Mystery
It's odd being the son of a father who's mentally off, mentally ill, mentally retarded. He was my hero when I was a kid, more than he was to my brothers. I got stuck with him more deeply than they did.
I don't want him back. It's time for both of us to move on. I'm just sad.
My brother D is in town, and whenever we sit down to a meal in some restaurant, our conversation eventually spins around What The Hell Was Wrong With Dad. Asperger's syndrome? High-functioning autistic? Or just a 'normal' guy with one of the deepest and strongest, yet gentle, defenses against *any* emotional involvement ever created, obviously at a young age? Was it genetic? Did his father or family beat him into this? What the hell went on?
The amazing thing is that he didn't give a shit. He thought he was normal. He couldn't see the vast, subtle, web of emotional and social context that he stumbled through, ripping and tearing, without a clue. No, he would repeat endlessly his current One Idea. We must be rational. Economic democracy is a must for workers. Whatever.
Idealistic lefties loved my dad. They sat with him and prattled on about whatever his One Idea of the day was. The manager of his assisted living place loved talking to him, because the two of them could go on and on about how to set the world straight from its injustices.
I went through some of his files while we were cleaning out his room and found a dozen versions of articles he'd written about How American Democracy Is Failing and Economic Democracy Is Necessary for Workers. Repeated, over and over again, trying to get all those thoughts arranged rightly, and published. All of it the most dismally boring and naive prattle imaginable. Noam fucking Chomsky, on the cheap.
(So now you know where my blogging comes from...)
Lord, the man was painfully naive. On the other hand, he had a subtle, angry streak deep within him that popped up once in a while, and let me know that he was watching the world in ways I couldn't fathom. The naive idealist was on one side, the canny criminal on the other, and they never seemed to meet.
Who the fuck was this guy?
We're never going to know. All that will die with him. It's our mystery now. It's sacred to us. We'll carry it now, and our children won't. Our dad was their ol' Grandpa, distant enough to be something entirely different. It happens with every generation. It'll happen with Maya. She'll see the incongruities in me that I don't want to deal with, and she'll carry those with her to her death, long past mine. It's the way things work.
Right now I feel sad, tender, open, and delirious. This is the first day I've mourned my father's passing. Thanks for listening.
I don't want him back. It's time for both of us to move on. I'm just sad.
My brother D is in town, and whenever we sit down to a meal in some restaurant, our conversation eventually spins around What The Hell Was Wrong With Dad. Asperger's syndrome? High-functioning autistic? Or just a 'normal' guy with one of the deepest and strongest, yet gentle, defenses against *any* emotional involvement ever created, obviously at a young age? Was it genetic? Did his father or family beat him into this? What the hell went on?
The amazing thing is that he didn't give a shit. He thought he was normal. He couldn't see the vast, subtle, web of emotional and social context that he stumbled through, ripping and tearing, without a clue. No, he would repeat endlessly his current One Idea. We must be rational. Economic democracy is a must for workers. Whatever.
Idealistic lefties loved my dad. They sat with him and prattled on about whatever his One Idea of the day was. The manager of his assisted living place loved talking to him, because the two of them could go on and on about how to set the world straight from its injustices.
I went through some of his files while we were cleaning out his room and found a dozen versions of articles he'd written about How American Democracy Is Failing and Economic Democracy Is Necessary for Workers. Repeated, over and over again, trying to get all those thoughts arranged rightly, and published. All of it the most dismally boring and naive prattle imaginable. Noam fucking Chomsky, on the cheap.
(So now you know where my blogging comes from...)
Lord, the man was painfully naive. On the other hand, he had a subtle, angry streak deep within him that popped up once in a while, and let me know that he was watching the world in ways I couldn't fathom. The naive idealist was on one side, the canny criminal on the other, and they never seemed to meet.
Who the fuck was this guy?
We're never going to know. All that will die with him. It's our mystery now. It's sacred to us. We'll carry it now, and our children won't. Our dad was their ol' Grandpa, distant enough to be something entirely different. It happens with every generation. It'll happen with Maya. She'll see the incongruities in me that I don't want to deal with, and she'll carry those with her to her death, long past mine. It's the way things work.
Right now I feel sad, tender, open, and delirious. This is the first day I've mourned my father's passing. Thanks for listening.