Today would have been my father’s birthday—Adauri Figueiredo da Cruz. He endured a painful childhood, tormented by his own father simply for being biracial. My father passed away when I was just 17 years old, on December 17. Since that day, the holidays have never felt the same; their beauty and joy faded with his absence. He was my entire world, and in many ways, I see so much of him in myself. Growing up, my father was my constant companion. He would play with me and weave imaginative, self-created stories that stretched on for hours before bedtime. My mother often reminded me that when I was born, she didn’t breastfeed me. When I cried at night, it was my father who rose to care for me, comforting me in every way. While my mother’s words often carried rejection, my father became my safe harbor—my unwavering source of love and security.
The Legacy of a Father: Adauri Figueiredo da CruzMy father was kind, generous, intelligent, and hard-working, among many other good and some negative qualities. After all, he was a hurt human, much like most of us. My father overcame homelessness and severe abuse as a child and as a teenager. When tired of the beatings, he ran away from home to never look back. Somehow, he traveled across the country and end up in a little city in the interior of my state of Parana. There, he found a kind family who welcomed him like their own sons—my dearest uncles and aunts. To the day of his death, he was called brother. And into this day, I am niece and cousin. This was a big family who shared with others all they had. They were not wealthy, but they had in abundancy what my father needed the most: patience, acceptance and belongness, as well as love. Off course. It takes special loving hearts to embrace a deeply traumatized teenager and raise him as one of their sons. This family holds some of my best childhood memories! I remember each one with a huge smile in my heart! Christmas celebrations with the whole family was my favorite holiday. I couldn’t wait to meet them all. As a child, I never realized that my father was not formally adopted or even adopted at all. He was just their brother. I cannot stop thinking about how similar my father’s story is to the story of the love of my life—who came to me from another continent. Worlds apart but shared similar traumatic experiences. They were both born fighters! To these two there was no such thing as giving up! Danny’s experience with homelessness, abuse, faith, and adult adoption mirrored my father’s.
From the moment I was born, my father instilled in me the values of kindness and community service. These qualities were an extension of his very nature. His ability to connect with others was effortless and genuine. He volunteered tirelessly, feeding the homeless and supporting the community in countless ways. I vividly remember a moment when I was around 12 years old. It was Easter, and I approached him with an idea: could we donate chocolate baskets to the homeless individuals we saw regularly in our community? Without hesitation, he agreed. Together, we prepared the baskets, and he accompanied me as we handed them out. While he chaperoned me, given my young age, he made sure to let this experience remain mine. It was my initiative, and he honored that, allowing me to understand the beauty of giving. That day, he planted a seed within me—a seed of kindness that would take root and grow into a defining part of who I am. As I handed out the baskets, I listened to the stories of those we met. My father stood nearby, watching over me with quiet guidance, his protective presence unwavering. Their faces lit up with genuine smiles, and I could see the joy these simple gestures brought. Many of them hadn’t tasted sweets in a long time, and the chocolate felt like a small but meaningful gift. Their eyes sparkled with a childlike wonder, and for a moment, their burdens seemed lighter. It was then that I realized the power of even the smallest act of kindness to restore dignity and hope. My father, like a skilled teacher, knew it was time for me to move from observing kindness to actively practicing it. This experience became more than an Easter tradition; it was a life-changing lesson. I learned how to create an action plan to positively impact lives, even if just one person at a time. Few things are as rewarding as witnessing the joy on someone’s face—a joy that had been missing for far too long. It wasn't about the cost of the chocolate baskets; it was about the impact they had. The smiles, the gratitude, the connection—it was transformative. Those moments taught me that empowerment is a ripple effect, passed down through generations and communities. The beauty lies in how kindness, no matter how small, becomes a timeless gift, shaping lives in ways we may never fully understand. That Easter, I discovered my purpose: to inspire, influence, and transform the world around me. The seed my father planted continues to grow, reminding me that even the simplest acts of kindness can leave a lasting legacy.
Let me take you back to my father’s funeral—a moment of profound sorrow, yet an extraordinary experience that brought an unexpected sense of comfort to my pain. Standing near his body, I found myself grappling with the harrowing reality of his death, trying to avoid its crushing weight. In the instant my father passed away, I was thrust into a new role as the adult of the house. It became my responsibility to handle the arrangements: retrieving his body from the morgue, selecting his final attire, and navigating the deeply traumatic tasks that followed. Among them was a visit to the Brazilian Federal Police to address his case, as my father hadn’t died in a hospital. He passed away in my mother’s arms, paralyzed, in the back seat of a taxi. The circumstances were as devastating as they were surreal.
As I braved the numbness of the day, a long and unexpected line of people began forming outside the building. They had come to honor my father and to share with me their stories—testimonies of how this quiet, reserved, and deeply scarred man had profoundly impacted their lives. My father, who rarely sought attention, had quietly dedicated himself to supporting, educating, and mentoring others. I had no idea about the extent of his volunteerism and community work. The people in that line were from all walks of life, spanning diverse ages and backgrounds. Despite their differences, they shared one thing in common: my father had touched their lives in extraordinary ways.
These men, many of whom were uneducated, spoke words that pierced through my grief. They told me how my father had given them hope, guidance, and a sense of purpose. Their gratitude was palpable. Some had walked for miles to attend the funeral, unable to afford transportation or even food. They came without fear of judgment—ignoring concerns about their appearance, clothing, or language. Their loyalty to my father and their determination to honor him transcended every obstacle. It was a raw and humbling display of human connection and gratitude.
In that moment, while I struggled with the darkness of grief and the shattered reality of my teenage world, a light began to shine deep within me. It was as if something supernatural illuminated my heart, cutting through the pain. I came to realize that I was witnessing something extraordinary—something transformational. That evening, amidst the weight of death and despair, I experienced a profound masterclass in love, gratitude, and purpose. Words truly fail to capture how I felt, but one thing remains clear: my father’s legacy was far greater than I had ever imagined.
Perhaps my love for storytelling was shaped by the urban storytellers I encountered that evening. They shared pieces of their lives—experiences foreign to me, yet equally deserving of respect. One by one, they recounted stories of respect, dignity, acceptance, and kindness, all embodied by my father. Far more empowering than wealth is the gift of being seen, of belonging to a community. To judge someone’s worth based on temporary circumstances is dehumanizing. Judgment, after all, is the poison that corrodes relationships.
My father was a reserved man, so much of what I learned about him came that day and night—at his funeral. That day, I had over 100 teachers: individuals living in poverty, people my father had quietly helped over the years. Some were still struggling, while others had managed to reclaim stability in their lives. They told me the greatest impact my father had on them wasn’t material. It was his kindness, his ability to accept them without judgment, and his capacity to see their inherent value despite their diverse and often difficult backgrounds. He treated everyone with dignity and respect, and in doing so, he saved lives. These unlikely teachers shared their stories in ways as unique as they were.
My father had a deep sensitivity to the needs of others. His promises were always backed by action. For those experiencing homelessness, life is often consumed by chaos and uncertainty. When promises of assistance or even something as small as a snack go unfulfilled, the impact can be devastating, adding yet another layer of instability. But my father always followed through. His word was a lifeline to so many.
At the funeral, I found myself surrounded by these beautiful souls—some disheveled, some with strong odors, others dressed in ways society might deem inappropriate—not by choice, but by circumstance. Too often, they are unfairly labeled as lazy or crazy. None of that mattered to me. In that moment, we were unified. Together, we grieved my father’s passing as one brokenhearted family. To this day, I can’t imagine a message or a moment more radical and inspiring than that experience. Amid the darkness of that day, I witnessed pure beauty.
My father, Adauri, was far from a perfect man. Life had broken him with abuse and suffering, yet he refused to let pain define his existence. Some individuals don’t need long lives to make a lasting impact, and my father was one of them—shaking the world around him and inspiring others to create positive change. His funeral was a surreal moment in my life. It was a whirlwind of pain, fear, and anger, as I grappled with losing the only parent who both protected and respected me. Despite the temporary circumstances that forced us into poverty, my father never allowed those hardships to become our permanent reality. I always knew him as a hard-working man, using his intelligence to rise above challenges. In his lifetime, my father achieved his dream of becoming a cattle farmer. Tragically, due to the oppressive government of the time, he lost everything he had built from nothing. But not once do I recall hearing him speak of giving up. He was innovative and resourceful in his approach to business. While I admired his achievements, I learned even more from the way he faced his losses—with unwavering determination, without self-pity, and with the relentless drive to rebuild his dreams.
One of my most cherished memories of my father’s influence on my academic journey is tied to a special tradition. Even before I was old enough for preschool, I was eager to attend school. My father, recognizing my enthusiasm, took me to an office supply store and bought materials as if I was already a student—everything I’d need and more. At home, he would "play school" with me, teaching me literacy skills through fun and engaging interactions. I learned to read early, but it was my writing that really flourished. This tradition became a cornerstone of my childhood, lasting well into my teenage years. I loved those moments—not just for what I learned but for the joy of spending time with my father. From shopping for supplies to the lessons at home, it was a bonding experience that left a lasting impression. Even today, buying a new pen or mechanical pencil fills me with happiness, a lingering echo of those cherished times. My father, though self-taught, had a deep respect for education. He never attended elementary school and, as a teenager, escaped his abusive father only to find himself homeless on the dangerous streets of a dictatorial Brazil. Despite living in constant peril, he seized an opportunity to teach himself literacy and mathematics. Like me, he loved to write. As I reflect on my life now, I find myself longing for his tireless spirit, his unyielding resilience, and his extraordinary ability to fight for survival. What a truly remarkable man he was.
Final Reflection
The greatest legacy my father left me is an enduring awareness of others' needs, the importance of kindness without judgment, and the understanding that unconditional love is real—and it is a choice. Much like forgiveness, unconditional love is cultivated through daily decisions that place others' needs above our own desires. Though 26 years have passed since my father’s death, as I grow older, I’ve come to better understand him, his struggles, and why he sometimes found it difficult to express love openly. Yet, he remains alive in my heart. His legacy continues to shape my dreams, my beliefs, and my understanding of life’s purpose.
Luciane Padilha Hawkins
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