A Revolutionary Father: Reminisces of a son

As the de facto general secretary of our household, my father, Leon Devanan, held many responsibilities. The one which most affected this particular cadre is undoubtedly that the man fathered me, with all the implications inherent to the word. Aside from providing the genetic basis, the man then went on to raise me, and to commit his unending attention to my happiness and safe environment, up until the day of his death. Disabled, and wheelchair bound at the time of his death, my father still hung out with me, and I'm proud to say, treat me as a friend and more, as his comrade.

Now I'm left to write this about him, I suppose, primarily for my own benefit, but also for anyone who happens to stumble upon (...heh) this and happens to have an interest in his life. I can only provide the context to which I was privy to, and that is what I shall endeavor to do, here.

My father was the oldest son, and if I'm not mistaken, oldest child born to his parents, This imparted a sense of responsibility and duty on him that I don't think ever fully left him, and that as his only child, he by extension, expected of me, tempered by his absolute doting on me. He lost one of his brothers fairly young, and this also marked him. He would confide the sense of grief, loss, and despair to me when we would consume alcohol together and talk about life. He likewise loved his other siblings, and would speak of them with fondness.

My father was born in what was then British Guiana, which was a constituent part of the British West Indies. Accordingly, he received his GCE (now superseded), and kept the certificate. [1] There's not a lot that I can say about this period in his life, but I can recount a story he told of stealing coconuts as a youth and being found out by a British colonial patrol. He claimed to have been subject to field discipline—corporal punishment. While a serious matter, my father recounted this tale with much humor. He emigrated to Canada in early adulthood, and he was always somewhat cagey about his time there. It was not an easy life; he led a very working-class existence, at one time earning wages as a dishwasher, sharing an apartment, and living off of canned goods.

At some point in the 1970s, he then moved on to the United States, where he would remain, and made his life there. He settled in New York City, and although he bounced between different neighborhoods, he ended up in Queens and stayed there until 2006. In 2006, he, and our nuclear family, that is, himself, my mother, and I moved to the midwestern state of Ohio, and this is where my father would again remain until his death.

In the very early 1980s, my father was made acquaintance to, and married my mother. They would also remain married until his death. I am the result of this union. He loved her, and was completely devoted to her; my father was devoted to both of us. As a husband, he (along with my mother) held traditional views and expectations, but this also extended to the very concept of abandonment not being something he could fathom. My mother was rendered disabled in the early 2010s, and her health and happiness was always his priority, along with providing a solid quality of life for his family. He did this without complaint, and to the recognition of all who knew him.

As a father, he was absolutely the best. *laughs* Of course, I am biased in this assessment, but the man was truly my comrade in every sense of that word and all it entails. I am his only child. Foundationally, he loved me, and this instructed his parenting style utterly and completely. He always placed a high value on my education, and took pride in what he viewed as my intelligence. As a young child, I recall no instances of him ever being annoyed at incessant questions about the world, and towards the end of his life, I had a lot of fun quizzing him about things when we would spend time together. He encouraged and enabled my hobbies, and instilled values into me. The value I can say that I inherited from my father without a doubt was an almost militant, but clearheaded altruism. Many times, my father would say (and my mother would say this as well, so I don't truly know which one it originated from, although my father was more active in making a point of it): "if someone opens their mouth and asks for something, you don't ignore it." with the implication that to vocally express a need or desire is, maybe, debasing to some degree? To ask for help is already a display of submission, and so to disregard it, or to not treat such requests with gravity would be a deep insult. At least, this is what I took away from it, and my father certainly lived up to it. If a request was made of him that he was able to fill, and he agreed to fulfill that request - he was realistic on what he would agree to help with - he then ensured that he followed through. This manner of living through both word and action marked me, and will always remain with me. 

He was a generous man in general, in his attention, his time, his love. My father was affectionate with me, and remained so until the very day he died. He would pull me into hugs and proclaim his pride for me; he would drunkenly hit his chest and yell "my son!"; I was spoiled, but I never took his affection for me for granted, and never will. It was reciprocated, and always will be. ...I'm writing this praising his memory, aren't I?

There's smaller things, as well. I attained a driver's license at 16; he signed for my permit when I was 15 and some odd months, as soon as my jurisdiction allowed it. He even wrote down the date that I attained my license in marker in our garage, so happy he was, and added me to his insurance policy. He would always make time for me, he always put my (and my mother's) interests above his own. He was a good man.

My father became disabled circa 2020. This ended up being fairly severe, and towards the end of his life, he progressively lost more of his motor function (hence becoming wheelchair-bound), memory formation, and generally, his capacity to take care of himself. It was suggested, roughly a month before his death, that he be put into hospice care, and of all the things that might be a positive out of his death, neither of us found such a thing tolerable. My father died in his own home on the 26th of January 2023, his last conversation with his son, talking about his first car - an Oldsmobile Cutlass, and what I'm hoping was in his sleep, as he died at night and was found by me that morning. 

That was an event. After he was taken away, I immediately went to inform my mother, who either through knowing from his deteriorating health, or through my body language - I'll never know, and she didn't say - immediately knew that I had come to report his death. My mother died in June of this year, 2023. To say that she died of a broken heart, having lost her husband of over 40 years; there could be some validity to this. My father was not a religious man - he straddled the line between agnosticism and atheism, so there's no afterlife that he personally believed in, but he's united with his wife, should the human construct that is an afterlife exist. 

And there it is. As his only child and surviving son, what can I say? My father imparted upon me the value of treating others well and with respect, as he lived his life treating others so. My father had a sense of humor where he liked to laugh at the contradictory nature of things and people, and so I'd like to think that if he knew that I've written this, I'd receive a very bemused admonishment about wasting time. But, I suppose, it's my time to waste, and I've chosen to do so.

My father is my comrade, and he lived from the 28th of July, 1960 until the 26 of January, 2023. Should anyone come across this and read it, feel free to contact me with additions, as his memory truly deserves to be written. Photographs would also be welcome. This was written on 12 October 2023.

[1] At some point, I'll digitize this. 12 Oct 2023

Have some photographs: