When I learned the world didn't owe me anything

Pow. I hit the side of the three steps in this flight of stairs. I gasp, unable to refill my lungs. After a few gulps of dusty air, I recover my ability to cry and see Theresa and Alexandra two flights up, racing to the playroom in the attic.

Besides the swing attached to the roof beam and a cardboard playhouse, the attic playroom has almost no toys in it. It has a huge wooden chair, covered in blue velvet that looks like a throne. Next to it are two small bookshelves where Mommy and Daddy keep their yearbooks. Mommy is beautiful in hers. Her hair was longer than she wears it now and her smile makes her look like she has a secret. Daddy looks goofy in his. His ears are really big with his crew cut – like mine. I have huge ears. Mommy says I’ll grow into them, but I’m not sure.

This part of the staircase is dark, even in the middle of the afternoon. Most of the time I run through it. I’ll never catch the older girls now, and I don’t think they want me to. They don’t want me to play with them. They don’t want me. Now, I am crying the kind of tears that sound like I’m a dog about to throw up. We don’t have a dog, but my Aunt does and hers threw up after eating chocolate mousse on Thanksgiving.

Daddy comes running up the stairs. He watches me, looking for a broken leg, or arm, or some blood. “Are you hurt?”

I gulp some more dust mites and say, “They…they…left me behind. They won’t play with me.” Another gulp and, “Tell them they have to play with me.”

“No, Kate. I won’t do that. They don’t have to play with you.”

“But, Mrs. Petersen says we have to let everyone play at school.”

“This isn’t school and they don’t have to play with you. They are older than you and you can’t keep up yet. Maybe they can play with you later.”

“But…”

“Kate, no one in the world has to like you, to play with you, or even be your friend. Mommy and me, we love and like you no matter what, but that’s not the way it is with everyone else. No one else HAS to love you. You have to make people like and love you. And, crying like this is no way to do that.”

I am silent. No one has to love me. It’s hard to think about that. I wonder if no one will.

“Now, be braver. You scared me, I thought you were hurt. You can’t cry when people hurt your feelings. Cry when you’re hurt, when you’re bleeding.”

We walk into the tv room on the second floor and pick out a story. Daddy reads to me.

*******
That’s the first thing I ever remember about talking to my father. He believed we should be strong and brave, bringing the best of ourselves to the world, or so it seemed to me. It feels like a harsh lesson to teach a three-year-old, but it is a valuable one. “Act like a creep or a cry baby and you won’t have too many friends.” On the other hand, this memory grew into my believing that the onus was always on me to be liked. It never occurred to me that I could decide that there were people I didn’t like and it didn’t matter at all if they didn’t like me. That came later.

I had a huge crush on a boy who didn't take much notice of me at all. To my mother, I said, "You don't seem too impressed with him." She replied, "I just can't like someone who can't see all the wonderful things I see in you, so it's hard for me to think he's a  good person who is worthy of your time." I hope I have the chance to let my daughter know how I feel exactly the same way about her. Anyone who doesn't see or appreciate all the wonderful things I see in her is obviously a blind moron.

"How Can I Remember?"

"Yes, it's true." I responded to the man who heard a rumor that I was leaving my amazing job, at my amazing company to write about my father.

Perhaps people are surprised because they only know me in one context. There is only the face of the work I do and the context of corporate America. I am reminded that we don't really KNOW anyone at all. That's why I started this whole project in the first place.

So for those of you who are kind enough to continue reading and indulging me, here's the plan:

1. Over the next three months, I will focus on writing what I remember about my father. These are memories I've worked harder to keep than I care to admit. These are glimpses and images but not necessarily truth.

In my family, truth is  and was sacred. This idea that a memory could be untrue, an interpretation, or something else entirely remains a great struggle for me.

The worst thing that used to happen to me growing up was when adults would tell me

a) "I don't remember that,"
b) "That never happened," or my favorite
c) "You were too young to remember."



The reality is, that I remember everything. When my father died, the worst pain was forgetting something about him. Each time I struggled to remember felt like his dying over and over again. So, I promised myself to hold these pictures in my mind, to keep him alive as long as I could. Starting tomorrow, I will start from the beginning of what I remember.



2. I will interview people who knew my father. He was a lawyer, father and friend to many. He was also, the bad ex-husband, the absent father, the oldest son, the beatnik, the activist, and the writer. Or so I'm told. To complete these pictures, I have over 40 interviews to conduct.

Join me here as I ramble about the process and draft prose that is hopefully not too pretentious. Is it true, you ask? I'm not sure if that matters. More than anything, I need to grab onto something, anything that can tell me who he was, and decide what that means for who I am.

Wish me luck.


Side comment that I can't figure out what to do with right now:

Last year I had the privilege to read a The Sense of Ending by Julian Barnes (unusual as most Julian Barnes books are dreadful slogs for me). He explores the concept of memory in a deep meditation. The idea that memory either true or invention - becomes who we are. When we are alone, in the dark, with nothing but ourselves, not tossing spouse, nor snoring dog, nor kicking toddler, can take it from us. Memory is the only thing that truly belongs to us. No one else is entitled to change who we know ourselves to be. It is why challenging a child's memory should be a crime.

I Remember that night when I realized I'm really doing this

21 days until my last day at my company. I spent today, in an office, literally an ivory tower, in the sky. The entire day was on the telephone, watching rain pelt the window to my office and wild, chameleon clouds roll past me as I navigated the giant hairball of policy that is the modern corporation.  At long last, I succeeded in fulfilling my client's rather simple request. I haven't accomplished anything really, simply the satisfaction of having the fortitude to badger people until I got my way.

So, here I sit, struggling to plan this project. It keeps evolving and changing as I post some of the things I've written over the past few years. Perhaps there is more of "me" in this after all. Perhaps I do want to tell my story as well as his. It feels strangely narcissistic but necessary. His story will be necessary but not sufficient to quell the ache in me. This is after all, really about me.

Who really wants to hear about a child, like any other, who lost someone dear to her and with it the innocent belief that really horrific things happen to good people everyday and God or whomever allows it? I once heard someone say that "childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies." Ok, I admit it, it's the opening line from Breaking Dawn. It rings true for me though. Maybe I want to capture who I was before I left that kingdom forever.

Maybe it's time for me to just let something happen and see what it becomes. It reminds me of Hegel, the divine constantly thinking and willing itself into existence in the eternal state of becoming. It's not the same as this new age "presence" or "mindfulness". It's more than that, it is thought with intention - a divine loop of creativity in which I can chose to participate or watch.