People who live in glass houses should not have pencil mustaches

In Catholicism, the choosing of a baby’s godparents is a big deal. In case the child is ever orphaned, those godparents take over. They must be carefully inspected because their lifestyles have to match that of the parents. They should be close friends or relatives who can be trusted with the emergency upbringing of a child. In most families, they do not have to kill anybody or put horse heads in anyone’s bed.

Since my dad was an atheist, I am pretty sure he didn’t take this task of searching for the perfect substitute parents very seriously.

He asked a dude from his office.

This was 1980 and he worked for IBM, so I’m sure there was some excited water cooler talk between the two of them. (The eighties did have great water coolers.) I don’t doubt he got to know this man well. They probably made fun of Carol in accounting and maybe expensed some lunches together. But godfather? Man who might possibly have to raise his daughter one day?

If it was a joke on the whole idea of baptism, the guy still said yes! He probably leaned over the cardboard wall of his cubicle, uttered some quip about MS-DOS or staplers, and then agreed to take me in if my parents ever died. He went to the baptism. He poured water on my little head, and BAM– godfather. His job description also said he must pretend to care about my drawings and recitals and just kind of ‘spot’ me until my parents died.

The plan was working.

And then my dad came out of the closet.

Suddenly, this sideliner of mine wanted nothing to do with me. I wonder what his thought process was at the time? “That girl might grow up to be a gross lesbian, so I take back everything I said when I splashed water on her at the church.” Or perhaps “Jim’s a fag and he’s gonna try to stick his dick in me. I better run. Help!” (Please note that the below picture proves this was absolutely NOT a legitimate fear.)

Whatever his fears, he decided he no longer wanted the duty of being my substitute parent. I’m not sure how it affected the talk around the old water cooler, but I’m thinking it was awkward. I’m thinking Carol from accounting did some whispering from her cubicle about my dad. “How could Jim be a homo?” she surely asked. Homosexuality was still considered a mental disorder back then, so I can’t blame them for wondering. I just hope some of them were whispering about my deadbeat goddad as well.

I never really knew the man since he deserted his duties when I was only three. I’ve wished for a substitute father just a few times. Like when I went to buy my first car and cried throughout the entire process (It’s not that I’m emotionally unstable. The salesmen were peeling onions that day.) I have always at least wondered who the guy was and how he could REALLY be that scared of associating himself with a friend who turned out to be gay.

And now my mom found a picture of him after all these years:

That’s the judgemental guy?
Him?

I’m slightly relieved this man wasn’t in my life. And also more angry with my father for choosing him. A pipe and a pencil mustache? Really? Come on! A PIPE? What if I grew up with a god-oedipus complex and learned to think that pencil mustaches were attractive?! I already have a problem with my attraction to men like my actual father (unemployed depressed Latinos). Thank the lord I didn’t have that pencil mustache in the mix. And this guy looks boring. His wife can’t even keep her eyes open when they’re together. I’m thinking it’s probably better that he and his hatred weren’t in my life.

But I’m wondering (if he’s not already dead) how he’s dealing with all the legalized gay marriages and the greater acceptance of homosexuality. Are you freaking out, man? By the looks of this picture, I sort of have a feeling you either spend your days complaining about squirrels or you, yourself, are actually married to a man. I just have a feeling. I’d love to know. If anyone knows this man, come forth! I swear I won’t be mad and give you shit about my abandonment issues. Swear. If you still have a pencil mustache, I might be a little scared. But not mad.

Note: I am aware that judging one based on his style of facial hair is just as evil as judging one based on his sexual preference. However, let’s all be honest: a pencil mustache is much, much worse.