My Dead Parents

Hello

Thu, 18 Apr 2013 23:37:00 -0400

Today, I, Anya Yurchyshyn, revealed that I’m author of this blog, which has been anonymous for over two years, in an essay on Buzzfeed.

Like I said in that essay, I kept this blog anonymous out of respect for my family, and because I don’t consider myself a non-fiction writer, and never really had the courage that I think needs to come with being one. I’m an open book if you know me, but this…this just seemed like a lot to share with the world, like maybe too much. But when I was asked to write about the project and was given the opportunity to publish it under my own name, it seemed silly to keep pretending that these thoughts and feelings, and this family, wasn’t mine. I felt like I was hiding, even lying, and I didn’t like that. I will admit though, this feels pretty strange. But the response has been incredible, and it makes me feel a lot less naked, or at least like I have a better body. Thanks so much for reading. More soon.

My Very First Psychoeducational Evaluation

Thu, 04 Apr 2013 00:56:00 -0400

I came across this gem around a month ago—my very first psychoeducational evaluation! My school suggested I get one because I was, as usual, struggling academically, but also because I was suffering from severe headaches and acting out. I’d written “I hate me” on the bathroom wall, and my fourth grade teacher recognized my handwriting and tried to talk to me about it. I’m pretty sure all I did was cry.

I posted a similar evaluation from when I was 14 here. Discovering that one was slightly depressing, as I say in my post about it, but also kind of funny. This…this is pretty much just straight up depressing until I force myself to remember that, despite the fact much of what’s in this report seems to suggest that I wasn’t going to turn out very well at all, I am actually a pretty successful person, so go me, I guess, and go late-bloomers and the doggedness born out of low self-esteem.

Two things really stand out for me in this. Well, three. The least important is that I really am shit at “temporal-sequential organization,” like massively so, and it’s strangely awesome to learn it’s always been an issue for me. I am much more forgiving of myself knowing that particular part of my brain simply never worked.

But far more importantly, I was shocked to read that there was “…some concern on father’s part that mother might drink too much. It is reported that she drinks one to three hard drinks per night, but it is stated that this does not interfere with her overall functioning.”

Trying to figure out when my mother really took to drinking and when it officially became a problem has been a mystery my remaining family members have been trying to solve for years. I knew that my mother liked to drink even when I was little, but for my father to mention her drinking to the therapist meant he was aware, probably before anyone else, of the behavior that would eventually do her in, and I’ll never know if he ever tried to do anything about it, or if he had any sense of the person she was capable becoming, or was slowly becoming, and then emphatically became.

And, as someone who likes to have one to three drinks per night herself, it makes me question my behavior. I am wired deep for addiction, but I’ve managed to avoid being addicted to anything so far, except for maybe male attention when I was younger. Well, I briefly became addicted to smoking when I moved back to LA three months ago, but I’m already done with that because, though my “temporal-sequential organization” might be abysmal, I’m not actually stupid. I do have problems with impulse control occasionally, and I know that can lead to addiction issues, but that’s a “problem” that’s actually started to manifest itself in positive ways. At the moment, I can’t not communicate my feelings and say exactly what I think and want and need, and that’s a big accomplishment for me, as I spent most of my life minimizing my feelings, or putting other people’s feelings in front of my own. But anyway, I guess I should watch the drinking, but I’m so hyper-vigilant of my own substance use and of other people’s that I’m pretty sure I’d know when and if I developed a problem, and anyway, I’m a writer, so you know, bottoms up?

We Interrupt This Program...

Thu, 11 Oct 2012 00:27:01 -0400

For some thinking and planning. I know, this program’s been interrupted for a while, but I just wanted to say it’s for a good reason and that reason is not that I have given up.

Putting on a Show

Thu, 02 Aug 2012 10:19:00 -0400

So it happened – someone from my family found this blog.

A friend of mine ran a portion of one of my entries on her online magazine a few months ago. It was published anonymously, just the like the blog, though it ran with a picture of me as a child.

Recently, the same friend published a short story of mine. It ran with my name and I posted the link on Facebook, having forgotten about the blog entry that linked here.

One of my younger cousins, Larissa, is my friend on Facebook, and she was nice enough to read the story. She looked through the rest of the magazine and found the picture of me, and then she found everything else. When she emailed me to say she found the blog, I thought I might throw up all over my keyboard.

It’s hard to describe what I’m so afraid of. I’ve kept this project a secret from my family, and that alone makes me feel like I’m doing something wrong because secrets=something worth hiding. But I don’t really think I’m doing anything wrong. My parents are dead, and I can post their shit online and process our lives in a public space if I want to.

I have a compulsive need to understand myself and the world, and sure, this need sometimes results in more confusion than clarity. My need to process what happened in my family might seem strange to some of my other family members, and they might feel betrayed by what I’ve been up to here. I don’t want to betray anyone and I don’t want anyone to think that I think that my opinions and experience are universal or definitive.

Betrayal is an oft-discussed aspect of non-fiction writing: who you talk about and why, what you say, and how people feel when they discover what you’ve done. You’re always betraying someone or “selling them out.” It’s old idea, but a new experience for me. Because this project is an experiment, I feel entitled to do whatever I want. I’m just having thoughts online so what’s the big deal? It’s not, like, my thing. My thing is fiction and not picking my clothes off the floor. Though I feel entitled to this project, I don’t yet have the convictions or hubris necessary for writing personal nonfiction that someone probably needs—“this is my right, my duty, my life, screw you.” My feelings are more along the lines of, “I want to do this, please don’t be mad.”

Back to my cousin Larissa. Though I was freaking out (having these and a million other thoughts in about three seconds) she was nothing but supportive, and assured me she’s not friends with her parents on Facebook, which means they’re not likely to find this site. After I calmed down I realized I was lucky she found her way here.

Larissa is a performance artist and writer, and she knows a lot about art and performance theory, things I know nothing about. Her background, combined with her knowledge of me and my family, which is at once intimate and superficial, means that she could give me insight on this project that no one else could.

Here’s a brief compilation of her emails:

After reading your short story I started browsing the site to get an idea of it… and happened upon your text about “my dead parents” and your photo… and I began reading your site. It’s an amazing project - personal, performative, public. Most remarkable being the correspondence with your father’s not-mistress, and how it is evolving…

Finding and reading your anonymous, yet totally recognizable to me, text & website was rather strange. Because I found myself in a strange vacillation between reality and “fiction”, as any kind of concentrated artistic gesture exists in a certain plane that is real/not-real at the same time. I read the texts with a slight feeling of voyeurism, but also from the distance that is created by the context - as voices of characters telling their stories.

