When I was eighteen or so, my dad told me that it was okay if I were a lesbian and that he would still love me, although this had more to do with the unfathomable act of me shaving my head than my lustful-leanings (homosexuality made sense to him, but a woman with short hair did not; of course, he has also told me that women carry lice in their pubic hair, although personally I blamed the fleabag cat for fleas (FYI, NOT in my pubic hair), but I guess I see where dad is coming from (?)). However! I don’t think he’s ever said that he’s proud of me. See, Michael and I were watching something the other night, probably Castle because that’s in heavy rotation right now, and Kate’s father says to her (I’m just going with the Castle assumption here) that she makes him proud. Is this a phenomenon that only exists on TV, or are there dads out there that verbalize their pride? And is this a big deal, that my dad has never said this to me, and should I plan on bringing it up in therapy? I mean, I know my dad loves me, but pride?
Because, the thing is, anything noteworthy that is shared in the (almost daily) emails between me, The Sisters, and my dad (and whoever else he cc’s; maybe an uncle, maybe the guy who delivered gravel to his house 6 years ago–I assume these are accidental cc’s, but maybe not?), is usually met with a dismissive “SUPERCALIFRAGILISTICEXPIALOUDOCIOUS!”
Guess what? We just bought a house!
SUPERCALIFRAGILISTICEXPIALOUDOCIOUS!
Good news! I’m getting married!
SUPERCALIFRAGILISTICEXPIALOUDOCIOUS!
Or, here’s one: “sounds like a winner.” A quick search of my emails reveals 48 instances of this most malleable phrase.
I just got a promotion.
Sounds like a winner!
Brought home a new puppy today!
Sounds like a winner!
I’m getting a divorce.
Sounds. like. a. Winner.
Okay, so, last weekend, I was at my sister Hattie’s, enjoying her Crate and Barrel furniture (which our mutual friend Geoff deliberately abuses (recliner goes BACK! footrest goes UP!) in hopes that if anything breaks, Hattie’ll go back to C&B for a replacement, and he will inherit a mushroom green Berkshire lounger), and she was telling me this grand story about a friend who fell in love with some dude she met during a cross-country vacation, “in Montana. Like Salt Lake City or something,” which was funny, and then upon realizing she wasn’t joking, became even funnier.
“Why is that funny?”
“Salt Lake City? In Montana?”
“Yeah? So?”
“That’s in Utah.”
“Is that on I-90?” (dismissive wave of the hand) “Whatever. ANYWAY…” (concludes story, which by the way began as an “I blame the victim”-story that twisted into something about sex trafficking and ended with a woman escaping her captors and running and running and running and finally getting to a city park and no one will help her, but there’s this guy sitting on a bench, and he says, “stay put! I’ll get you help!” And no, there isn’t a horrible twist here where this guy is another bad guy because this is real life and not a novel, but it is at this point–a good 10 minutes or so into the story–that Hattie says, “And that’s what I’m willing to do: I am willing to be the guy on the bench who gets help” (BTW, I love this so much)— although to be fair, I had just told her about how I refused to feed the homeless people camping outside my office building because the old man from 1987 who is pro-Reagan and lives inside of me thinks that “they can just get a job like the rest of us”).
I always assumed that these sweeping dismissals and blanket assumptions were learned from my dad, and a result of his privileged education, except I don’t mean in the way of intentional arrogance, like that Saturday Night Live Judge-Judy skit with Cheri Oteri and Tracy Morgan…“But I went to Vassar!” No, not like that, but more like in the way that Oprah and Gayle televised their road trip and Oprah didn’t remember or know how to pump gas. Oprah wasn’t playing Gayle; it’s just that she had been living in what my mom would call a “rich-bitch” bubble. Similarly, I assumed, my dad spent too many years getting educated and having his white-maleness reinforced that he didn’t know that it might have been insulting to say to 17-year-old-me’s coffee-shop-boss that even though he (the boss) came from Spokane, he still might make something of himself (it’s actually quite impressive to me that dad could dismiss 20 years of a person’s life with just a sentence).
