My father's dream

As a kid in Colombia, he had a Kodak Instamatic camera. He used to take a lot of pictures and he used to like it, he said. But it wasn't until 1979, while he was driving limos from the airport to Manhattan that a rich guy left a Canon F-1 in his car...

* * *

For the first time, I just asked my dad what he had wanted to do. In life.

He got to New York at 17. He worked at a toy factory, a warehouse, as a busboy, at a bank, at a dry cleaning shop, as a limo driver. When I was little he drove a yellow cab. Then parked cars at a garage. Worked at a printing. He's a doorman now. Good union job.

I knew the story about the rich guy. He forgot his camera and my dad kept it. Karma would later right his wrong -- years later a passenger stole the same camera out of the same limo.

Not that relevant, but funny: He somehow got the address of the camera thief and would fill out subscription cards to photography magazines in the guy's name.

Anyway, my dad bought lenses and lenses for that camera. In 1980, he signed up for photo school. He was 23. The classes started at 6:30. But his final limo run started at 6:15.

So the schedule didn't work. "I guess I could've done it," he said. A pause. "But I didn't."

* * *

Intense gratefulness. That's the phrase that comes to mind. But that doesn't quite capture it.

It's something along the lines of recognizing that I wouldn't be chasing my passion without his help.

I also feel terrible that I didn’t know this; that in 21 years I had never asked him what he wanted to be.

And then there's a new connection. I guess the one that comes from sharing a dream with someone.

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Photos by Nicolas Hidalgo

-- Carolina Hidalgo