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And Continues…

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.



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.

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— 2 years ago with 2 notes
#dad  #dads  #emails  #mistresses  #long reads 
The Correspondence Continues

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.

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— 2 years ago with 5 notes
#dads  #mistresses  #creative writing  #creative nonfiction  #long reads 
Home and Away

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. 

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— 2 years ago with 9 notes
#home  #parents  #fires  #floods  #keys  #writing  #long reads 
The Reply

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.

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— 2 years ago with 9 notes
#long reads  #letters  #dad  #dads  #grief  #writing 
B+’s and Bad Habits

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.

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— 2 years ago with 7 notes
#dad  #dead parents  #long reads  #mom  #writing  #grief 
Maybe I am a Terrible Daughter

In her memoir “The Long Goodbye,” Meghan O’Rourke suggests that grief can be isolating because our culture is “nervous around death.” We don’t have rituals that govern it, or a shared language to discuss it, so it’s hard to even know what it means to grieve. I know she’s right, but only because that’s what I’ve witnessed or been told. That hasn’t been my experience at all. 

It is true that many people don’t have access to rituals other than the standard trifecta of wakes, funerals and burials. And for people such as myself, even these have little meaning because they are usually framed by a religion like Catholicism, which offers me nothing I want to take.

My boyfriend’s grandmother died last week, so I recently participated in all of these rituals. We spent Sunday at the wake, and Monday at the funeral and burial. An additional gloom hung over the events because the one-year anniversary of his father’s death was the following weekend. Not only were people remembering where they had been a year ago, but they knew they’d be back in church again shortly.

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— 2 years ago with 4 notes
#Meghan O'Rourke  #fathers  #funerals  #grief  #mothers  #long reads  #writing 
What to Do

When I started this project, I thought my main struggle would be with the availability of information. There are only so many letters, photographs and memories, after all. But this hasn’t been a problem. The real problem is what I’m doing with the information I’m getting. If I want to understand my parents, I have to be open to understanding them, and it turns out I’m not. I’m stubborn and attached to my narrative and my original impressions of them. I decided a long time ago that my parents had a bad marriage and they were unhappy. When I come across information that tells me otherwise, I experience intense physical and cognitive dissonance. My brain hardens. My screen goes blank. Every cell of my body says “Nope.”

I’ll try out phrases like, “My parents were really in love, at least for a while”—which is something their early letters seem to suggest—but it just sounds ridiculous, like I’m making it up. What if I made my version up? What if both options are correct? If I’m not willing to really learn something or change my ideas, I might as well just cry into the pages of a composition notebook in the privacy of my own bedroom, because this has all been for naught.

I’ve got two theories about why it’s so difficult to accept new information about my parents. One is that there’s just some serious rewiring that needs to occur for me to change my mind. It’s a big shift. The other idea is that finding information that contradicts my assumptions is actually more painful than finding information that supports them. Because you know what? If my parents were happy, in love, having fun and accomplishing what they dreamed, it’s sad that they fell out of love and life’s complications got the best of them. It is sad. It is so really fucking sad that when I think about it I am filled with grief, and a little bit of terror. I think that’s why I resist the shift in perspective—that would give me something to mourn. I’m still not mourning their disappearance from my life, but sometimes what happened to me doesn’t seem nearly as bad as what happened to them (and between them). I HATE that this happened to them, and I hate that it can happen to anyone. At times, falling out of love, or waking up in the middle of a life that you didn’t want, feels like the saddest thing I can think of.

I could be wrong. Maybe there were problems from the start. Maybe my mom saw marriage to my father as a solid way out of her regular life, and that’s actually what he ended up being. Maybe he was always a short-tempered dick and was just good at hiding it until kids came along. But those sad stories almost seem comforting compared to the ones I may be discovering, which are ones I already knew, but had never applied to my own parents. Life can change you, and you can’t always change yourself.

— 2 years ago with 8 notes
#dad  #families  #grief  #long reads  #love  #mom  #parents 
Grief and Not Grief

I’ve been focusing on my brother’s death a lot here recently. Of course, a shaman did just tell me my brother was…I’m still not sure how to say it. With me? Following me? Fucking with me?

I never really understood the role that his death played in my family, and going over my mother’s letters and notes—even talking to my aunt— taught me it was much bigger than I understood or imagined. I’ve also realized I’m bizarrely steeled against grief, so I’m not great at understanding other people’s experience with it. A few years ago, when I heard the news that my best friend’s schizophrenic sister committed suicide, the first thing I thought was that it was probably for the best. Her sister’s illness had put her entire family (and particularly her) through so much. But when I actually said that out loud to someone, they looked at me like I was crazy. My friend and her family probably weren’t taking such a practical approach to their loss, but the fact that I couldn’t understand why they weren’t a little relieved said a lot about me. 

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— 2 years ago with 4 notes
#alcoholism  #death  #grief  #mom  #mothers  #long reads  #writing 
Which Versions of Your Parents Should You Love?

I recently assigned bell hooks’ essay “In Our Glory: Photography and Black Life” from her 1995 collection Art on my Mind: Visual Politics, to my academic writing class. The essay is about “the place of the visual in black life—the importance of photography,” particularly the family portraits and snapshots that adorned the walls of African-American homes before racial integration. hooks believes these images offered a way for black people to see themselves differently “than the dominant culture” and that they were  “a critical intervention, a disruption of white control over black images.”

It’s a really interesting essay. My students weren’t crazy about it, but it prompted a good discussion. hooks frames her essays with stories of her personal relationship to photography, which enriches and complicates her argument. It’s her personal story that I want to talk about. She begins by describing finding a powerful snapshot of her father that her sister “possessed”—a picture hooks had never even seen until she found it displayed in her sister’s house.

“In this snapshot,” she writes, “he is standing by a pool table. The look on his face is confident, seductive cool—a look we rarely saw growing up…There is such boldness, such fierce openness in the way he faces the camera. This snapshot was taken before marriage, before us, his seven children, before our presence in his life forced him to leave behind the carefree masculine identity this pose conveys.”

hooks was fascinated by the photo, and, in a sense, seduced by the intimacy it seemed to offer. She says, “Standing before this snapshot, I come closer to the cold, distant, dark man who is my father, closer than I can ever come in real life. Not always able to love him there, I am sure I can love this version of him…” Later she adds, “I want to rescue and preserve this image of our father, not let it be forgotten. It allows me to understand him, provides a way for me to know him that makes it possible to love him again, despite all the other images, the ones that stand in the way of love.”

Finding old photographs of your parents, especially ones that are B.Y—before you—can be exhilarating. It’s probably some sort of rite of passage, and probably one that gets a lot of page time in memoirs. I haven’t read enough memoirs to know, though I’m trying to change that. (I just read Kathryn Harrison’s The Kiss. Amazing and brutal. I can’t remember if there’s a “picture scene” in it.)

I assume most people who are close to their parents have more delightful experiences when looking at old photos. Look how awesome/terrible mom dressed! Look at dad’s beard! Etc., etc. But when you’re not close to your parents, it’s easy to become confused when you see a side of them in a photo that seems impossible given your experience. And while I admire hooks for being open to what is essentially a new relationship with her father, I’m struggling to do the same.

When I first started this project I wanted to get to know my parents, maybe even find a way to miss them. I’ve definitely lost sight of that goal at times, but it’s supposed to remain a sort of North Star.  And I am getting to know my parents, learning things about them I knew nothing about. Their correspondences, to each other and to friends, have affected me far more than the photographs I’ve found. My father’s eloquent, loving letters to my mother reveal a side of him that I never could have imagined. I’m so happy to have these letters, but really, they’re also kind of a mind fuck.

The problem is, knowing my parents in this new way requires a tectonic mental shift—and it’s one I’ve been resisting. hooks makes it sound easy and tidy, but I’m sure it wasn’t, and I find myself intimidated by her grace. It’s one thing to appreciate a new “version” of a parent, and it’s another to be able to love it. Love is…such a strong word.

What is the correct or “true” version of a parent? Is it the one you experienced for years, one that you can substantiate with personal experience (which could be considered evidence) or is it the photograph or the letter that upends it all? The fact hooks would allow these versions to exist together, or have one to replace the other, shows that she invites another version, right? If you’re not inviting, does that mean you’re denying the truth?

It’s hard for me to let go of my original ideas about my parents. The letters my father wrote my mom are amazing, but also creepy and overdramatic—and not just because it’s gross to think of my parents in certain ways. I read dominance and insecurity into his longing for my mother. I wonder if I am seeing shades of his controlling nature. I wonder if my mother was in Europe not to learn German, but to get away from him.

Similarly, when I see pictures of my parents where they seem in love, I wonder if either of them are faking it (particularly my mother). Are they smiling but thinking, “What the hell am I doing?”

