Scraps
Two days before my father's funeral, I stepped through the door of 951 A, a modest apartment; Dad’s for the past 35+ years. There was a lot to take in, viscerally and emotionally. It was the first time I had been in his place for many years. Though it looked mostly the same, what stood out from visits long ago was the amount of clutter on every surface: an army of prescription bottles on the kitchen counter, books stuffed onto shelves, notes scrawled to himself on scraps of paper. I could see the visual representation of a scholar’s mind, which was steadily diminishing. He was frantically trying to keep a handle on the details of his life. I could see the visual representation of a man who had surrounded himself with things he loved, but not people.
During that visit, I spent some time taking in the massive amount of items on the walls: his amateur photography from travels, artwork, diplomas, plaques and certificates awarded to him throughout his years as a college professor, even drawings I had created in junior high art class and pictures I had made for him as a child. The man who barely stayed in contact with me had kept that art. I was astonished, confused, and heartbroken. And, unbeknownst to me until that day, he had a large, framed photo, Brassaï’s “Steps of Montmarte,” in his living room. I had the same photo at home.
Brassaï’s “Steps of Montmarte”
I have internally run and re-run these questions over the course of my life and especially since Dad's death: How could he have loved me, but barely showed me? How could we have so much in common, but so little to do with each other? Why wasn’t that commonality of DNA and interests, views, and experiences enough to compel him to be a real father to me?
Lately, I’m writing down things I’m anxious about, in journals, notebooks, my computer's to-do list, so I can reduce the daily cacophony in my brain to a dull buzz. As I think about those scraps of paper in Dad’s apartment and my “scraps of paper,” I fear I share another commonality with him, anxiety and depression. I’m not sure he was ever diagnosed, and though I haven’t been either, I see anxiety and depression patterns in me that mirror his. I am frantically struggling to keep atop of my life. I am reticent to reach out, to let people get close. I am terrified to confront. I can get exhausted appearing cheerful, when I am feeling the opposite. I can be overwhelmed when leaving my comfort zone. I understand his struggles, yet will never understand his behavior, and perhaps will never completely forgive it.
However, I am my father’s daughter. That will never change. In life. In death. And looking at that Brassaï photo which hangs next to my desk, I suddenly understand what appealed to both of us: Shadows mingling with light. That was my dad. That is me.