The questions of what is life? What is art? Where does one end and the other begin? Where are they overlapping? are constant in my mind, especially since becoming involved with performance art (from a practical and even more so theoretical position). As per my own existence, I’m continually experiencing shifting perceptions of the boundary between the personal/private/intimate and the public/revealed articulation.

Personal connections aside, I’m excited about your project from the point of view of a curator: it embodies ideas of intimacy, fortuity, and art-as-life/life-as-art that I’m currently thinking about.

I’d never considered this blog a performance. I’ve never considered writing a performance. It’s creation, communication—I guess it’s a gesture (mmmm, well?)—but I don’t think writing fiction is a performance. If anything is being performed, it is the act of writing, nothing else.

And I’ve never thought much about the whole life vs. art, where does one end and the other begin? thing, either, because my personal life doesn’t directly inform my writing and there are obvious and strong boundaries between my life and art (I hate referring to “my art” and hope I never do again). But that’s changed, and I suppose those lines are blurred now. I am performing something, and Larissa’s emails forced me to consider just what that is. My ambivalence? My grief? My need to understand? I thought I was non-performatively performing an investigation, but I guess my investigation and overall searchingness is a performance in itself.

Looking for Home and Finding 7-11

Mon, 16 Jul 2012 11:58:00 -0400

Last week, I returned to Shanghai after spending almost three weeks in Taiwan. Taiwan is gorgeous, delicious, friendly, and relaxing. China is also those things, but less often and rarely at once. It’s an exciting place to live, but a tough one as well. Still, I’m happy to be back, and to be teaching.

When I first arrived in Taiwan I spent a few days in Taipei, and one of the things I did— when I wasn’t stuffing my face, which I was doing constantly because the food is so good it’s stupid to ever stop eating—was visit Hsing Ting Kong temple with my friend of one day, Mike. Hsing Ting Kong is a Buddhist temple “guided by the divine character of En Chu Kong,” and Mike prays there regularly.

Mike and I had been talking about Taiwanese fortune telling over a lunch of dumplings and dumplings and beef soup and more soup. He told me his sister once visited a fortuneteller who told her to eat less beef, and when she did, her problems, which anyone else would have thought were completely unrelated to her beef consumption, improved. I told Mike I’d love to see a Taiwanese fortuneteller. After an annoying session with a psychic two years ago I swore I’d stop bothering with “that kind of stuff” (shamans don’t count) because I always obsess about whatever I’m told, but I decided visiting a fortune teller in Taiwan was okay because it was a relevant cultural experience, and also because hey, maybe this would be the person who could tell me how to fix my life. What if all of my problems were the result of not eating enough fried chicken and this was the only person who knew it? (Fried chicken from the night markets was one of my favorite things to eat in Taiwan and I’ve craved it every day since I got back to China.)

Mike explained that his sister’s fortuneteller was a friend’s mom, and he didn’t know how to get in touch with her. However, though he couldn’t suggest a reputable fortuneteller, he could bring me to his temple, Hsing Ting Kong, where people regularly participated in a ritual where they asked Juan Sheng Di Chun, the main deity worshipped there, a question and received an answer. He said it was kind of like fortune telling and he figured I’d be into it.

He was right. I wasn’t raised with religion, and possibly as a result, I am a whore for other people’s rituals and beliefs, even when they are a part of a belief system that offends or confounds me. I’m more interested in how people deal with the “mysteries of the universe” than I am with the mysteries themselves. So many aspects of religion and faith are seductive, and I’m as weak for the superficial elements, such as the architecture and the art and the over-the-top aesthetics, as I am for the certainty belief can provide. Just being near religion excites me. When the Islamic call to prayer goes off, or church bells ring, or monks chant, the air changes, becomes charged. I can’t imagine being religious myself, but I envy the structure and comfort most religions provide. I wonder if my helpless attraction to displays of faith means I am on the wrong path and should be looking for different types of answers, or asking completely different questions.

As you can imagine, I was thrilled to be at this large, open-air temple and to participate in one of the rituals practiced there. I understand that my voyeuristic interest in other religions might offend some people. It felt all right here because not only was I with a friend, but because so many people welcomed me with smiles and nods. (This is not always the case in my Adventures with Religion, but it often is—when I was in Istanbul a about twelve years ago, a little boy saw me peeking into an old, tiny mosque during a service, and he snuck me in after making it clear he wasn’t supposed to because it was only for men/Muslims, and when some of the congregants saw me, they smiled, and when I was on Java a decade ago, a young man and his wife invited me to a madrassa and spoke to me at length about how Islam was practiced in the region. Totally different experiences, but both were special, and were really satisfying.)

Before I asked Juan Sheng Di Chun my question, I participated in a traditional soul-healing ritual called Shoujing. I waited in one of many lines winding through the temple courtyard before ending up in front of an elderly woman in blue robes. I gave her my name, closed my eyes, and stood while she recited prayers and moved three sticks of burning incense around my body and lightly touched my forehead and stomach. I didn’t know exactly what was happening at the time, but I learned here that “The purpose of Shoujing is to effect the return of the soul of a frightened person. According to Chinese belief the elements of the soul of a person reside in certain parts of the body. If the soul is deeply disturbed or frightened it will leave the place it is supposed to be, causing the body to become ill. In order to heal the person, the soul must therefore be returned to its former state, which is achieved during the Shoujing ritual.”

I felt calmed after this, though not profoundly different, but it still seems like a smart thing to do on the reg. If I lived near that temple, I’d Shoujing every day.

Mike then handed me three sticks of incense and told me to light them and pray to Juan Sheng Di Chun. At the start of my prayer, Mike told me I had to introduce myself and give the god my address.

The address thing threw me, since I don’t know where I live, and I was worried that unlike Santa Claus, Juan Sheng Di Chun wouldn’t be able to find me when he needed to deliver his gifts. Until very recently, I lived in Brooklyn. I might end up there again in the fall, but I don’t live there now and didn’t want to say I did. I couldn’t remember where I’d been staying in Shanghai, and I didn’t know where I’d be put up when I got back (a Ramada, it turns out. Not so bad). I explained this all to him, and I really hope he’ll be able to find me at the Ramada.

