February 17, 2003

After writing yesterday’s post about my father, I realized I haven’t mentioned him much in these pages. This morning I dug up a letter he sent me six or seven years ago around the time of Yom Kippur (the Jewish holy day on which we atone for our sins against God and against other people) that makes it clear why, despite his unfairness with the peanut butter, I hope someday to be half the man he is. (It’s a long letter, but worth the time.)

Dear Faustus,

I want to write to you about Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement.

Actually, the story begins a week earlier, when I was in the synagogue during Rosh Hashanah this year. On the first night I was going through the confession of sins in “Vidui” and “Al Chet.” I was focusing on the two alphabetically adjacent sins of “neglect” and “oppression.” They will come back into the story soon.

I also found myself thinking about the process of atoning for sins against other people (as opposed to sins against God), which is a 3-part process–repent, make it right, and seek forgiveness. In particular, I was thinking about how hard it is to make it right when the injury is deep and long-lasting–like the terrible wrong I did to you by trying to reject your homosexuality and trying to force you to reject it too.

I wandered out for a library break, and happened to pick up a book called The High Holy Days, where, in a paragraph about seeking forgiveness from the person one has wronged, I found this sentence: “If the injured party is dead, then confession must be made at the grave in front of ten witnesses.”

Not to be too melodramatic, but I was suddenly struck with the realization that I did a terrible wrong not only to you, but also to Mom.

I often relive my behavior in those days, wondering how I could have behaved as I did, when, as I tell myself, I did not have the feelings of hostility that Mom did. At first I used to talk about Mom’s and my behavior as “we,” either “shielding” her from some of the blame, or sharing some of my own. Then last spring with [the therapist you and I saw together], when I acknowledged that she was the driving force, your reaction of “how could you” really rocked me. For, if my behavior was not a reflection of my feelings, that didn’t make my conduct any more excusable, but less so, because I should have known better.

In those conversations you talked about the fact that Mom couldn’t help herself because of the way her upbringing formed her personality. And that is where, in failing you, I failed her. Instead of passively following her lead and shrinking from arguing with her, I should have been struggling with her for your sake and for her sake, to help her do the right thing which I knew she could not do by herself.

These thoughts didn’t come all at once. They started with the sentence I quoted above, but the next impetus was another book in the synagogue library–one that I picked up by accident.

I had looked at some books and picked one up to take home that first night of Rosh Hashanah. When I got home I saw the book I had was not the one I had picked out, but quite another one. It was by an author named Faye Kellerman, and was called Day of Atonement. It is a type of Jewish detective thriller, a genre like the Friday the Rabbi Slept Late books (Jewish pedagogy mixed in with the plot).

Anyway, at home I started reading it and couldn’t put it down, and it started hitting home. Without going into the whole plot, one theme involves a young Jewish mother who abandons her baby son because of pressure from her parents, and the guilt she feels. I started crying and kept on crying, especially when I read about her “stern, unforgiving father and a passive, bewildered mother.”

The book, and its title, started crystallizing some things for me. With a couple of gender switches, I saw myself in the mother who abandoned her son, and in her mother–the “passive, bewildered” mother who followed the lead of the stern father. At that point, the two sins of “neglect” and “oppression” came back to mind. My sin of “neglect” (“passivity”) was compounded because I then joined in “oppressing” you, a teen-ager trying to stand up against a united front of two parents.

It’s strange how the rabbis may actually have been pretty smart. The first book I mentioned, The High Holy Days, had a paragraph (after talking about how remorse is the key to atoning for sins against God):

    For one type of sin no amount of remorse will help: the sin of one man against his fellow. In the case where damage has been inflicted, it must first be repaired. Even after making amends, God will not forgive until forgiveness has been obtained from the injured party.

I have never asked you for forgiveness, and I never could put my finger on why, except that I didn’t feel ready yet or entitled to yet. I still don’t feel entitled to yet, and I think it goes back to the rabbis’ three steps, and while I have been racked with enough pain to feel that I have been working on step 1, I also know that what I did to you has not yet been undone, so my wrong has not been repaired.

And that brings it full circle. I have to help repair the injury I did to you, and the injury I did to Mom. And perhaps the way I make it right to Mom is to help do what she can no longer do, which is to make it right to you–which is what I didn’t do before, when I could have prevented so much of your pain.

I don’t know if this makes much sense. Next week is Mom’s yahrzeit, so maybe I’ll “talk” to her about it.

Faustus, I love you so much.

Dad

Half the man?

I’d settle for a tenth.

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13 Responses to After writing yesterday's post about

  1. dd says:

    *wow*

    I think I’d like to meet your father..

  2. angelo says:

    My father herded sheep in a remote village in Greece. He secretly longs for a return to the Reagan years and is convinced that homosexuality is subliminally induced through the media in an attempt to ameliorate overpopulation.

    I can’t help but note the contrast.

  3. Ed Shepp says:

    I wish my father was a 10th of the man your father is. You’re very lucky.

  4. JW says:

    Wow. What a wonderful man.

    Funny thing is, you don’t have to settle at all, Faustus.

  5. Akasha says:

    Wow, you’re fortunate to have a father as self-reflective as he is. Enlightenment is a quality not many people look for these days.

  6. Convivia says:

    Your father is awesome.

    But I believe that both you and your lovely brother will be more awesome still by the time you have attained your dad’s years and experience.

  7. Patrick says:

    That is beautiful – tears started welling up in my eyes as I read it.

    My father passed away just 6 months ago, and he came from a very rural community in Ireland. He had a very strong negative reaction to my coming out about 9 years ago and wrote me a letter that was almost a religious tract begging me to change.

    However, in time he changed. He met my partner Mike a number of times before his death, and he referred to him as a “gentleman”; another time, he even gave us his blessing as we were saying goodbye together. Mike was at his funeral, and helped me write his eulogy. I still feel his presence strongly in my life, and I miss him.

    I am constantly amazed by the human potential for acceptance and change. Your father clearly shows this too, and the strength of his love for you.

  8. john says:

    You always make me cry. Stop it.

    If you don’t post a log involving either an orgy or a broken heart, I’ll have to stop reading this page.

    Great entry.

  9. Eric says:

    Really amazing story. Thanks for sharing it. For several years, I really thought I hated my father (and he was none too fond of me). But in recent years, we’ve grown quite close, and he’s now a friend as well as a father. I actually think there are few things as moving as gay men who come to terms with their fathers and build mutually respecting relationships with them. I feel so lucky that my parents and I are so (relatively) young that we could still have many, many years together as respectful, caring adults.

  10. Josh says:

    What can I say. Me and my dad, I didn’t like him for a while and he didn’t seem to like me. Things change. These days I couldn’t wish for a better dad and he’s made it clear how much he loves me.

    It’s weird, the curve balls life throws us. But eventually you learn how to hit them clear out of the park.

  11. Lynn in Tucson says:

    My goodness. That’s quite a letter.

    L’shana tova to you.

  12. Daniel says:

    It’s so unusual for a man to be able to express his emotional turmoil in such lucid terms. That alone, not to mention his utter candor, marks him as a person of rare gifts.

  13. Ronnie says:

    How lucky guy you are,as I dont even have a father in the first place,as I am an orphan.

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