativism — an understanding that to measure my father against my own expectations would be an act of selfish ignorance. I have no ledger to tally his rights and wrongs, no moral scale to weigh his successes against his failures. All I know is that I exist, and that is enough. Because existence — this improbable, miraculous chance to be — is a gift, whatever scars it carries.

To judge another by standards they were never given the tools to meet is to misunderstand the very essence of struggle. My father did not build his life with blueprints of certainty; he constructed it from raw determination, from instinct, from the scraps left behind by a world that demanded more than it ever gave. And yet, despite those odds, he built something lasting — something that extends beyond his own existence and into mine.

My presence here is testament enough to the work he did

My presence here, my ability to reflect, to reason, to evolve, is testament enough to the work he did. His legacy is not perfection; it is endurance. It is proof that, despite his flaws, despite the wounds life carved into him, he refused to crumble.

“He would tell this story often; not as a source of shame, but as a lesson in resilience, determination and sheer force of will, Berti, knowledge is not a burden! He would often say. I took this ethos to heart. At this point in my life I have racked up an IQ that hovers slightly above 187. I have mastered over 17 different languages…”

“I said it before: I am merely a reflection of his glory! I have earned several post-secondary degrees; I have learned to play several instruments; I have composed over 200 pieces of music; I have written millions of lines of computer code across various programming languages; I have written over 150 essays, articles, and several novellas. All praise is due to my mother—and to him!”

Existence itself is an improbable gift

Existence itself is an improbable gift. To even be is a statistical anomaly in a universe indifferent to individual survival. That I sit here, contemplating the weight of his journey, is a reminder that so much had to happen — so much had to align — for me to be given this chance. It is easy to look backward and count the missteps, easier still to dwell on what could have been different.

But to do so is to ignore the profound reality that despite everything — despite hardship, sacrifice, and uncertainty — I exist. And in that existence is something magnificent: the ability to honor, to remember, to appreciate. That is more than enough.

A child believes himself to be the center of their parents’ universe

A child often believes themselves the center of their parents’ universe, a belief born not of arrogance but of necessity. But parents are not singular beings whose sole purpose is the nurturing of another. They are individuals shaped by forces far beyond their children’s understanding, molded by histories and burdens that began long before their firstborn’s arrival.

To expect them to have been anything but what they were — to demand they transcend their circumstances in ways we ourselves may never have managed — is to erase their humanity. And what could be more selfish than denying the full complexity of those who gave us life?

I do not need a ledger to tally my father’s worth. I do not need scales to weigh his choices. I have only my own existence as evidence of his efforts, my own voice as proof that his sacrifices were not for nothing.

The mistakes, the wounds, the imperfections — they are irrelevant

The mistakes, the wounds, the imperfections — they are irrelevant in the face of the undeniable truth that he did enough. More than enough. He carried his burdens so that I might step forward unencumbered. What greater act of love is there?

Fatherhood is not a science nor an art perfected through generations — it is an act of courage, a declaration against fate’s uncertainties, an attempt to mold something lasting from the rough, unpredictable elements of life. To be a father is to walk the tightrope between strength and tenderness, between discipline and compassion, between knowing when to guide and when to step back.

Fatherhood does not require omniscience or divine instruction

It does not require omniscience or divine instruction; it requires only effort — the willingness to take on the burdens of responsibility and hope that the lessons given, however flawed, will be enough. Don Samuel swung with all his might, not knowing where the ball would land, but knowing he had to try.

“No, Don. Samuel was not perfect. Far from it; but neither was Don Felipe…neither am I, nor are you. We children ask too much of our parents: We ask they somehow stow away their baggage, heal their scars, repair what’s broken, hide away the pain and somehow emerge pristine, unblemished and pure to nurture us, to love us, to shield us from the world until the end of our days. We never stop to think they too carry hurt, scars, doubt, pain…”

“We only ask, and we judge, based on what they give…and give…and give. Yet what do we, as children, give in return? Do we repay the love and shelter they spent? Do we rise to their expectations? Do we measure up to their ideals of what sons and daughters should be?”

