Lets revive the IMAMOTHER WRITING CLUB

amother

Tue, Jul 03 2012, 9:39 pm

I wrote this recently for Father's Day.

A Different Kind of Fathers Day

I’ve lived through 9,855 Fathers Days, and I’m not 9,855 years old.

There was that first one, 27 years ago, when he left.

I was 2 months old.

Then there was the smattering of times he promised to visit or call. Those were the ones spent waiting, hoping, and usually disappointed.

There were the times he showed up, and then I wished he hadn’t.

There was the bat mitzvah he didn’t acknowledge, the 27 birthdays he “forgot”, the graduations he didn’t come to.

There were the report cards he didn’t read, the friends he didn’t meet, the awards he didn’t know about.

There was the homework he didn’t help with, the “father-daughter” events he wasn’t around for and the yearly elementary school Fathers Day cards I made for no one.

There was the year he started a new family – and didn’t tell us.

There was the day he called for the first time in three years and then fell off the radar for another two.

And then there was The Last Visit, although I didn’t know that at the time.

I was ten.

These were my Fathers Days.

But then there were all the days in between. Endless days of anxious wondering if and when he would show up. There were months of convincing myself that I didn’t want to see him - I just wanted him to want me, and years of wondering why he didn’t.

This was my childhood.

A constant wish that he would call, and a simultaneous fear that he might.

Years of uncomfortably explaining his obvious absences with, “My parents are divorced,” knowing full well that divorced parents can still be involved in their children’s lives.

There was Shabbat with no man to sing Shalom Aleichem and say Kiddush. There was Simchat Torah, watching the fathers dancing with the Torahs in the synagogue and knowing there was no one there for me. The sting of watching my brothers looking lost in the men’s section – the only boys on their own – and knowing I couldn’t help them. The longing to join all the other little girls and boys congregating under their fathers’ tallit during the Birkat Kohanim prayer. The menorah he didn’t light, the Purim costumes he never saw, and the Pesach seders where I asked the four questions to no one.

And most of all, the daily ache.

I’d see a father playing with his children and feel a deep stabbing pain. A friend would mention asking her father for advice and I’d feel jealously running through my veins. I could easily end up in tears by reading a children’s book about happy families. I got angry every time I heard G-d compared to a father Who loves His children no matter what, because to me the comparison was inaccurate. I lay in bed at night wishing he knew how much he’d hurt me.

I dreamed up ways I could hurt him. I wrote him angry letters I never sent. He occupied so much space in my mind, and in my heart, that every day was Fathers Day. But he wasn’t thinking about me.

The knowledge that my own father – someone supposedly biologically programmed to love me unconditionally – had rejected and abandoned me was unbearable. The wondering what could possibly be so wrong with me that he wouldn’t want me. Every day he stayed away, I was abandoned all over again.

But things have crystallized, and it’s time for a change.

I’ve come to realize that he didn’t reject me because I was damaged; I am damaged because he rejected me.

And I can fix that.

Someone who cares so little, whose spent less than 15 days of my life with me, doesn’t deserve 9,855 days of my attention. He certainly doesn’t deserve to hold so much power of me, my relationships and my self-perception. He hasn’t earned the right to feature in my thoughts, mess with my emotions and interfere with my religious observance.

So this year, I’m observing the real Fathers Day for the first time, albeit unconventionally.

On June 17, 2012, I’ll be grieving for the father I never had and for that important male relationship I’ve missed out on. But he missed out too. He missed out on knowing me – as a child and as an adult. He missed out on the successful daughter he could have had. He’s missed the opportunity to enjoy parental pride, and for that I pity him.

Will I always feel some sadness for my fatherlessness? I’m sure I will.

But from now on he is banished from my thoughts, except when I choose to let him in. He’s had too much power for far too long.

It’s time to say goodbye.

sequoia

Wed, Jul 04 2012, 11:45 pm

amother wrote:

I wrote this recently for Father's Day.

A Different Kind of Fathers Day

But things have crystallized, and it’s time for a change.

I’ve come to realize that he didn’t reject me because I was damaged; I am damaged because he rejected me.