The question-asking ritual was next, but Mike told me that before I asked my question, I had to ask if I could ask my question. So, as I stood about 20 feet from an imposing statue of Juan Sheng Di Chun with a bunch of other people who were also asking him questions or just praying to him, I asked if I could ask. I determined his answer by throwing two Jiaobei, small crescent shaped diving blocks made out of bamboo, on the ground. The blocks have one rounded side (yin) and a flat side (yang), and they are interpreted in one of four ways based on how they land. Once I received permission to ask my question I did: Should I return to New York in September, or should I stay in Asia and try to find a job?

Next, I selected a Kau Cim stick from a bucket. The sticks are numbered from 1-100, and the number corresponds to a written oracle that provides the answer to your question. One I had my stick, I used the divining tools to ask if I’d selected the right oracle. I was told I had not. Mike told me that this happens a lot, and usually because the person asking the question isn’t being clear or specific, so he told me to ask the question in a different way, and to pull another oracle. I did, and I did, and I was told that I’d pulled the wrong oracle. This happened twice more.

Mike kept telling me to ask a question simpler way, and so my question devolved into something that would have sounded incredibly patronizing if I’d been speaking out loud. “So right now I am in Aaaaasia, but I used to live in Broooooooklyn…”

When I finally had the right number, I went into a small room and picked up my oracle and had it interpreted by one of the serene volunteers sitting behind a line of wooden desks. He spoke English pretty well, and he explained my oracle after I told him my question. The one I pulled said it was too soon to give an answer because there wasn’t enough information—essentially the equivalent of The Magic 8 Ball’s “Ask again later.” But, he told me, the answer was “positive.” I wasn’t really sure what that meant. I asked, but I couldn’t make myself understood. I took it to either mean “outlook good,” and things would be okay no matter what, OR that something good was coming. I went with the latter option because the former seemed too trite and cliché in that environment.

I was disappointed not to have received a definitive answer, but maybe I’m not ready for one. I’m not sure where I want to be, and I’m not sure I’m ready to decide, or to know the decision that I’ll end up making. At this point, if I learned whether or not I’d stay in Asia or return to NYC, where I’ve lived for a decade, I’d end up feeling conflicted because I really don’t have enough information to make a decision. I don’t know what’s right or what’s home, at least not right now. Shanghai doesn’t feel like home, and even though New York often does, my life there is too slippery and uncertain for it to be very inviting.

I wish there were obvious and concrete answers, but I might finally old enough to accept that sometimes there aren’t any, or that there are three or eight or ten. Acceptance turns out to be one of the great things about getting older (also, I finally know what to do with my hair). I’ve grown a little calmer, I have perspective, and I realize I probably shouldn’t worry so much about the future because life is happening now, and the life that’s happening is pretty interesting. There are things in my life I would change but most of them are behind me. I’ve learned I can’t obsess my way into a new past.

It was nice to be in Taipei after the chaos of Shanghai because Taipei at level ten is like Shanghai at level four. There were so many things I loved about it. I loved the food, the night markets, the green-as-hell-mountains, and the people. But, more than anything, I loved that there were 7-11’s EVERYWHERE.

I claim I don’t know where my home is, but in Taiwan I realized 7-11’s are basically home for me. I grew up down the block from one, and between the ages of six and eighteen I went there at least once a day, but usually at least twice. When I was young, it’s where I got my candy bars and Slurpees after school or on weekends. When I was older, it was still where I got my candy bars and Slurpees, but I was getting them because I was stoned, or because I needed a mixer that could stand up to my father’s throat-searing vodka that my friends and I called “Ukrainian death.” I think the 7-11 I grew up with is pretty special, maybe the best in America, but I’ll admit the 7-11’s in Taiwan have it beat.

Life in Taiwan is basically run through 7-11. You can pay your bills and parking tickets, use the bathroom, linger in the café, and buy pretty much anything you need. I was in 7-11 at least once a day and usually twice. What I loved about 7-11’s in Taiwan was that, though the sign was an immediate comfort, the things inside were, for lack of a better word, very foreign to me. It felt so familiar, so much like home, and then I’d see this:

And this:

Oh, and this:

One thing I didn’t love about Taiwanese 7-11’s was the heavy smell of the tea-eggs that they cook there. Though tea eggs are delicious, they smell like a mixture of chemicals and baby waste. It’s not as bad as Stinky Tofu, but it’s up there.

I’m still looking for home, and for answers, but I accept it might be too soon to know what to do about anything (or so late that it really doesn’t matter). In the meantime I’ll be at 7-11. I hadn’t seen any in Shanghai in June, but there is one close to my hotel, and though it is not as good as the worst one I visited in Taiwan (I’ll be jailed for writing that in 3…2…), it will do. That’s how I feel about a lot of things in my life right now. I’m lucky enough to have all that I have, and to be able to say that it will “do.” (So lucky.) But I know there’s something more. It might not be home, but it might be a deep feeling of pleasure or peace, not unlike the feeling I got when I walked into a Taiwanese 7-11. People worship all kinds of things. Maybe I’m religious after all.

Photo

Tue, 26 Jun 2012 01:58:21 -0400

And Continues...

Wed, 20 Jun 2012 12:00:00 -0400

I guess I got a little gushy, but that’s because I really am grateful that she was the person on the receiving end of my initial email. She’s very generous. This whole thing could have sucked in more than a few ways.

The forced formality of my writing - my attempts to be noticeably normal and intelligent - crack me up.

Me:

Hi,

I feel we approach the world very similarly. I could be wrong, of course, but you seem to be a super “processor” like I am, and like to turn information and situations over and over and over. I’m lucky that you turned out to be who you are – I can imagine that
most other people would either ignore my original email and/or be wildly offended by it, or would just respond very superficially because they didn’t think deeply about the world. Your emails are so insightful and thoughtful. Thank you.

I’m not sure that I like China, but I am fascinated by it. It’s an interesting time to be here, and working with (rich, privileged) young people is very illuminating. They are totally entitled but also incredibly driven, a combination you don’t always find in America, and the population as a whole seems to think anything is possible. Considering what’s happened in the last decade, I think they’re probably right. I certainly don’t agree with a lot of China’s policies and actions, but I am still happy to be here as an observer.

