Joseph Faro

I would like to welcome all of you who have come to join us in this remembrance ceremony and extend our gratitude for your presence.

I am the second born and am here to share my father as I know him and from what I have gleaned from cousins, friends and from his own library.

Joseph – he gave himself the middle name Paul – Faro was also the middle child. He had an older sister, Eulia, and a younger brother, Revo, shortened for “revoluzione”. He was born to Antonio Faro and Grazia Rappazzo in Lawrence, Mass. It was here where the working men of the Faro clan cut and sold ice upon emigrating from Sicily. The extended family migrated, perhaps to get some distance from the heat of union organizing, but also in search of steady work opportunities, as it was the Depression era. The tribe settled in the Fordham area of the Bronx around Arthur Avenue and took up house-painting. My dad was by then a young adolescent.

My dad was very close with his cousins Larry and Lindy, and Lindy, also 96, recently told me those teen years in the Bronx were the very best years of his life. Fond memories included skinny dipping in the East River and not being able to resist stealing apples from the then extant orchards, hiding in the trees so as not to get caught by an angry farmer.

Although pulled out of high school to help support the family, my dad was compelled to earn a diploma as he very much valued education. He put himself through night school, ever hungry to learn. He was interested in a variety of subjects and was a prolific reader: American, Italian, French, German and Russian writers; history; philosophy; plays and poetry.

My father had an adventurous spirit, perhaps likening himself to Jack London a bit. He was open to new experiences, ever willing to try something unknown. He and Larry somehow went to Florida to squeeze oranges for a spell to earn some money and at another point, he and his good friend Alfred Hooper went so far as to acquire passports with the intention of fighting Franco as mercenaries. Either the tide changed or they got cold feet, but that trip never materialized. He remained close with both men until their deaths. After the war ended, he took advantage of the Army’s offer and gained the skill as a film editor, which was his profession until he retired.

My dad was always drawn to water. Our early family vacations were always interesting – to Cape Cod where we kids would sink knee deep in a muddy bog digging for quahogs, to be transformed into our dinner that night. Dad loved to fish and bought Louise and I crab cages that we tossed over a bridge in Redbank, NJ, home of my maternal aunt and uncle, in hopes of catching a meal. Alas, I remember pulling up a starfish. And Jones Beach – that long walk from the parking lot through tunnels onto a long strip of hot sand covered with those striped beach umbrellas, endless traffic, sand in our sandwiches – but my dad loved to swim and he was ultimately responsible for teaching me how to breathe properly for the crawl, despite years of swim lessons in camp.

My dad derived real pleasure from introducing others to new things, as well. Once, after my Saturday music lesson at the Henry Street Music Settlement as a little kid, Dad took me to a hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant. I can’t remember what I ate, but he ordered half a sheep’s head – yup, it was sawed down the center, eyeball in the socket, teeth in the jaw, swimming in broth. That was too weird for me at that point, but now, I have taken up some of that spirit. And speaking of food, this reminds me of scungilli. My moms’ good friend from way back, Nohmie Myers, recently shared a sweet anecdote with me. When my parents first began dating, each thought the other was Jewish. It was most likely my father who ventured to announce that he liked to eat scungilli – perhaps as a test. And the response was, “So do I!” and that’s when they learned they had Italian, if not Sicilian, heritage in common.

About 25 years ago my father had to have some follow-up surgery after having his prostate removed. I was alone with him in pre-op. He expressed that he was frightened and anxious about going under the knife again to me and tears welled up in his eyes. It was an awkward moment for me as I wasn’t given to offering support or affection. I am very sad about that, but I recently had the opportunity to apologize and tell him I loved him very much. For that I am grateful.

My dad had admirable qualities and values: he practiced what was then referred to as progressive politics with a solid understanding of history. He was a devoted father and husband – a real family man – strongly loyal. He had a great sense of humor and was able to let go and have fun. Gracious, sociable, welcoming, generous of spirit, he could never be called frivolous.

According to Buddhist philosophy, the process of dying happens gradually over time, with the dawning of ever more subtle levels of consciousness, as the dying move toward Clear Light. As we approach the twilight of our lives, it is said that we review our time on Earth and may ask ourselves if we contributed to the common good or strived to that end. What truly counts is the motivation behind each action.

I believe my dad went through an evolution. As he got older, he let go of things that used to annoy or anger him. He mellowed. Of course, I am not in my father’s head and what follows is from my vantage point: in this regard, my dad was pure. He never manipulated outcomes nor had malevolent motives. Sure, he was fallible and imperfect as we all are to some degree, so not everything he did was saintly or gracious. In his later years, I believe that on some level, he took stock of himself and his life in preparation for the next leg of his journey.

My father was severely agnostic (a phrase directed at me by a friend who declared I was severely Italian), but I think he understood the human condition with its weaknesses and desire to gain a false sense of control over that which is truly awesome: the wonder of the universe and capacity of humankind. My father embraced it all.

Farewell, Dad. Safe journeys. I love you.

A Memorial Service will be held on Saturday April 20, 2013 from 2-5:00pm at Thomas M. Quinn & Sons Funeral Home located at 35-20 Broadway Long Island City, New York 11106.