His Blood Runs Through Me

The blood of POPS the Club runs with emotional healing that can emerge unexpectedly.

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Kat came to school in the morning and Dennis could see she was upset about something. He asked her what was wrong, and she said her father was in court. He asked if she wanted him to send her somewhere quiet to write about what was on her mind, and she said yes. At the end of the period she came back with the enclosed essay. She said she’d like it read in POPS, but she wanted it to be anonymous.

Then POPS time came, and Dennis showed me the piece, and when Kat arrived I told her how moved I was by the story. She hugged me and wept. Then she asked if I would read it to the group, and if she could stand beside me while I read it.

“You don’t want it to be anonymous?” I asked.

She shook her head no. She said writing it had helped her feel a little better.

Time came to read it, and her best friend Maryana said,

“I’ll read it for her,”

and Maryana read it aloud, and the group burst into applause, and Kat was surrounded by people hugging and offering support.

This is the definition of POPS! — Amy Friedman

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His Blood Runs Through Me

by Kat Secaida

Today in a courthouse somewhere in Los Angeles, my father is facing a judge, and I am in my English class worrying about him.

I wonder why I have to have such a screwed up father. I mean, I hear my friends talk about their dads who take them places; who are there for their birthdays. Most nights I cry myself to sleep fearing one day my father will die from his addiction. He’s an alcoholic.

I know my dad loves me, and I love him deeply, but I can’t deal with this anymore.

I wake every morning or in the middle of the night thinking, “What’s the next call my mother’s going to receive? How’s she going to break the news to my sister and me this time?”

I’ve heard my dad talk about how much pain he’s in and I tell him to go to the doctor and he says, “No!”

He acts like everything is fine. He acts like he never ruins anything.

Every time he calls, I think, “What if he’s drunk? Should I pick up?” Half the time I don’t. And I wonder if that hurts him. But then I think, “F__ it, it hurts me too!”

He has one life and he’s destroying it. He has a family who cares about him, but he keeps chasing his addiction.

I wake every morning or in the middle of the night thinking, “How does he live his life like this? What goes through his mind?”

I know one day he will die and I won’t be ready for that. Just as I wasn’t ready to hear that he was sent to jail for the second time.

Sometimes I wish I didn’t have a father.

I know if he goes to jail, he’ll get help. But I know how it is inside. Like my father, I’ve been arrested.

But today as he faces the judge, I feel he’s not my problem. But at the same time, I know he is.

Because he’s my father.

His blood runs through me.

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