The rumors about my father’s death made it to America, but I always thought it was an accident as well. I was in Ukraine a few years before he died, and it is not hard to imagine something terrible happening on those roads. I could see how someone might have had it out for my father, I guess, because that’s just the place it was (is?), but I know he tried to distance himself from all the corruption. He told me that’s why he
left the bank, actually. He truly wanted to help Ukraine, and he knew establishing a central bank that was corrupt from the start wasn’t going to benefit anyone.

That was such a bizarre time. I was 12 or 13 when he started working there, and I could not have cared less about what was happening in the world.

Though my father was a nationalist, he never taught us Ukrainian or any of the country’s storied history, so I didn’t feel very tied to it, or its future. I was, however,
intrigued by the little I saw of his work. There was a time when our house in Boston was filled with boxes and boxes of the interim currency, Coupones (?), that he helped establish, and I was so confused that he was, as I saw it, inventing money, or value, especially because all that money was valueless immediately. After the Coupones came the boxes and boxes of ballet slippers, which was almost as weird. I dealt with all of this
and the rest of my family’s insanity by becoming goth (of course).

What you said about my father’s attraction to you makes total sense, and I can relate to both of you in that equation. I had many charmed travel experiences when I was younger, and I think it was because I was young and shiny and really excited by the world. I’m still a little young and shiny, but it’s not the same. Part of the reason that I love working with young people is that I’m drawn to the possibilities and freedoms that I perceive them to have. I’m excited for them the way people were probably excited for us when we were younger, and that excitement is just one of many complicated forms of attraction.

I think that my father was probably pretty happy. He didn’t think he’d see the end of Communism in Ukraine during his lifetime, and I think working for Ukraine was something like a dream come true, which is awesome, and enviable. I think his happiness was hard for my mother, however, and was probably a big part in her gradual slip into alcoholism. She felt he left her for Ukraine, I think, and I think she feared that he didn’t miss her. He was so busy that it’s possible that he didn’t have time to.

As for myself, I am not particularly happy at the moment, but I am actively trying to change that. I don’t want to teach anymore, so I didn’t renew my teaching contract in America, but I have no plans beyond teaching in China this summer. I’m in China not because I want to keep teaching, but because I’ve always wanted to live a lot of my life
abroad, and I realized it was high time I got the hell on that goal. I am working on a few writing projects, and though they are going reasonably well, they are probably not going to earn me any money, so I will need to find another career, but I’m not sure what that will be. I’ve found that teaching, even at the college level, doesn’t always translate professionally, so even though I feel totally qualified to do pretty much anything, I’ve had a hard time getting people to agree with me.

It seems like you decided to change paths a little later in life. When I went looking for you, I was intrigued to see that you’re now getting a degree in X. What a cool choice.

Best.

Her:

Hi,

I’m enjoying our correspondence and do feel there is a great deal of complicity. Thanks for taking the initiative to get in touch.

Like you, I am fascinated by China. It’s so important to the reality of Vancouver (where over 50% of the population is Asian and there are whole neighbourhoods with Chinese character street signs). I also spent the last 4 years with many young, talented and ambitious students from China in the undergrad Industrial Design program, so I can related to the wealthy, entitled crowd you referred to.

I would love to travel in China, especially to areas where social changes and upheaval are most apparent. But I don’t have the time to do this right now. It would be fantastic to do so vicariously through your eyes. One of the issues that interests me most is an outside perception of a lack of environmental consciousness.

You have mentioned a number of things about yourself. Can I be direct and ask you about your personal life? You mention friends, but no partners or lovers. And your travels in China does not seem to involve anyone else.

Safe travels.

The Correspondence Continues

Mon, 18 Jun 2012 12:56:00 -0400

I am way into this…

She wants to go on my journey with me. I hate the word journey and normally hate people who use it, but I love this woman. How could I not?

My Response:

Thank you so much for getting back to me - and for being open to talking about your relationship with my father.

Yes, narratives… It’s impossible not to create them, at least for me. I’m not even sure if I do it because it’s easier to process or organize information. I think it’s just a habit, though I’m not sure it’s a good one. Narratives complicate things. I’m trying to approach learning more about my parents as openly as possible, but it’s hard.

I’m not sure why my sister thought you were involved with my father either—I haven’t discussed it with her recently and it doesn’t seem worth going over again, but it really is strange. I appreciate you handling the fact that I emailed you out of nowhere to ask you about something you didn’t actually do so gracefully.

I’m really interested to know more about the rumors after his death - I’m not sure what you mean by “He must have told your sister this, because after the car accident there were a lot of rumors in the expatriate community in Kiev and my sexual orientation was part of the gossip.” I hate to think that my sister contributed to negative gossip about you - either about your sexuality or about the relationship that you actually didn’t have with my father. As you probably figured out from my father, our family was super liberal, so the idea of my sister having negative feelings about your being gay is surprising, and frustrating. I’m so sorry if you had to deal with shit.

It’s so interesting for me to hear about your experiences with my father. It makes me happy to think of my father being so cool with you, but it’s a little confusing. As I mentioned, we had a difficult relationship, and when I say difficult, I mean bad. One of the narratives that I’m trying to revise, or abandon, as an adult, is that because my father wasn’t a very good father to me (and he wasn’t) he wasn’t a very good man. But that isn’t true. He was a fascinating person, and he was very good to some people, and very good to Ukraine. For a long time, I literally could not compute information about him that didn’t fit my experience, but now I appreciate learning things that contradict what I decided was true. My experience was true for me, but that doesn’t mean other people’s experiences weren’t true as well. Now that I’m an adult, I understand how people really can be deeply different depending on who they’re with or on their environment.

Anyway, one of the things I’m trying to figure out is *why* my father was so bad with me - if he wasn’t universally like that, why did he have such a temper with his daughter? My current theory is this: I know my parents had a son who died between my sister and I, and I think that my father, good person though he was, was not only devastated and infuriated by that, but was kind of disappointed that he didn’t have another son.

As for the art…we still have it! It’s all in a storage unit in Boston. Every once in a while my aunt talks about exhibiting it, or trying to donate it, but she’s never had time to act on the impulse.

I’m trying to come up with some actual questions for you, but I think I’m both a) too jet lagged to think or write straight and b) overwhelmed by all the things I could ask you. I guess I’d like to know about the rumors, as I mentioned, and if my father was happy. I know the latter question might be impossible for you to answer.