And I can fix that.

Someone who cares so little, whose spent less than 15 days of my life with me, doesn’t deserve 9,855 days of my attention. He certainly doesn’t deserve to hold so much power of me, my relationships and my self-perception. He hasn’t earned the right to feature in my thoughts, mess with my emotions and interfere with my religious observance.

So this year, I’m observing the real Fathers Day for the first time, albeit unconventionally.

On June 17, 2012, I’ll be grieving for the father I never had and for that important male relationship I’ve missed out on. But he missed out too. He missed out on knowing me – as a child and as an adult. He missed out on the successful daughter he could have had. He’s missed the opportunity to enjoy parental pride, and for that I pity him.

Will I always feel some sadness for my fatherlessness? I’m sure I will.

But from now on he is banished from my thoughts, except when I choose to let him in. He’s had too much power for far too long.

It’s time to say goodbye.

Wow. That's amazing and beautiful. I wonder if I'll ever get to that place.

mummiedearest

Thu, Jul 05 2012, 12:37 am

enneamom wrote:

mummiedearest wrote:

robynm wrote:

Hello Ladies,

I know you are all reading this. You just couldn't resist. I think it's time we revived the writing club. It was so much fun to see all of our creativity in one place. I think it was fun when we had topics and everyone submitted their ideas. Let me know what you think.

The topic I have actually wanted to write about for a while is a letter to my dad. So I'm going to think about what I want to write and you all do the same. I hope to sign on and see lots of entries.

Good luck!
Robyn

very real wording. I like the theme of your piece. a little more of a plot would perhaps make it more gripping. I am, however, left with suspense (whatever will you write to your dad? I must know!) so I would have to say that this piece, though short, is pretty good. the wit in the beginning, the directness of tone... perhaps a few more descriptions would be nice.

LOL!

Mummiedearest, I'd have to say that your piece is quite droll itself.

droll is a wonderful word choice. I'm not sure how that rolling smiley translates into literature, however.

enneamom

Thu, Jul 05 2012, 1:09 am

mummiedearest wrote:

enneamom wrote:

mummiedearest wrote:

robynm wrote:

LOL!

Mummiedearest, I'd have to say that your piece is quite droll itself.

droll is a wonderful word choice. I'm not sure how that rolling smiley translates into literature, however.

It wants but a roll
To render things droll.
For what is Literature
If not the soul
Of life, of role
Our inwards, in whole
A microcosm
That we dole
Out, word by word...

And if I stole
The prose therefrom
Then what of it?
This wit--unwrit--
Sidesplits, enrolled.

Edited to change last 2 lines

(What do you think of THAT deeply pontificating piece of literature, huh? LOL

)

Last edited by enneamom on Thu, Jul 05 2012, 7:55 pm; edited 1 time in total

robynm

Thu, Jul 05 2012, 9:42 am

Dear Abba,
I have so much to say and I can’t put it into words. You are taken for granted in our family. You are the glue that holds this family together. There is no one that can do the amount of things you do. You take care of Ma and are there for each of the kids in the way that they need. You go to work and give everything you have to all those families. And then you come home and even though you are exhausted, you love and support our family. I have spent my life just accepting that you will always be here. And I’ve always been scared that something will happen to you. I don’t think any of us can survive without you. I wish you would take better care of your health. And I know that’s not easy. You have limited time for yourself. I wish I could make your life a little easier, take some of your burdens off your shoulders. I wish for you that you had an equal spouse, who could take care of you like you take care of her. I wish that we would always be respectful of you and give you the honor you deserve. But we are kids, and we are trying to navigate this life the best way we can. Not many people can say that their father is their best friend, that he knows everything about them. But I can. I know that I can call you up and tell you anything. I’m so lucky. I just want to say thank you for being my Abba and sticking by me through everything I have gone through. I know I haven’t been the easiest child and that I haven’t always given you nachas but you have never stopped loving me. We have definitely had a rocky road but love has never been a question. I love you and I’m truly honored to be your eldest daughter.
Thank you for being my Abba,
Your Daughter