Of course, it’s not just Hattie and Dad, it’s me too (please see my earlier post, Part III of the Reluctant Camper: Camping with the Gays, in which I share my view of Washington State, which is basically that there’s Seattle, and then something happens to the east, but definitely Portland is to the south and Canada is north). At work I make daily declarations like “that’s stupid” or “I hate her” but of course, because of my keen insight I usually couch my crazy with get-out-of-jail phrases like “that’s stupid because I don’t understand it, “ or “I hate her, at least until I end up liking her.” Even my sweet baby niece does this! We were having a family conversation, trying to figure out why Target was closed. It was Sunday, sure, but despite my brother-in-law’s antiquated understanding of the world in which stores close on Sundays, it made no sense. My niece offers up this:
“Well, it makes sense because Asians don’t work on Sundays.”
WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?
Dismissive shoulder shrug. ”I don’t know. Whatever.”
Side note: Chad and I bought our first house in the Georgetown neighborhood of Seattle, back when Georgetown was sketchy (my realtor and good friend: “You might want to come down at night and walk around before you buy it, just to make sure”). It certainly was not the bar-and-restaurant scene it is now. In fact, the only restaurant within walking distance was a burger and shake place called Herfy’s that was owned by some Asian folks, and Herfy’s happened to be closed every Sunday. And yet, even with this real-world experience, I don’t know if I ever would have made this same generalization (my god, what happened to my niece to make her think this and does it relate to her smoking weed??).
Could it be that my sweet niece was engaging in another family custom, which is: If I say it, then it’s true (I once again must redirect you to an earlier post, Bears, Kangas, and Kiwis, in which I doubt my father’s declaration that the Finnish people are obsessed with bear-shaped personal safety reflectors, in part because “everyone in my family is prone to half-truths”) (Also, a quick search of my family emails pulls up 27 instances of “it’s true!!!”) (and also BTW, it turns out that Target was closed because it was Easter, which is apparently a thing and maybe even a big deal (still, big enough of a deal to CLOSE TARGET?)).
When my grandfather was diagnosed with lung cancer and given only a few months to live, he started writing his autobiography. It starts off bitter and angry, which given the context (you are going to be dead soon) totally makes sense. He titled it, “I Don’t Want to Die.”
I am 77 years old and I can think of nothing spectacular or of great importance that I contributed to this most wondrous world. There will be no statue and very little remembrance of my having been here. A few ashes in a two foot deep hole, maybe a plaque with my name which will be visited and a few kind thoughts to remember me by. It does take time to forget the dead and eventually go on living without them. Usually from two weeks to a month.
As I read this for the first time, my heart broke. Did he feel guilt about dying and leaving his family to carry on without him? Was he angry about his diagnosis? Does he regret that death is coming so soon, taking him away from this “wondrous world” or does he regret that he leaves no legacy for the world at large, that the only evidence of his existence is his children and grandchildren, and why isn’t that enough for him?
BUT THEN, he tags on that statement that people will forget you– and here’s the time frame. Jesus fucking Christ. Really? I mean, it’s hilariously on-point that my grandfather came up with this. It’s not, “someday you’ll forget me,” and then end of sentence. No; it’s “we grieve a lot at first, but then we move on, and that’s life” and then the unnecessary Cliff-Clavin-from-Cheers-like factoid that “by the way there’s a standardized time frame for this, which is 2 weeks, and this is FACT.” I also read into this an imagined conversation where we declare that no, you’re wrong, we’ll never forget you, but he is totally dismissing our pledge. “You say now that you’ll miss me, but I know the truth: that in 28 days, you’ll have forgotten me.”
I guess none of this death-stuff really matters, though. It’s a wonderful gift that my dad has shared with us, a connection to our past, but it also has created a little fear: Grandpa never finished his autobiography. Life is over too fast and there’s so much that hasn’t been said, and so much to learn about each other, and understand about each other, and holy fuck can dad shed some light onto why he is the way that he is? I think Hattie was considering all of this too, because she sends an email asking dad to write his own biography right now, before poor health or a death sentence casts a pall on his own story. A request to which dad replies:
My opening line is, “I am a golden unicorn in a world of mangy carnivores.” How am I doing so far?
Legacy?
Dismissive shrug, wave of the hands, moving on.