Thank you again for being so open to talking to me. Sorry if this email is all over the place. I’m literally about to curl up on a bed of noodles and sleep for a day.

Hers:

Hi,

You speak of jet lag…did you just arrive in Shanghai or are you returning? What is it you like about China?

Don’t worry about asking too many questions, or about how they are formulated. I think it’s brave and worthwhile to try and piece together childhood experiences that cast a shadow on adulthood and I want to go on that journey with you.

> I guess I’d like to know about the rumors and if my father was happy.

When revisiting things in the past it’s very difficult to separate fact from interpretation. I will consciously try to flag what I know to be fact and indicate what is my take on things.

Most rumors following your dad’s car crash related to the cause of death. Was it an accident or was it an assassination? While this might sound rather crazy, it needs to be seen in the context of Ukraine in the 1990s. Economic transactions were totally unregulated and organized crime was consolidating its hold on business. At the time a number of prominent businessmen had been killed in Russia and Ukraine. So the rumors were that because your father was influential, both in his role with the Central Bank, and as the head of the Ukraine Fund, he must have had powerful enemies. He sometimes talked about the companies he was considering investing in. There were a number of enterprises that were offshoots of the Soviet military industrial complex. While these projects were technically quite fascinating, I recall that he avoided them, preferring to work with entrepreneurs involved in simple, bread and butter businesses, who were not connected in this way.

I never saw or heard anything related to his business dealings at the Bank or the venture fund that suggested he had enemies or was afraid of something. For me the accident was just that. Traveling at night was risky because the roads were poorly lit, not properly maintained. Add to that Soviet vehicles with bald tires and worn out mechanics, and the likelihood of a serious accident is high. Why was he traveling back to Kiev so late at night? I think he, the driver, and the two others just wanted to get home. Hotels were awful at the time, and they were tired after their business trip. It makes me so sad to think that the decision to drive home had such terrible consequences.

The other source of gossip was why I was living with him. Most people did not know this, and found out after the accident. In fact, some people expressed condolences to me in a manner that suggested I must be grieving my lover. I did not always spell things out for them because they meant well, and it sometimes seemed socially crass. I guess that might have perpetuated the story.

Regarding what he told your sister. She was coming to visit, and I know that he was a bit worried about what she would think of me living at his apartment. I saw a kind of furtiveness that made him seem somehow vulnerable and innocent. He told me that he had told your sister about me being gay, which I was mildly upset about, but it didn’t seem to matter that much. I really don’t think that she had any negative feelings about homosexuality. And she was not at the source of any rumors, as far as I know.

Regarding your sister’s and her take on things during her brief visit to Kiev. I think her instinct was correct if she felt that your father was attracted to me. This takes us to the tricky issue of how to define “affair” and “infidelity”. I think that your father was attracted to the vitality and optimism that comes with youth. There may also have been that desire that comes from wanting something that is not available. In my later twenties and thirties life dealt me some blows, but at 24 I was riding high and that was magnetic.

I think she must also have sensed an easy complicity, which is usually associated with couples. But in our case it was because we were good friends who had spent time together. You ask if your dad was happy. I don’t know if that question has an answer. Am I happy? Are you happy? Life is such a mixed bag of small and big joys as well as frustrations and disappointments that come in different guises. I think that your dad was really good at setting aside worries and really enjoying the moment. That is a really great quality.

I think I’ll sign off for now.

Take care.

Photo

Mon, 18 Jun 2012 12:29:36 -0400

Home and Away

Wed, 13 Jun 2012 21:27:00 -0400

Last week, I moved all of my belongings into storage and took off for China, where I’m teaching for the summer. Because I was leaving, and because my boyfriend and I are “taking a break,” we decided to give up our apartment, even though it was really, really nice, and surprisingly affordable. I toyed with the idea of subletting it, but there’s no way I could afford the rent on my own when I return, and it would be depressing to be in our old place and surrounded by reminders that we couldn’t make it work even though we loved each other and, again, had a pretty great apartment. In New York City, that’s some sort of crime.

When I was slipping the keys to my storage unit on my key chain, I realized that although my key chain weighs, like, a pound and a half, the keys to that lock are the only keys I need. They, of course, weigh almost nothing. A lot of people move their stuff into storage and marvel at how their life and belongings, which once seemed so sprawling, fit so easily into a 5 x 10 unit. I certainly did, and knowing that key would be my only connection to all of my stuff when I was halfway around the world was both liberating and frightening.

I’ve never been a big “home” person. I didn’t feel at home in the home I grew up in, and everywhere I’ve lived since seemed like it would be temporary, even when it wasn’t supposed to be (like the place I just moved out of). I don’t feel that I’ve truly belonged in any of the places I’ve ended up in. I’m not opposed to “home” – I have ridiculously vivid and detailed fantasies about living in an old industrial building by the water, and in a prefab home in upstate New York–- but those are fantasies, and really, they’re about space. I want to find a home, but I’m not actively looking for one. Sometimes I get sad and think I will find a home but won’t recognize it. I know that “home” is usually something you create, not find, but I’m too skittish to try to create one, even though I sense that having a home would actually make me happier than I can imagine being.

The one time I was actually excited to make a home was when I moved to Brooklyn with three friends when we graduated college – a whopping 12 years ago. We had a small duplex apartment in a not-yet-nice neighborhood (my roommate was mugged within a week), and though it wasn’t quite perfect, it was ours, we could afford it, and we wanted it to be awesome. And it was really awesome for the three months that we were there, before a fire put an end to our party. I didn’t own that much at the time, but a combination of smoke damage and water from the firefighter’s hoses (firefighters fucking wreck places—they break the window, smash the walls, it’s crazy—I know they have to, and I love them, but wow) did away with most of my books, clothing, and my dorky Asian candy collection.

That fire is only one of many disasters that have befallen places that I, or members of my family, have lived. I have always had an aversion to home, but I’m sure it’s been encouraged by the fact that I’ve repeatedly been made aware of how temporary “home” can be.

Growing up, my family had a cabin in New Hampshire, and there was a barn on the property with a small apartment that we rented to college students. The barn burnt down when I was in middle school (the apartment was empty at the time), and then the house itself burnt down when I was in college. Apparently squirrels were responsible for both fires. My mother’s boyfriend was living in the cabin when it burned down, and I was the person who received his hysterical call about the disaster. It must have been Thanksgiving or some other holiday because I was in Boston (in the house I grew up in) and my mother was in detox. I was smoking pot with my friend on the living room floor when he called, and I remember numbly thinking, “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” before going a bit more numb. The cabin was adorable but I wasn’t attached to it. I wasn’t attached to anywhere. Still, the enormity of the situation made me want to cry, but I was too stoned to do it.

The event was terrible, but the timing actually seemed ideal. I could tell my mother while she was in detox, and that might allow her to freak out in a place where she actually had support. I think it did, but it didn’t matter because she went on a real bender when she got out. She and my father spent a lot of time in that little house, and some of my father’s ashes were spread under a tree on the property. She lost a lot of mementos in the fire, and she lost a place to hide. When I tally up all the reasons my mother had to grieve, I am very humbled.

So we had those two fires in New Hampshire, and then mine in Brooklyn. In addition to fires, my family has had two floods – one in my mother’s house, and one in my sister’s. Both came from the top floor, and both did extensive damage. Also, my sister now lives in a nice suburb in a neighborhood that hasn’t seen a break-in in 15 years, but last year, her house was broken into in the middle of the day.

The first time my boyfriend met my brother-in-law, my brother-in-law asked him if I’d mentioned the “family curse.” I hadn’t, because I’d never interpreted these events quite that way. It was kind of a dickish comment, but maybe it wasn’t totally uncalled for. We do seem to have a problem with property, and the more I think about it, the more spooked I get, and the more I spend on apartment insurance.

Unfortunately, I’m spacey enough that more disasters seem a little inevitable. Before I moved to China I left the gas on in my apartment, and everyone in the building started freaking out when they started smelling it. All the neighbors were texting each other, and my boyfriend, who was at work, was texting me because he figured I was behind the smell, and might be close enough to get home and turn off the oven. When no one could get in touch with me they finally called the landlord, who went into the apartment and turned it off. While all of this was happening I was far away on the Upper West Side, talking to my therapist about how I’m really spacey and disorganized and how many problems this causes for me. When I left his office I looked my phone and saw all the missed calls and read all the texts, and I became so anxious and embarrassed that I almost fainted. The situation turned out okay, but I was upset for days.

It’s probably good that my stuff is in storage. It’s safe there. It’s depressing that my stuff is safer without me. I want to finally become responsible enough to take care of my stuff, especially because at this point, my stuff is largely a collection of things that I took from my mom’s house, things that belonged to my parents and things that I am thrilled to now own. I feel comfortable when I’m surrounded by them. I’m proud these things are mine now, proud of my parents for having cool taste, and grateful that I own things I couldn’t or wouldn’t buy for myself. My collection of their random objects—their rugs, ethnic tchotchkes, prints, and books—is what actual feels like home. This surprises me. I’d think that whatever version of home I find would be completely and purposefully unconnected from my parents and my past. My sister thinks it’s weird that I have so much of our parents’ stuff, but I love their things, and I want them around me.

I’m glad my stuff is waiting for me. It makes me feel less adrift. I guess I like the feeling of being anchored by something. I do hope I find a place where I can be with all that stuff, and be happy with where I am.

The Reply

Sun, 10 Jun 2012 11:15:00 -0400

So I heard back from “my father’s mistress” and…well, you’ll see. She seems very cool and thoughtful and open-minded. The email I sent her had no subject (because what the hell could I say?) but the subject of her reply was “Peoples’ lives and our narratives about them.” I was like, aaaaaaand I love you.

I’m still processing this, both because there’s a lot to process and I’m confused, and because I’m in Asia now and so jet-lagged I’m about two seconds away from passing out.

I welcome your initiative to contact me. It’s not a problem at all. I would like to have a conversation with you about your dad, who was a good friend and mentor.

When your dad died in the car accident in Ukraine I was 24 years old, just out of graduate school.

I met your dad at an art gallery. It turns out we both loved the visual arts and thus started a friendship that centered around exploring the turbulent cultural life that was unfolding in early post-communist Ukraine. He was an enthusiastic buyer contemporary art and was well connected. I was thrilled to come along and absorb the atmosphere. I was flattered that he would want to take me along.

Your dad and I were never physically involved. I happened to be living in a room in his spacious apartment at the time because the university housing was closed in the summer months. I was renovating an apartment and the work was taking longer than anticipated. So I think I must have lived at George’s place for some two months while my place was under wraps. My stay coincided with your sister’s visit. I don’t know what your sister thought was going on, or what George told her, but I can assure you that your dad and I were not involved in any way other than an easy friendship.

I am gay. When I was still living in the housing provided by the university, I had an extended visit from my then girlfriend. George knew that from the early days of our friendship. We all actually spent some time together painting Easter eggs and wandering through art galleries. He must have told your sister this, because after the car accident there were a lot of rumors in the expatriate community in Kiev and my sexual orientation was part of the gossip.

After the car accident I was involved in packing up your dad’s things. Getting his art collection back to the US was quite complicated. I sometimes wonder what happened to it. [“Editor’s” note: That art went straight into storage and stayed there. I feel bad saying it, but the entire collection is..not great. My mom and I literally grimaced and groaned as we unpacked each piece. My dad had good taste, so I’m not sure what was wrong. I think he just wanted to support Ukrainian artists, and was able to do it because art was so cheap at the time.]

I met your mom in Boston when I went to the US for a meeting. We had a drink at a bar, and I told her that I had never had a relationship with George.

I know that your dad was really proud of you and your sister. He showed me photos and was always excited when he got news from you. I know that he was worried about making enough money to pay for college tuition.

Please feel free to ask me anything you like and I hope I can give you answers that are meaningful and worthy of they great guy your dad was.

Like I said, a lot to process.

What Do you Say to Your Dead Father's Mistress?

Wed, 06 Jun 2012 01:21:00 -0400

As I mentioned here, my father was having an affair with a Swiss woman when he died, and I’ve been trying to track her down. I want to know about her relationship with my father and hear another perspective on him. My sister, who met her in Ukraine the summer he died, gave me her name, and I’ve been poking around the Internet trying to find her for the past few months but haven’t come up with anything or anyone.

The other day I was going over some articles about my father’s death that my mother saved, and I noticed his mistress actually contributed to one of them as a reporter. Turns out I had her name wrong by one letter. Though her name seems like it could be really common if you’re Swiss, when I typed in the correct spelling of her name, I found her, and her email address, immediately. Sometimes the internet is scary.

I’ve been drafting an email to her for two days, struggling to get the tone just right. I want the email to be friendly and honest, without being too long or intense. I’d like to keep it short and simple, but if I’m too short, she might think I’m angry or crazy. But if I go on and on in an attempt to forge a connection, soothe her fears, or explain why I want to talk to her, she might think I’m a more complicated crazy. I need to get this email right because I need her to respond. I know there’s a good chance she won’t respond no matter what I write, but it still feels important to have a strategy.

It’s taking a lot of effort to not write her a “complicated crazy” email. I want her to sympathize with my plight, trust me, and maybe even like me. I found a bunch of information on her and she seems really cool and—here comes the creepy part—like someone I might be friends with…? I always thought she was closer to my father’s age, but it turns out she was only 25 or 26 when they met, which means she’s only nine or ten years older than me. She did humanitarian work for well over a decade, but just went back to school for a degree in industrial design. Also, we both like kayaking.

Though I know a bit about her, I don’t know anything about her relationship with my father, and that’s working against me. I have no idea how she feels about it, or how important it was to her. Was their relationship a defining part of her 20’s, or just one of the many crazy things that happened to her? Maybe my father was just an interesting extended fling. Or maybe she was in love with him and was devastated not only when he died, but when she couldn’t claim her grief. And how did she feel about having an affair with a married man—did she harbor guilt or shame, or was she totally fine with it?

I hope she’s okay with what happened. I am, and I want that to be clear in my email. But even though I state that directly, I’m worried that no matter what I say, she won’t believe me. I’m trying to imagine how I would feel if I received this email, but that’s not getting me very far because I can’t imagine being anyone but myself, and If I got this letter, I would be intrigued and excited and would call me up and gab for ten hours straight.

What I really want to tell her—but won’t—is that when I was younger than her, I had an affair with a married man named Bud, which is an even sexier name than George. I was 19 and spending the summer waitressing in the US Virgin Islands, something I’d decided to do on a whim one particularly cold New York night—I’d never wiatressed, been to the Caribbean, or spent so much time on my own, but I got the idea in my head and decided to do it because wanted to know that I could, and I knew something I couldn’t do was spend a summer at home with my mother. I arrived, completely terrified, and was stuck camping on the beach until someone from work mentioned they knew a contractor who was also a caretaker at a gated community where people like Bon Jovi had houses. He needed someone around during the day. I decided I wanted to be that person even before I met him or saw the place.

When I finally did meet Bud, I was attracted to him immediately. He was hot, and he was dirty and sweaty from a day at work, and he was leaning against his pickup truck. We chatted for 20 minutes and he mentioned his wife and kids, who lived in Virginia, where he spent a lot of his time, right away—not in an attempt to “warn me,”—he just talked about them a lot. I liked that he was “ruggedly handsome,” I liked that he was older, and I am pretty sure that liked that he was married, though I wasn’t actually aware that I was at the time.

That trouble was brewing was obvious, but I was at a point in my life when I didn’t know how to stop things from happening. Everything felt inevitable. So I moved in to the loft in his little caretakers place, which was pretty sweet and not little. It was a million degrees because it was the Caribbean in May, so it was way too hot to sleep up that loft. It was too hot to even breathe there. I ended up in his bed that first night, though I no longer remember how. He may have offered up his bed in a friendly way without directly coaxing me. He might have always known that I wouldn’t be able to sleep in the loft, and that I’d have to migrate. Was there also a couch? Probably.

We never had sex, but we did make out a lot. I loved that I was hooking up with him, partially because I knew what we were doing was “bad.” I understood we were being naughty and I got off on it, even though I really had no idea what was happening. I told some friends from work—people I’d known for a week—about it. “And,” giggle, “he’s married. Cool, right?”

I can’t remember how I figured out it wasn’t cool at all, but I did. I think it was because he talked too much. He told me again and again how much he respected his wife, how she was smart and an amazing mother to his sons, and then talked about how painful it was for him not to be faithful to her. He was so pained to be in bed with an impossibly tan and game 19-year old! Poor him! Even I was like, “You sound pretty stupid right now, and I’m sure I’m the only person giving you a chance to be so pained, and that must mean I’m twice as stupid as you are.”

Soon, I started to feel like I was a young, wide-eyed woman who was cut off from everything and everyone that was familiar to her and was being taken advantage of, which was exactly who I was at that moment, so I moved out and proceeded to have one of the most amazing and important summers of my life—I made incredible friends, built a brief life out of “nothing,” and purged a lot of grief (and bile). I showed myself that I really could do whatever I needed or wanted to do, even if it was scary or painful.

Now that I’m looking back on everything, I think Bud had bigger problems than being in love with himself and cheating on his wife. He might have been a serious liar. He told me he used to be a Navy SEAL but I think he just wished he’d been a Navy SEAL, because he read fictional thrillers about them all the time, and I’m pretty sure actual Navy SEALS don’t need or want to do that. I believed him at the time because I was young, and because he was a very intense conversationalist and talked about places like Lebanon and had night vision goggles.

I can’t exactly put all of this in my email to my father’s former mistress, but I do want to say something like, “Hey, it’s cool, I get it,” even though I clearly do not. I feel bonded by our situations though they were very different. I didn’t have a real relationship with Bud, and Bud was not an “important man” in that environment. Bud also didn’t die in a car accident while we were involved, and I didn’t have to pretend we weren’t having an affair after he died.

I have imagined, or maybe decided, that my father’s mistress and I are kindred spirits, even though she must have liked my father and I pretty much hated him. I’ve also imagined that she’ll be totally interested in talking to me and that we’ll have coffee while wearing cozy sweaters, which, for the record, I don’t wear, and that she’ll tell me everything about her relationship with my father (except the sex) in great detail. I want to know how they met, how she felt about him, how he treated her, what he said about my family, and how she felt when he died. I really see it happening, and even if I learn terrible or difficult things—like he manipulated her, or he had lots of other affairs—I think I’ll be okay with it. I just want to know.

I’m probably setting myself up for major disappointment.

Anyway, here’s the most recent draft of the email.

