An open letter to my father

You have said I am holding some kind of "grudge" against you, like I have nursed some old hurt that I am stubbornly refusing to relent. You have also said that "through no fault of my own, only one out of my five children are speaking to me."

And I admit that perhaps there is an element of the principle of commitment, discussed in that excellent book about persuasion you once gave me, in my feelings on this topic. I've committed to my conclusion ("I don't believe my father likes or respects women"); now, all the evidence I see before me appears to support my position. Your words and actions ("She's getting away from me," about my daughter growing up without your influence), hearing from others about how you treat your current "partner," and your stinginess all these years toward us and everyone around you -- all of these things only confirm my conclusions.

Here's why I am writing this down. My daughter is seven, and full of the spark and fire of the newly minted individual in the world. Yet she needs us so badly in some critical ways. She's come to enjoy playing on a pair of crutches that her daddy made for her and it strikes me that it's a good metaphor. She wants some extra help to get around. The great thing is that we are here to give it. On top of that, I'm incredibly grateful for who I am and where I am, and privileged to be this girl's hand to hold and shoulder to lean on, her guide and helper. I felt that from you from time to time when you and I were still young, but you made a lot of choices then that didn't put me first. Since I turned about 13, more of what has come my way from you has been a kind of unrelenting judgment and assessment that always seems to come out a little short in my column.

My kid talks about one of the girls in her class at school, who I think might live in a family more like we were when I was seven, given the things she reports back. (Both of these girls are a little bit on the fringes, and this probably unites them.) I think back to when I was seven, and it occurs to me to let my daughter know that her friend might not come to school as much or on time because of reasons outside her own control. If her friend does not have her whole family's support for her mission, she's not going to be as successful. And I hope my daughter won't judge her friend for being late or absent often (because the teacher does give my kid's friend a hard time about her lateness and absences, something that also reminds me of when I was in elementary school). I am sensitive to this not only because of my own history, but also because of who my daughter is. I remember making my own egg and catching the bus by myself at six, but my kid could not get herself to school on time nor do her homework without our help. Even at seven, she's still very dependent. Yet with her sometimes exhausting demands and needs, she absolutely comes first for both me and her father. I talk about how I'm struggling along with my writing, and I love my husband more than anyone else on this planet, but I will do anything for my daughter, and I try to act with the conviction that this is why I'm here right now.

I have rarely felt that from you, and it's been a long time since I have. If it was there, sorry I missed it, but you seemed more the stern, silent type who always had a criticism or an improvement to recommend about any situation. (What is it about all of us that we always want to be the smartest ones in the room, anyway?) I rarely got the sense from you in your actions that I was your first priority. It seemed like a priority for us children to be smart and reflect well on your intelligence, but as for your supporting our intellectual development in any other way than the Socratic dinner-table or road-trip dissection of issues, which was great, I don't remember it. I don't remember you beaming after my school musicals even though I had bit parts, or staying up late to help me with my science projects -- those things tended to fall to the women. You were usually too busy "working late" or being the life of the party, the smartest guy in the room. Too busy to tell your kid to go to sleep early so she could have the energy to go to school the next day.

It's been hard to be a good parent to my daughter sometimes because I don't always remember what to model for her. Sometimes my first instinct has been to say no, or "I can't right now." I don't like being that parent to my child, and I try hard not to be, yet sometimes that's the only voice in there, and that makes me sad.

I hope you can let go of the notion that this is my personal "grudge," some ancient chip on my shoulder, or the poison of other people's opinions that has leached into my groundwater supply and polluted my mind. If I spent years cowering in the shadow of your resentment that I existed, with the conviction that I and the other females in the family were somehow dragging you down or holding you back, please forgive me for not choosing to keep you closest to me, when I have others around me who have always loved me absolutely unconditionally, for exactly who I am. I am still freeing myself from some heavy, early shackles, and I am only just now breaking up those scars and feeling the lightness of that freedom. And the amazing thing about this feeling is that it only affords me more energy and love for everything that's good: the people whom I love most and who love me most, the space I live in, my involvement in the world. When I don't have that energy, it's often because it's going into healing those ancient, deep, existential wounds. I certainly didn't feel this kind of energy and reciprocating love in my early adulthood, when I was still worried about whether I deserved to even exist, a big question mark in my world throughout my childhood. Now that I know what it feels like to believe I have a place here in this world, I'll do everything in my power to prevent my actions from making my daughter question her worth.

I only hope for the best for you, but I also hope you can comprehend why I am making these choices for me and my family. As my daughter's made-up song goes, "I love ya but I wouldn't take ya to the Gondolier."

Peace out.

Sincerely,
Your daughter