It is December 15, 2010, and I’m back in New York. I had successfully drowned myself in political campaigning to preclude feeling feelings, but that was over now. I still don’t remember the subway ride. I know it happened, I know what trains I took, I know I got off at 49th Street because it has that odd orange brick decor that was familiar from trips to the union hall with my grandfather as a kid, and I know that I smiled at the coincidence. But I can’t remember a thing about the ride—it’s just gone. The air had the raw and bleak feel of February, and Christmas lights were strewn joylessly on every building in sight.
I crossed Broadway and walked half a block, only to realize that I, a native New Yorker, had mixed up west with east in Manhattan. This was just how today was going to be. I fumbled around with my headphones and searched for something to listen to while I walked. Coltrane’s “Naima” came on. It was an odd choice. I turned to a restaurant window to check myself out. I looked cold, but the twitchy rush of anxiety had dulled my senses. I couldn’t really hear, either; the city sounded garbled and muffled through the speakers as I felt the blood surge to my face. Showtime.
When I arrived at the hotel, the lobby was a haze of colors and blurry figures that I strained to make coherent. I felt oddly sedated, and my eyes were heavy—the lids straining to stay open, the whites going pink and then red; my cheeks were flush. A hand went up in my peripheral vision, and everything came into focus.
At that precise moment, I remembered that in 1996, at the age of 11, I had written a 15-page autobiography that had neon green covers in which I stated my two greatest desires. I was to become president of the United States. That was straightforward enough; it was obvious that that was what was going to happen. I was smarter and taller and more competitive and hit puberty earlier than my classmates, and projecting such superiority into the future meant that I got to be Bill Clinton. The other goal I had stated, stupidly, was that I was going to meet my father. Oh shit. That’s my father. That’s him. He’s waving at me, and I’m walking over towards him with a smile on my face, and we’re shaking hands, and his hands are tiny, and I’m towering over him, but I’m terrified because that’s my father. Holy shit.
♦◊♦
“Hey! Nice to finally meet you.” The hair was salt and pepper, the jawline softer than I expected, but there was no doubting who this was. I noted his weak handshake as I looked down and replied: “Likewise.”
“Want to grab a bite to eat?”
“Sure. Been waiting long?” I wanted to scream and stomp around right then and there and empty out all of the maledictions and pointed questions on which I’d been sitting. Instead, he was treating me to oatmeal. He seemed so smug, so sure of himself. I felt envious of his outward confidence. It was such a contrast to how I felt. Here I was, meeting my father for the first time, and he’s 165 pounds of pasty-faced bluster. I am happy to keep things innocuous because I cannot cry.
I wanted to scream and stomp around right then and there and empty out all of the maledictions and pointed questions on which I’d been sitting. Instead, he was treating me to oatmeal.
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“No, I’ve just been sitting around, chatting up the guy behind the counter,” he said with a smile. He said something to the waiter in awful Spanish, and I cringed as the waiter failed to understand. He was wearing a black crew-neck sweater and black warm-up pants with white piping on the sides. The man was meeting his son for the first time, and he was wearing a fucking tracksuit. I was offended, even though I wasn’t dressed much better. Who does that?
We talked for the next two hours, sometimes tersely, always on guard. We talked about how much his other kids liked Phineas and Ferb, how he almost died on a plane flying over Russia from an aneurysm, how he was the middle child in a brood of nine, and how he was the runt among his seven brothers. The mood relaxed, but I remained quiet. We eventually talked about me, about how stupid politics are and why I couldn’t keep away from them, how I ended up in Paris, how awesome London is. I think I even smiled at one point. We shook hands and promised to keep in touch. We remain connected on LinkedIn.
***
When I left him, I felt assured at first. It must be easy to slip into old ways when your other life is the American Dream—two kids, a beautiful wife, a house out in the suburbs, running your own business. He didn’t have to do any of this. I noted all of this and briefly felt something akin to empathy. It quickly passed.
As I walked down Broadway, I sighed and stood in Times Square, eyes closed, head down. This was all about acknowledgment—I was acknowledged. I existed. Not loved, not embraced, not exalted, just a cursory meeting in a hotel lobby as if we were sizing one another up for potential “networking opportunities.” I had what I had wanted for so long, but I couldn’t help but feel empty.
This was all about acknowledgment—I was acknowledged. I existed.
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The wind was picking up, and it occurred to me that I could not feel my face as I wandered downtown. I found myself sitting down to call my mother over a steaming bowl of mediocre Korean food. “So … how was it? Are you OK?” I put my hand on my face and closed my eyes to consider my response. There was nothing. So I said what I thought I would say before I left the house that morning, though it wasn’t what I felt: “He missed out.” My mother wept, and as mothers do, told me she was proud of me. I wasn’t proud. I had lied because I did not to say what I was thinking. It was nothing.
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Photo Credit: Youssef Hanna
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You have lived my life. By the time I was in my 20s I was driving home from work balling my eyes out over the fact that I missed some one I had never met, and whom I wasn’t even certain would want to meet me. I drove across three states to get to the college where my father and mother attended, and there I talked my way into the library and got a copy of the alumni directory out of the hands of the reference librarian. I sent a letter. It was 1998 and no social sites, yet. He… Read more »
Yes, David. He missed out. First for his initial absence and again for his inability to recognize or embrace all that is you when the Universe saw fit to give him a second chance. But that is his cross to bear, not yours. But it is good for you to, at least, know the truth now than to wonder all your life. You know I speak from first-hand knowledge on the subject. Great writing. You’re a great guy!!!!
Thank you for telling your truth. Very good writing.
Life is so complex. What you have written is real and moving. Thank you.
Numbness is still a response. And he DID miss out. Your mom rocks.
YES. His MOM TRULY ROCKS!!!!