Dear X,

This might not the best way begin, but I feel I should start by apologizing for sending you what might be an overwhelming email.

I’m X’s youngest daughter. It’s my understanding that you were involved with him in Ukraine when he died. I’m contacting you because I’m trying to learn more about him, and because I’m curious about your relationship. I don’t have any negative feelings about your relationship or about/toward you, and I hope that you’re open to communicating with me. Oh, here’s another apology—I’m sorry if you actually didn’t have a relationship with my father and I’ve got it all wrong. I’m just going off what my sister told me.

I was 16 when my father died, and I didn’t know him well, though I guess most teenagers don’t know their parents well, or care to. I certainly was not interested in knowing or being close to my father. We had a difficult relationship, and I was relieved when he started working abroad.

Now that I’m an adult, I actually want to know my father better. My mother passed away two years ago (my sister never told her about the affair), and since she died, I’ve been compelled to learn more about both of my parents as individuals. I’m sad that I realized so late that my parents were not only my parents, but were people who had rich and complicated lives separate from myself.

I’d love to ask you some questions about my father. I know everything happened a long time ago, and that you might have some complicated feelings about what happened. I understand if you have reservations about sharing your experiences with me.

I’d be grateful if you could at least write me back and let me know if you’re open to communicating.

Thanks very much.

Photo

Thu, 31 May 2012 18:29:00 -0400

A Letter to Sylvia, July 22nd, 1974

Tue, 17 Apr 2012 02:12:00 -0400

(Un)happy Halloween

Sun, 01 Apr 2012 21:11:36 -0400

(Un)happy Halloween

B+'s and Bad Habits

Mon, 26 Mar 2012 20:08:00 -0400

I’ve been so busy I haven’t had time to write anything, but in between my all consuming, last-minute-class-planning-and-student-paper-reading, and my related but useless empty-headed-wall-staring-or-drinking, I found a little time to think about this project. What I mean to say is, I thought about it without meaning to, while simultaneously staring at walls or strangers on the subway.

I didn’t want this project to be cathartic. I don’t think the need for catharsis is a reason to write, and I don’t like reading work that’s reaching for it. However, I seem to have achieved some anyway. Since starting this blog, I’m less attached to my original narrative about my parents—a little less “poor me.” I never thought about my parents much, but now I think about them even less. When I do, I don’t feel much friction. While I’m sure that sounds fucked up to some people, I think it’s a good thing. When I used to think about my parents, it was usually through subconscious connections or a need to “work something out.” The fact that they’re not bubbling up as often must mean I’m not struggling as much with what happened.

I was telling a friend about this project on Friday night, which was random because I’m not talking about it with anyone. We were talking about our own lives, our false starts and distractions. He’s recently married and finding it hard to stay faithful; I’m in a totally committed relationship but scared of actual marriage. I brought up this project because what happened to my parent’s seemed relevant to our conversation. I thought we could learn something from them, and I told him what I’m discovering.

As I was talking, I realized I’m forging a new relationship with my mom and dad. Not so I can “find a way to miss them,” as I wrote here way back when. It’s not so I can do anything specific. But by virtue of examining their lives, while I am also examining my own (all the time and to the point of exhaustion), I’m starting to think about my parents as if they were my friends. I wonder and worry about their relationship, and I find myself commiserating with them. How does anyone get this shit right? If my friend and I are talking about our relationships, they must have been talking about their relationship to their friends. Did they freak out or falter? Did they see things happening and wish they could stop them, then watch them happen anyway?

I feel my parents could be me. That I am each of them. All of that stuff. Their lives were very different from mine—by my age they had two kids and owned a house—so maybe they didn’t have the time or inclination to obsess about their lives the way I do, but I imagine them with the narcissism of the generation they helped spawn, so I assume they did. Their relationship died a long death; they had plenty of time.

Knowing my parents went through some of the same things my friends and I are going through—they tried to get it right but didn’t, they did for a while, but then things just went wrong—is sad, but it’s also comforting. I guess it means I might not be doing as badly as I think I am. If we’re all flawed and that’s the norm, then maybe I’m getting B+’s across the board. It really makes me wonder how much of what I want is real.

My mom and aunt, terrorizing their Chicago neighborhood. My...

Fri, 23 Mar 2012 08:16:33 -0400

My mom and aunt, terrorizing their Chicago neighborhood. My mom’s at the back, quite aware of her cuteness.

My parents, hugging in the snow.

Fri, 16 Mar 2012 09:37:06 -0400

My parents, hugging in the snow.

My mother and I. I was…3? 4? 5?

Thu, 15 Mar 2012 17:43:01 -0400

My mother and I. I was…3? 4? 5?

A Telegram

Wed, 14 Mar 2012 15:24:00 -0400

A sweet telegram from my mother to her best friend. Their friendship makes me so happy. I also love my closest friends with “a fervor I shall never be fully able to express.” Like, I really, really love them. I wonder if that’s genetic, or something I observed growing up, or something my mother encouraged without me realizing. I think it’s a great quality to have as long as your friends are awesome and your partners aren’t easily threatened.

At my mother’s funeral, Sylvia told me how hard it was to lose their 50+ year friendship to my mother’s alcoholism. They went from consistently exchanging amazing letters and phone calls to my mother barely picking up the phone, and when she did, having only the non-cable tv she was watching to talk about. Sylvia knew how much my mother loved her, but it must have been hard to lose her closest confidant, especially when Sylvia had her own struggles to worry about.

I’m still surprised by how happy my mother sounds to be a new mom. She’s completely enamored by my sister. I’m less surprised by my mother’s need to mull over her new role as a caregiver. “It was an interesting and new emotional experience, having a mother and being one.” The telegram didn’t give my mother a lot of room to continue, but I’m pretty sure she could have gone on about this for pages. She needed to think and think and think about things the way I do, though now I’m struggling to come up with memories to back this up. (Probably because she refused to think at all during the last decade of her life; if she did, she would have been crippled by shame and grief.)

In any case, I feel my mother thought and thought and thought about things, and it’s a strong enough feeling that it feels like a fact. She was so emotional, and she constantly created fictions and narratives and I think she believed them. I also have an almost obsessive need to understand things in this way, even when I know “overthinking” can lead you away from the truth. I’m not sure if it’s an obsession or a compulsion. They’re similar enough, but they’re not quite the same thing, and the differences are important. Wait. Maybe they’re not.