syrima

Thu, Jul 05 2012, 4:24 pm

Dear Abba,
You are the quiet type, like me. It is hard to know sometimes what is going on in your head. Most of the lessons you have taught me were from example. Your patience. Your inner discipline and work ethic. Your drive to learn more. Your passion for Yiddishkeit. Now, very soon, you will make a siyum on Shas. It is a monumental testament to your staying power. I was so very proud of you, but I felt rather far away. Every day you learned the daf. Never missed once. But sometimes we didn't speak for weeks. Why? Are we both so busy that weeks can go by when I talk to Ima frequently, but silence rolls, like a dense fog, between us?
So I did something that was a big leap for me. I called you- and asked to learn with you. Once a week, during lunch. Parsha, with a commentator of your choice. I was surprised my voice didn't shake as I made the request. You agreed, and we made up a time.
It has been only 2 weeks since then, but I feel the healing beginning. We now have a connection that is apart and separate from Ima and the others. Hearing your voice reading the pesukim is such a precious experience for me. Even though I won't be present at the siyum, I will be there in spirit. Because as everyone knows, a siyum is really a beginning.

"Hadran Alach Abba, V' hadrach Alon."
("May we return to you, Abba, and may you return to us, may our thoughts be with you Abba, and your thoughts with us; may we never be parted, both in this world, and in the World-to-Come"
-taken from the traditional Hadran prayer said at a siyum)

MountainRose

Thu, Jul 05 2012, 6:00 pm

Dear Daddy,

I don't like writing you a letter. You are supposed to be here. I'm supposed to be able to come down to the kitchen for a drink and get lost in conversation with you. I miss speaking my mind with you and having your constant presence to lean on.

But I grew up. Oceans separate us and Skype is a feeble bridge. I am on my own two feet and you watch with pride through the warp of my webcam. Now you are called Zaidy and there is a different "Daddy" in my life.

I will always know exactly what it feels like to hug you. I can feel your hands on my forehead every Friday night, no matter where you are. I hear your advice inside my head, but I still call to hear you say it yourself.

Boruch Hashem I can call you. I can Skype you, though you never have the webcam aimed straight at your face. I know that when you were my age there was no Skype and you couldn't call, but I couldn't do that. I couldn't have left home with only your letters.

I wish I could get a hug from you right now, though I will settle for a long call.

But I hope I never write you a letter.

chocolate chips

Thu, Jul 05 2012, 9:21 pm

I am so not the mushy type lol but I thought this was kinda cute 'task' and I can be ultra mushy when I want so this is somewhere in between Smile

Dear Tatty

I want you to know how much I love you. I am sure you know that already but a reminder never hurts.

I miss you. We all do. Me, T, and A. When will you come and visit us again? A can show you all his tricks and make you proud and I can show you how I have made a house, and give you some nachas.
When you came last time you said it felt funny to be sitting in your daughters house for a friday night meal, it made me burst inside, it was such a compliment that I have grown up this much and now you can come to me!

I still read that letter that you wrote to me on the da y of my chuppa. It touches me and makes me teary the same way it did then. I work hard each day to live up to what you told me. And when things are going rough I read it over to remind myself that I am not alone. I think of what you and mummy have built, what you have achieved and accomplished and I hope and pray I will have the same.

Have a great day, can't wait to see you on skype - we love seeing your face light up when you see the nachas we bring you.

C x

amother

Fri, Jul 06 2012, 1:45 am

I will not start this letter with "dear Totty." The word "Totty" has been stricken from my vocabulary, a blank card slotted neatly in to replace it. "Abba" is what my kids call my husband.

So if the word is nonexistent, why is it that every time I hear it, I flinch?

I can't talk to you anymore. You don't talk to me, either. I won't mention you if I can help it. All manner of conversational acrobatics are employed to avoid referring to you.

Totty, do you remember when we did talk? How you used to talk to me late at night, when I was still so little (and still up way past my bedtime?) I with my legs swinging at the dining room table, you with your newspaper, relaxing after a long day--how we'd ponder the most obscure scientific topics? Do you remember the trips we took, where you'd share your love of history and the natural world?

Sometimes I look in the mirror and think how scarily I remind myself of you. You know how they say we turn into our parents? I guess I was always afraid of that happening.

I would be thrilled to gift my own children with similar memories of trips and talks. What I'm afraid of are the other memories. The ones I'm in morbid terror of bequeathing to my kids.

Don't play innocent. You know what I'm talking about. I hope you do, because if not...that's a horror I can't countenance. I really think you do. I just get that vibe; I'm not sure exactly why.

So: do you remember rolling on the floor with me when I was fifteen, locked in combat like a pair of sumo wrestlers? Do you remember whipping me repeatedly with a belt when I couldn't have been older than eleven, as I jumped on the bed and sang "I don't care" in a cracking voice?

Do you remember screaming at me, as I lay on the floor after yet another violent physical struggle, "X (our seriously ill teenage neighbor) just died! And it's because of you! Because of the way you act!"

Or the time you told me, "You're going to go off the derech one day, just wait and see!"

Or, "You're chayav misah for what you're doing!"

Oh, I remember. I remember the endless, soul-dulling petty arguments, when you just HAD to be right and have the last word, as though you were a fellow child and not our father.

The KNOWING that the genial, obsequious, funny and personable face you presented to the world was just a mask. That behind that mask lay an angry man who never grew up, never knew when to stop, didn't mind sacrificing his family to his rages, and didn't have any self awareness with which to grasp the problem. Who blamed his young daughter for the problem instead. Or his wife, his other children, anyone really. Anyone who would never speak up.

I remember the sense of aloneness when my siblings joined the blame game, ganging up on me for upsetting the balance. "He's your father! You can't just ignore him! No matter what he did! He's not so bad, really. Besides, YOU always start up! Why do you fight so much?"

I just wanted to know why, if you were our father, you could get away with treating us this way.

And yes, I remember you yelling at Mommy - all the time. I know you were tired and stressed after a full day at work. (Well, that's only for the times you yelled at her right after work.) But you killed me, slowly, little by little. You broke my sense of self and my concept of marriage. I watched her sit on the couch and cry deep heartbroken sobs after you stormed off. My mother is a strong woman who rarely shows vulnerable emotions, but you made her cry. Not every time. Only when she'd reach the breaking point. If she had cried every time you shouted abuse at her, her eyes would be red as Leah Imeinu's from multiple crying spells each day.

So those are my recollections for Father's Day. Actually, you don't believe in Father's Day. You always say "every day is Father's Day." Yeah. Well, for some of us no day is ever Father's Day.

Yes, I flinch when I hear "Totty". Also "Father's Day," and "kibud av", and lots of other things. I broke down and cried when they sang "Tatteh, Tatteh" at the kumzitz in High School. I've gotten so I'm able to hide the flinch inside me, but it's still there.

And I still can't talk to you. Not because you're not here; you are. But I can't. And that's that. And if you talk to me, you know that I'll ignore you or at most give a monosyllabic answer while looking away. I do glimpse regret in your eyes for fleeting instants, these days. But I can't look at your face long enough to accept it. I don't know if I ever will.

Don't even ask about my relationship with my Tatteh in Himmel. I haven't gone off the derech (yet) but I feel like you stole that from me as well. I can't picture a loving, balanced father watching over me, knowing everything I do. The concept holds no comfort for me. I subconsciously try to avoid that aspect of relating to Hashem. It's so hard and so painful for me, because I did feel His love in my stormy teenage years while you were busy destroying me. I really did, and I want a relationship with Him. I scramble to grasp it, though the foundation is shaky.

So no, this letter will never be sent to you, and probably neither will any other. I have to take it day by day. I'm focusing on my family, your beautiful grandchildren; groping in the dark not to cause them the same pain. If you ever do see this somehow, the only message I can tell you--for both our benefits--is don't
love
Your Daughter.

Your love is terrifying.

Happy Father's Day, Totty.

grin

Fri, Jul 06 2012, 1:59 am

MountainRose wrote:

I like this very much, but I don't understand that last line - why not write a letter??