There is no scorecard for fatherhood

There is no scorecard for fatherhood, no ultimate standard against which success is measured, yet the result is undeniable — the son who stands tall, shaped not by perfection but by perseverance. In the grand story of human struggle, a father does not need to achieve mastery of life; he needs only to ensure his child has the tools to build something greater.

Don Samuel carried what he could, stumbled where he must, and pressed forward in the only way he knew how. And in the end, his efforts bore fruit — the proof not found in accolades, but in the resilience of the son who honors his journey, the son who understands that survival itself is a triumph.

The world is rarely kind to those without a guidebook

The world is rarely kind to those without a guidebook. Many fathers, including Don Samuel, must forge their path with instinct alone, creating a foundation not from privilege but from endurance. The mistakes, the missteps, the struggles — they are inevitable, but they are not what defines him.

What defines him is the attempt, the determination to rise each day and make choices, not with certainty, but with the simple hope that his work will not be in vain. He faced his circumstances without expectation of ease, without the comfort of reassurances, without the privilege of retrospection — and still, he pressed on. What more could be asked of any man?

Don Samuel earns his perfect score

And so, Don Samuel earns his perfect score, not because he achieved some unattainable ideal, but because he tried. Because he fought. Because he swung the bat despite the odds, despite the doubts, despite the barriers that could have kept him from ever reaching beyond his own limits.

That effort, that unrelenting push forward, is what makes his legacy unshakable. It is not perfection that shapes the future — it is the willingness to strive, to stumble, and to keep moving, knowing that in the end, a son will stand in the sun and recognize the worth of the hands that built him.

To rise beyond the past is not to deny it but to embrace its lessons, to weave its triumphs and tribulations into the fabric of one’s own existence. Don Samuel’s legacy is not a shadow looming behind me but a force propelling me forward. His struggles, his perseverance, his resolve — they are not weights to be carried but winds beneath my wings, lifting me to a height he could only have dreamed of.

I do not dwell in sorrow for what was difficult

I do not dwell in sorrow for what was difficult, nor do I lament what could have been different. To do so would be to dishonor the very essence of his labor. Instead, I stretch beyond the treetops, untethered, unafraid, bearing his name as a banner rather than a burden.

Celebration is the only tribute worthy of a life lived in defiance of adversity. Don Samuel did not walk through life seeking pity, nor did he pause to bemoan the injustices that shaped him. He fought. He endured. He built. And so, to honor him, I do the same — not with grief-stricken reflection but with fierce determination.

I bask in the light of my own achievements, knowing that each milestone reached, each triumph seized, is a continuation of his own story. His success is measured not in the absence of hardship but in the resilience that carried him through it, and that same resilience is my inheritance.

Regret is too often mistaken for reverence

Regret is too often mistaken for reverence, as if sorrow is the only way to pay homage to those who came before us. But Don Samuel did not live a life deserving of tears — he lived one deserving of applause. His labor was not in vain. His sacrifices bore fruit.

And so, to sit in mourning would be to misunderstand the very nature of his effort. I do not grieve him; I exalt him. Every day that I move forward, every moment that I embrace the fullness of life, I am not merely living — I am giving shape to his victory.

Some carry their lineage as a burden, weighed down by expectations or regrets. I carry mine as a torch, burning bright with the fire of those who came before me. Don Samuel gave his best, and his best was enough. That, above all, is what matters.

So I rise — not in spite of him, but because of him

So I rise — not in spite of him, but because of him — because his journey was not just his own, but the foundation for mine. That is the truest form of gratitude: not merely remembrance, but action. To live boldly, to strive tirelessly, to honor him not through words alone, but through the life I build.

Expectation is a one-sided affair, often shaped by the comfort of hindsight rather than the realities of lived experience. We call upon our parents to be unwavering, to be omniscient navigators of our world, forgetting that they themselves were once just as uncertain. We expect them to carry wisdom without error, to impart lessons without contradiction, to protect us from wounds they themselves were never shielded from.

Yet, in this ceaseless demand for perfection, we seldom ask whether we, in turn, have earned the grace we so easily deny them. What do we give back for the sleepless nights, the sacrifices unnoticed, the love that persisted despite exhaustion and fear?

