The Gray Kia Soul: A Love Letter to My Dad

By La Toya Bond

Vice Chair, Murder Suicide Loss Network

There are certain things in life that instantly take us back to someone we love.

A song.

A smell.

A favorite meal.

A familiar laugh.

For me, it’s a gray Kia Soul.

Every time I see one, I smile.

And every time I see one, I think of my dad.

My father, Herman McKalpain, Jr., was one of the funniest people I’ve ever known. He was smart, charismatic, loving, and incredibly funny. He could tell a story like nobody else. He had a way of making people feel special, and he had a heart that was larger than life.

But my dad also struggled.

He struggled with alcohol abuse for many years.

As a result of drinking and driving, he lost his driver’s license. What followed were years of depending on other people for transportation. He caught rides when he could. He took cabs. He rode bicycles. He did whatever he had to do to get where he needed to go.

I know those years were not easy for him.

But what I also know is that my dad never stopped trying.

He kept moving forward.

And one day, after years of setbacks and hard lessons, he achieved something that made him incredibly proud.

He got his driver’s license back.

Then he bought a car.

A gray Kia Soul.

To most people, it was just a vehicle.

To my dad, it was freedom.

It was independence.

It was redemption.

It was proof that he had overcome something difficult and reclaimed a part of his life! A VICTORY!

When he got that car, he called me and asked me to come see it.

I can still picture him standing there.

Proud.

Excited.

Happy.

He walked me around that little gray Kia Soul like it was the finest luxury vehicle ever made. He showed me everything. Every feature. Every detail.

And I loved every second of it because I could see how much it meant to him.

When it was time for me to leave, I got into my car and started backing out of the driveway.

Suddenly, I heard my father’s voice.

Not speaking.

Yelling.

“LA TOYA!!!!”

I immediately stopped.

“What?!”

“LA TOYA!!!!”

By now he was standing on the porch waving his arms.

“DON’T HIT MY RIDE!!!”

I looked around, completely confused.

“DON’T HIT MY RIDE!!!”

The man was carrying on like I was about to destroy the most valuable object on earth.

The funny part?

His precious gray Kia Soul wasn’t even behind me.

It was parked in front of my car.

There was absolutely no chance I was going to hit it.

I laughed until I cried.

And there stood my father, protecting that little gray Kia Soul like it was made of gold.

That memory has stayed with me all these years.

Not because of the car.

Because of him.

His humor.

His pride.

His joy.

His personality.

Years later came the worst night of my life.

The night of the tragedy.

Like many survivors of murder-suicide loss, there are parts of that night that remain frozen in my memory.

As news crews covered the story, there was a live shot of the condominium where my father and his wife lived.

I remember looking at the television screen.

And there it was.

Parked in the driveway.

The gray Kia Soul.

My heart stopped.

In the middle of unimaginable grief, there was that familiar little car.

The same car he had proudly shown me.

The same car he had dramatically protected from my perfectly safe driving.

The same car that represented a hard-earned victory in his life.

Today, whenever I see a gray Kia Soul, I don’t think about the tragedy.

I think about my dad.

I think about his laughter.

I think about his resilience.

I think about the man who refused to give up after losing so much.

I think about a father who called his daughter over because he was excited to show off something he had worked hard to earn.

As Vice Chair of the Murder Suicide Loss Network, I have the privilege of walking alongside many survivors. One thing I have learned is that our loved ones deserve to be remembered in their entirety.

Not just for how they died.

But for how they lived.

Their struggles matter.

But so do their victories.

Their pain matters.

But so do their dreams.

Their final chapter matters.

But it is not the whole story.

My father was more than addiction.

More than mistakes.

More than tragedy.

He was funny.

He was loving.

He was intelligent.

He was resilient.

And he was so very proud of that gray Kia Soul.

So if you ever see a gray Kia Soul driving down the road, smile for me.

Because somewhere in my heart, I can still hear my dad shouting from the porch:

“LA TOYA!!! DON’T HIT MY RIDE!!!”

And somehow, every time I do, it feels like he’s sending a little bit of love my way.