I second-guess all of these documents because so much of my experience contradicts it. But what’s the point of examining all of these artifacts if I’m not willing to believe what I find in them? hooks talks about letting the newly discovered image of her father replace the images of him that stand in the way of love. I’m trying to let these new images of my parents replace the ones that stand in the way of my grief, because I consider a lack of grief to be a lack of love. I wonder if it was hard for hooks to love her father again. It’s certainly hard for me to grieve for my parents, even though I’m chasing a desire to do so. I don’t want to love or grieve a version of them that’s basically my own fabrication. Is it really possible, or wise, to let the things I didn’t know about them, or images I never had, overshadow the ones I did? That seems like a form of magical thinking to me, one that’s seductive, but also a little dangerous.

Although I started this blog to figure out who my parents were, I quickly found another goal. Once I realized that my parents might have been “different” once, I’ve wanted to figure out why they changed. Everything I’ve discovered seems to point to my brother dying when he was 10 months old, two years before I was born. Sorry if you want to shout “duh,” but I really didn’t understand how that could permanently throw their marriage off the rails if they already had one child and then successfully had another. (Shows what I know about relationships, children, life). Because I didn’t understand how that could happen, I assumed things had never been very good; that my parents were always the people I’d known. Even when they were alive there was plenty of information to contradict my verdict of their unhappiness: my friends’ affection for my mother, my father’s sense of humor, their travels and photographs, their interesting friends.

Maybe the biggest thing to take away from this is that you can never know your parents, alive or dead. I don’t think children have the capacity, or the distance. That doesn’t mean our version of our parents is wrong, but it’s certainly not complete. We can’t know our parents because when they’re fulfilling their duties as parents they are playing a role. They have to tell us what to do, worry about us, try to protect us—it’s hard for some of them to stop, even when we’re old enough to take over the responsibilities ourselves. 

— 2 years ago with 5 notes
#bell hooks  #dad  #grief  #joan didion  #longreads  #mom  #old letters  #long reads  #writing 
About George

My father was born in Western Ukraine in 1940. His family fled the country four years later, and traveled through Europe before landing in New York. They spent two years there before moving to Hibing, Minnesota, where my grandfather got a job working for the Department of the Interior.

My father had the typical first-son-new-immigrant pressures on him, and he was a massive overachiever. He was student body president of his high school, a member of the National Honor Society, and he received scholarships to Harvard and Johns Hopkins. He chose JH, and I think that had something to do with money.

Even though he was a nerd he had a lot of friends and admirers.  In his yearbook a guy named Dennis wrote,

“You put a ray of light in me every time you laughed.  Even if you gave me a rough time I still think you’re the greatest, and if I ever need a darn good doctor, I’ll know where to find him…I only know that so far as I’m concerned, I never will completely forget you…”

Thank you for loving my dad, Dennis. Multiple people wrote variations of “Best of luck at college, though I’m sure you won’t need it,” and someone added it was “great sitting next to your brain in class.”

My father was obviously a hard worker and gifted student. I was the opposite. I was (am) dyslexic and a “slow learner.” I needed a lot of extra help in school, and I never got very good grades. This made my father, who seemed like a very mild mannered guy, crazy. I’m sure it’s frustrating to have a child who can’t seem to do well in school no matter how much help she receives, but he seemed to take my problems as a personal offense, or even something I was doing to spite him. He would stand over me as I did my homework at the living room table and yell or call me stupid whenever I made a mistake. (What possesses a person to be so mean?) It was obvious he was making things worse and I always ended up in hysterics.  I gave up trying to achieve anything academically until he died. After he died I immediately started doing better in high school, and became psycho about grades when I got to college. I spent my junior year at Oxford and graduated Magna Cum Laude. I promise you no one saw that coming, including me.

I was always scared of my father. If my mother was going on a trip I would follow her around the house crying because I didn’t want to be left alone with him. He was mean in many different ways. Once, when I was young, I was playing with the stove-the kind with flameless burners. To ensure I understood why this was bad, he grabbed my hand and held my finger in place until it burned me. 

My father was supposed to be pre-med at JH, but he switched majors (upsetting my grandparents). He went to University of Chicago to get his JD and MBA, and that’s where he met my mother.

My father’s family did not support his relationship with my mother, who was not only poor but Polish (!!!). His parents fought their relationship the whole time and refused to go to their wedding, though they did eventually show up at the reception because they realized they were being assholes. My grandmother never stopped being an asshole to my mom. I give my father a lot of credit for defying his parents.

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— 3 years ago with 2 notes
#dad  #fathers  #family history  #long reads