Humans First, Choices Second

Behind the main house, a shared patio held a lone wooden chair. A weary old man sat there, hair matted with dried grime. I could not smell him from where I stood, but my father’s wrinkled face told me enough. The women of the house urged my father to do something. The man everyone called Papito—“Little Father”—had been found intoxicated again. My father called him Tío Carlos. He was his uncle, and the closest thing my father ever had to a father.

My father removed his uncle’s shirt and poured a pail of water from the outdoor tank over his shoulders. Tío Carlos apologized again and again. For his state. For not getting better. For being a bad example. He warned my father about the evils of alcohol. My father bathed him, dried him, sent someone to buy food, and stayed until he was settled.

We never debriefed. What stayed with me was stark and simple: alcohol does this. In my young mind, a single sip could leave me on a patio chair, ashamed and sorry.

I first tried alcohol at forty-five. At first tentatively, later with intention. This is not an invitation to drink—it is simply my journey from a fear-based, secondhand lesson to a more informed and compassionate view.

With time, another lesson grew louder. When I read my father’s journal, I understood why this man mattered:

“I loved Tio Carlos. His life was cheerful. He always had thick hair, combed with a large woman’s comb. I do not remember him looking dirty. He was simple, always smiling… Whenever I was lost in the yard, Tio Carlos would whistle so I knew he was back.”

The quiet lesson was stronger than the warning. Look beyond the grime and the smell. See the person before the choices. Alcohol, illness, and circumstance are chapters, not the whole book.

Life gives us loud lessons and quiet ones. Revisit them. Ask what still serves, and what needs rewriting. The day on the patio taught me to fear a substance. The years since have taught me to honor the person first, choices second.