The burden of parenthood is often unspoken

The burden of parenthood is often unspoken, masked behind mundane routines and quiet struggles. It does not seek recognition; it does not ask for praise. It exists as a fundamental truth, woven seamlessly into the fabric of a child’s life. And yet, that very invisibility breeds entitlement — an expectation that the love we receive is owed to us without question, without cost.

But love is never effortless, nor is it without pain. It is built in moments unseen, nurtured through compromises untold, sustained by the strength of those who gave without ever demanding repayment. And so, the true tragedy lies not in a father’s imperfections but in a child’s failure to acknowledge the price paid so that they might stand freely.

The cruel irony in how we measure those who came before us

There is a cruel irony in the way we measure those who came before us, holding them to standards we set only after reaping the benefits of their labor. We dissect their choices, analyzing their successes and failures without understanding the constraints under which they operated.

To do so is to erase the weight of their sacrifices, to dismiss the countless times they stood against the tide so that we might never feel its pull. What right do we have to judge the architecture of a life built not for comfort but for survival? What right do we have to question the methods when the results — the simple miracle of our own existence — are undeniable?

For every scar a parent leaves, there is a lesson embedded within it, a truth shaped by the struggles they endured. To dismiss those struggles is to ignore the fundamental act of creation — the effort it took to give a child something more than what they had themselves. And so, judgment is a hollow pursuit, one that overlooks the quiet victories, the battles fought in silence, the relentless striving to carve out a future that did not exist before.

A father does not need to be perfect to be honored

A father does not need to be perfect to be honored. He needs only to have tried, to have fought, to have built — knowing that even if he could not achieve the ideal, he could give his child the foundation to pursue it for themselves.

The measure of a life well lived is not found in repentance but in the legacy one leaves behind. Don Samuel was not a man of apologies — he did not spend his years seeking forgiveness for the choices shaped by necessity. He carried his burdens without complaint, fought his battles without retreat, built his world with bare hands and quiet resolve.

He did not waste his days lamenting what could have been different; instead, he pressed forward, forging a path through the hardships that dared to slow him. And now, freed from the weight of the past, he takes his rightful place among the stars — a soul unshackled, a spirit unbound.

Time does not diminish the impact of a life lived with purpose

Time does not diminish the impact of a life lived with purpose. Though Don Samuel now walks a different plane, his presence lingers in the lessons passed down, in the resilience he cultivated, in the strength that endures beyond his own existence. He does not fade into obscurity; he transcends it.

His efforts continue to shape the world left behind, weaving themselves into every achievement, every triumph, every act of courage that echoes his own. Death does not erase him — it elevates him, allowing his story to be carried by those who understand its weight.

There is something poetic about the way memory transforms

There is something poetic about the way memory transforms struggle into something worthy of celebration. The labor that once exhausted him now stands as proof of his perseverance. The wounds that marked his journey become symbols of his refusal to yield. And though he no longer walks among us, he is not absent.

He lingers in every step we take forward, in every lesson we uphold, in every moment we choose to rise rather than succumb to life’s difficulties. His dance among the stars is not an ending — it is a continuation of everything he ever built.

And so, Don Samuel does not require absolution. He requires only remembrance, only honor, only the recognition that his fight was never in vain. His legacy is carved into every success, every milestone, every instance of unshaken determination.

To carry his lessons is not a burden — it is a privilege. And as long as his name is spoken, as long as his sacrifices are understood, he remains, weightless, eternal, alive in the victories he made possible.

Legacy is not measured in stone or in name alone

Legacy is not measured in stone or in name alone — it is etched in the way a life reverberates through generations, shaping the lives of those who follow. Don Samuel’s lessons are not relics to be admired from a distance; they are blueprints, guiding my steps with steady resolve.

He did not build a monument — he built a foundation, a temple woven from endurance, wisdom, and the sheer force of will. And as I move forward, I do so not as a passive inheritor but as an active participant in the continuation of his work. His strength courses through me, his sacrifices fueling the strides I take each day.

The halls of this temple are not adorned with gold, nor are they framed by grandeur. They are lined with moments — decisions made under duress, lessons learned in hardship, victories carved from struggle. To walk through them is to honor the labor that shaped them, to acknowledge that every trial, every burden carried, contributed to something greater.

His hands may no longer lay brick

His hands may no longer lay brick, but the walls stand firm, testament to a life spent forging pathways where none existed before. His legacy is not merely remembered — it is lived, felt, carried onward in the choices I make, in the resilience I uphold.

And so, I do not walk these halls with hesitation, nor do I linger in doubt. I stride forward with pride, knowing that my presence within them is not just a gift — it is a responsibility. It is an acknowledgment that what was built must be preserved, honored, expanded.

There is no need to seek permission to claim this space; it is mine as much as it was his, a sacred inheritance crafted from perseverance rather than privilege. This is the proof of his life’s work — not perfection, but continuity, the enduring strength of a father passed down to his son.

Time will call me forward, just as it once called him

Time will call me forward, just as it once called him. And when my own journey reaches its conclusion, I will cross that bridge not with sorrow, but with certainty, knowing that the work done in this life is never truly lost. Don Samuel built something meant to last, something meant to echo beyond his years, and I carry that forward without hesitation.

When I reach that distant shore, I will not arrive as a stranger — I will step forward as the rightful bearer of a legacy, shaped by a man who understood that effort, not absolution, defines a life well spent.

Father, Leave the gates open

Leave the gates open, and keep the lamps burning bright — I’ll be arriving with a heart full of lessons and a mind restless with wonder. Not as a weary traveler seeking rest, but as a scholar eager for discourse, as a son carrying the weight of the stories carved into my bones.

“I am a pillar of reason, yet my soul whispers sorrow, For the man who once loomed tall is now but a shadow in memory’s glow. Scarred by the trials of my boyhood, yet wiser with the years, I know no manual guides a parent through love and fears…”

“Stoicism reigns within me, but beneath lies a tender ache — A father now myself, with children to awake. Farewell, Don Samuel. Thank you for the words and the lessons; Now that you know my story, I know you understand…”

“Faith and science form a bridge across time’s divide, Both hinting at a reunion where eternity and love reside. So save me a seat next to Jesus — I have some questions. Until then, I stand, steadfast but yearning, embracing life’s transient art, Hope and loss entwined, a duet within my heart…”

I have walked the halls of this temple

I have walked the halls of this temple, I have honored the hands that built it, and still, there is more to understand. So, let my chair be pulled close, let my place be marked, for when I step across that threshold, I intend to ask not just about the mysteries of life but about the labor that forged it.

I have some questions — about fate and free will, about hardship and redemption, about why the road was carved so unevenly beneath our feet. About the paths we walk and the weight we carry, about the echoes of struggle that linger long after the footsteps fade.

I have questions about justice, about love

I have questions about justice, about love, about the quiet endurance of those who came before me. I do not seek simple answers, nor do I expect them. I seek understanding — the kind that does not absolve, but clarifies, the kind that does not erase struggle but honors it.

And when I sit, when the conversation unfolds across time and eternity, I will not just listen — I will speak. I will tell of Don Samuel, of the battles fought in silence, of the burdens carried without complaint, of the temple he built so that his son could stand tall.

I will tell of his resilience, his victories, his failures, his triumphs — I will tell of the man who did not ask for perfection but dared to press forward anyway. And perhaps then, in that space where wisdom and memory intertwine, the true depth of his efforts will be understood.

So save me a seat, because when I arrive, I will come not with sorrow, but with gratitude. Not with regret, but with reverence. And in the glow of that eternal fire, I will honor a father who swung the bat with all his might, and who, through the sheer force of will, ensured that his son was here to tell the tale.

“…how do I best honor my father’s memory? Job one is to dial down any hollier-than-thou bullshit. We are not saints. We are flawed, imperfect human beings. This whole ‘I am right, ergo you’re wrong’ thing only works if one believes one’s own bullshit…”

“..I like to think I am smart enough to know I don’t have ANY answers. I don’t know the way. I am not infallible. I do not always speak the truth. I am petty. I am jealous. I am unkind. I am angry. I am hurt. I manipulate. I use. I abuse. I lie. I cheat. I am flawed…I am just a man…”

“My own inflated sense of worthiness notwithstanding…”

“I see no utility in cloaking myself in righteousness. There is no need; nor do I have any patience for those who do…”