Personal Narrative
As a blossoming adolescent at the innocent age of eleven, my most prominent concerns were sneaking makeup past my mother, adapting to the overwhelming ecosystem that was sixth grade, and figuring out which cat-themed T-shirt I would purchase with my birthday money. My twelfth birthday came and went; I had a small party at which my friends and I watched Napoleon Dynamite and ate pizza. The doorbell rang, and my father appeared with his new wife. I scarcely acknowledged his presence, accepted his gift, gave the obligatory hug and “I love you,” and then he was gone. Forever.
Keith Fenton was the prime example of a stand-up guy. As a high school dropout turned entrepreneur, he knew what it meant to struggle. When I was young, I was not entirely aware of my father’s past, but I know now that he rose out of substance abuse, and I think he made it his mission to compensate for any damage he had done to the world by helping others. He took people on the streets to restaurants, let a homeless man from his Alcoholics Anonymous group use his own shower, and extended his care across species to nurse an abused, diseased dog back to health. At the time, I had no idea what any of his acts of kindness meant to the world, but now I consider him to be my hero. Few people I have met are as generous as my father, and I know he would wish nothing more than for me to continue his legacy of relieving the pain that often plagues the world.
There was no way to know that on Friday,