on my dad.
Francisco Antonio Soria Brito
My father passed away in late April. He didn’t have much of a digital footprint, and I hesitate to create much of one for him now. But I guess I also want to make sure there’s a small corner of the world that acknowledges him and his time on this ridiculous planet.
The idea of his death is something I’ve had a few years to come to terms with, but I guess I never thought much about his eulogy until the flight down after his death, and I started to write the words I share further below. His health took a turn for the worse right around 2019, when we realized his kidney transplant was failing. He had received the transplant in 1992 when I was still a kid. That transplant held for more than three decades. We got far more time with him than many recipients are given.
We were on borrowed time with him. That borrowed time was a gift from someone we never knew, whose family made a decision in one of the hardest moments of their lives that gave ours more.
I say this because I hope that, if you haven’t already, you consider becoming an organ donor. If you've never registered as a donor or want to learn more, Donate Life is a good place to start. It takes a few minutes to do the research. It can mean decades for someone else.
Anyway, here’s a little about my dad.
My father was Francisco Antonio Soria Brito. His father was also named Francisco. He was Francisco the Second. I was almost Francisco the Third — or, apparently, Chad.
But I called my dad, Franco. He was a Captain, a Master Mariner in the Venezuelan merchant marine. He graduated from the Nautical School of Venezuela and sailed massive ships for CAVN during what those who knew that world still remember as a golden era. That chapter of his life filled him with pride. By 1988, he left the seas. CAVN brought him to an office at the World Trade Center in New York. He moved our family there, and for eleven months, we were New Yorkers. Then Houston called, and in Houston we stayed. But New York never let me go. He gave me that city without meaning to, although he never really got the appeal.
Growing up, I said I wanted to be a journalist. When he'd take me to his office, I'd use the typewriter and the photocopier to make a newspaper for the family. I'm told — although my journalistic standards prevent me from confirming it — that I asked which journalism school was the best. Someone said Columbia University. And my father supposedly replied: "Why would you want to go to Colombia when we left Venezuela?"
My father was a man of strong convictions. He had high standards and didn't always find the words to tell you when you'd met them. He and I were alike in ways that sometimes made us clash. Two immovable objects. But I've come to understand that the same stubbornness that sometimes complicated things was also what kept him here for as long as he was. Something else I know for certain: he believed in responsibility. He believed in doing your work well and putting your name on it. He believed that family comes before everything — before comfort, before convenience, before yourself. He was present. Not always in the way you expected. But he was there.
These last few years were hard, especially for him. The illness took things from him — his strength, his independence, the version of himself he had spent a lifetime building. Watching that was painful. But he endured it the way he endured everything else: with little complaint, and with the unwavering support of my mom, who never left his side. Not once.
Today we grieve. But there is also relief. Franco is no longer in pain. He can finally rest for the first time in a long time. A man who gave so much to the sea, to his work, to his family, has at last been given the peace he deserved. I carry other things he left me. The stubbornness. The loyalty. The belief that if you're going to do something, you do it right. His love and dedication to our family. And that, perhaps, is what I will miss and try to honor the most.
Francisco Antonio Soria Brito. Capitán Soria. Franco. Papa. Nonno.
Bendición, pa.
Mi padre fue Francisco Antonio Soria Brito. Su padre también se llamaba Francisco. Él era Francisco el Segundo. Yo estuve a punto de ser Francisco el Tercero — o, según parece, Chad.
Pero yo lo llamaba Franco. Era capitán. Capitán de Altura de la marina mercante venezolana. Se graduó de la Escuela Náutica de Venezuela y navegó grandes buques de la CAVN en lo que quienes conocen ese mundo todavía recuerdan como su época de oro. Esa época de su vida lo llenaba de orgullo. En 1988, dejó el mar. La CAVN lo llevó a una oficina del World Trade Center de Nueva York. Mudó a nuestra familia allá, y por once meses, fuimos neoyorquinos. Luego Houston nos llamó, y en Houston nos quedamos. Pero Nueva York nunca me soltó. Me dio esa ciudad sin habérselo propuesto, aunque nunca entendió la atracción.
De pequeño, yo decía que quería ser periodista. Cuando me llevaba a su oficina, yo usaba una máquina de escribir y una fotocopiadora para crear un periódico para la familia. Según me cuentan — aunque mis estándares periodísticos me impiden confirmarlo — pregunté cuál era la mejor escuela de periodismo. Alguien dijo: «la Universidad de Columbia». Y mi padre, supuestamente, respondió: "¿Para qué quieres ir a Colombia si nos fuimos de Venezuela?"
Mi padre era un hombre de convicciones firmes. Tenía estándares altos y no siempre encontraba las palabras para decirte cuando los habías alcanzado. Él y yo nos parecíamos de maneras que, a veces, nos hacían chocar. Dos objetos inamovibles. Pero he llegado a entender que esa misma terquedad que a veces complicaba las cosas también fue lo que lo mantuvo aquí durante todo el tiempo que estuvo. Otra cosa que sí sé con certeza: él creía en la responsabilidad. Creía en hacer bien el trabajo y firmar lo que uno hace. Creía que la familia iba antes que todo — antes que la comodidad, antes que la conveniencia, antes que uno mismo. Él estaba presente. No siempre de la manera en que uno esperaba. Pero allí estaba.
Estos últimos años fueron difíciles, especialmente para él. La enfermedad le fue quitando cosas — la fuerza, la independencia, la versión de sí mismo que había construido durante toda una vida. Verlo así fue doloroso. Pero lo soportó como soportó todo lo demás: sin quejarse y con el apoyo total de mi mamá, quien nunca se apartó de su lado. Ni una sola vez.
Hoy hay duelo. Pero también hay alivio. Ya Franco no está sufriendo. Por fin puede descansar por primera vez en mucho tiempo. Un hombre que le dio tanto al mar, al trabajo, a su familia, ha recibido al fin la quietud que se merecía. Cargo otras cosas que él me dejó. La terquedad. La lealtad. La convicción de que si vas a hacer algo, lo haces bien. Su amor y dedicación hacia nuestra familia. Y eso, quizás, es lo que más voy a extrañar y trataré de honrar.
Francisco Antonio Soria Brito. Capitán Soria. Franco. Papá. Nonno.
Bendición, pa.
