Fri, 01 Feb 2002 05:08:01
Dear Dad
Dear Dad,
I know we haven’t spoken since 1988, but I have so many things to tell you. I’m married now, and my wife is a really great, smart woman who treats me like gold and looks friggin fabulous in a metal bikini. She reminds me a little of your second wife, except with red hair. I have a cute house in a moderately nice suburb of New Haven, CT...kind of like the nicer parts of Eastwood, actually. I have 5 cats. I’m a wanna-be computer geek. I finally got that K5 Blazer I always wanted. Oh, also, I think you’re an asshole.
Granted, I know that genetically, I get part of myself from you. Your intelligence, your blue eyes, the pale Irish skin...and if intangible qualities like the love of books, writing, a knack for both understanding and imitating voices and accents and a good old-fashioned sense of humor are hereditary, then I thank you for these things. I cherish my sense of humor. I cherish a day you may not even remember. It was at Granpa Joe’s cabin at 4th Lake. We were in a room off the main room, it had a lot of patio-style furniture with those plasticy, overstuffed cushions. You taught me how to do W.C. Fields and Dracula. We spent a long time doing funny voices at each other. I never forgot that. I never forgot the joy that hearing an unexpected voice coming out of someone’s mouth can bring, or the sense of pride and accomplishment one can feel when you tell a joke, or a story, or do a voice, and the listener laughs.
You gave me that, and it’s the most important part of my personality, I think. It breaks the ice with new people I meet, it keeps people I know putting up with me, and it kept me sane during the years of hell your first wife put me through. All because of one short interaction that I’m sure has been lost with time for you, but will never fade for me. It’s wonderful that you gave me these things, but you gave me so many other things I just have to thank you for.
You gave me a fear of closeness with men, however, and so all my best friends all my life were women. Hey, it made me popular in high school, but still, the closest I came to male bonding was playing football, and the only part of that I enjoyed was that actual playing. All the teams I was ever on were mostly filled with morons. I distanced myself from every man I ever met, be it as a friend or in a father/caregiver role.
You gave me the gene for alcoholism. In fairness, Francine gave it to me as well, because she drank as much as you ever did. It’s a testament to *me* and my self-determination that I’m not a raving drunk today. You certainly never set an example for self-control. How many times did Granpa Joe get you your Conrail job back after you got fired?
You gave me the quitter’s heart. Again, in spite of you, I have learned that when it’s necessary, or I care enough, quitting is not an option. But it took me years and years to learn that. The reason, I believe, is because all my life I knew you quit on me. Yes, you fought for me in the beginning, but you gave up. You stopped trying. You never mailed anything, you never tried to see me, you never called. I can count on both hands the number of times I have seen you with my own two eyes. In 1988, when I tracked you down and we spoke for two hours, you made more promises, you swore things were going to be different, and you failed me again. You even promised me your tax refund check, one thousand, one hundred and thirty-four dollars, to try and make up for all the years of non-payment. I’m still waiting.
You were completely absent from my life, yet in at least one way you were one of the most important influences I have ever had.
The bottom line is, however, you left me with her. She was crazy and you knew it. You knew it, and you gave up. With all Granpa Joe’s money, you couldn’t keep fighting for me? Hire a PI to catch her doing something, anything, to convince a judge to get me away from her? She was a druggie then, in retrospect it seems obvious. I know seeing her with Mark Herloski (sp?) was fucked up. (yes, I read the divorce decree when I was 12, and she still doesn’t know). I know it fucked you up for a long time, but you had to know this bitch was crazy. You certainly knew her mother was both crazy and dangerous. You knew enough to simply take me out of the house and fight for a year to try to keep me...but you gave up. And that makes you an asshole.
She beat me, “Dad,” so badly that some days I wanted to die. Most days, though, I just wanted *you* to die for leaving me there. I wished for most of my childhood that I had never been born. Do you have any idea what that does to a kid? She may have been the fist, but you were in the whisper of air that always brushed against my face after a slap.
Do you know what her most commonly-voiced complaint, to me, involving you, was? That I looked “just like your fucking father.” She punched me because I looked like you. I hope that helps you sleep at night.
Well, Tim, I’m pretty tapped out. I know you’ll never see this, but I’ve said it, and it makes me feel better having written it down. Should we ever cross paths again, I will show you this letter, and if your heart doesn’t break, you’re not a human being. You fucked me up, “Dad,” maybe not as much as Francine, she was the Osama bin Laden of mothers, but you contributed.
Sleep well. In closing, I leave you with a quote from our mutual interest, W.C. Fields. Oddly appropriate, considering how you lived your life.
“If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, and try again. Then give up. There’s no use being a damned fool about it.”
Posted by JimK at 05:08 AM on February 01, 2002
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