Kuzenim Tuba Biret Ertan sayesinde haberdar olduğum bu blog, sadece linkini paylaşamayacağım kadar "her şey"e uygun. Üzerine tıkladığınızda ulaşabileceğiniz My Dead Parents, "I am a fiction writer. This is not a fiction" diyen Peter Vidani'nin içsel yolculuğu. Hiçbir şeyin göründüğü gibi olmaması, yıkıcı olanın inşa edebilirliği ne muhteşem:
"My
father George was killed in a car accident when I was 16. My mother Anita died
from complications related to alcoholism in 2010, when I was 32. I’m not
sure how I feel about my parents, or about their deaths. I know don’t feel
very sad, and I know that’s not how I’m supposed to feel.
My
parents have been dead for different versions of “a while,” so I know I’m not
supposed to be crushed by grief, but I never really felt sad at all. That
makes me feel guilty, and a little broken. When I hear about other people
being devastated by their parents’ deaths I think, Shouldn’t I be as sad
as they are? I don’t feel connected to those people at all—I feel a mix of
pity, jealously and revulsion.
Maybe
I can explain my ambivalence by saying that I wasn’t very close to them, or
that since my family wasn’t a very happy place to be there isn’t much to miss.
But there has to be a primal connection that makes being “close” irrelevant.
Loving them is in my DNA. They are my DNA.
When
my mother died and people asked how I was doing, I always said that I wasn’t
sad for myself, but I was so, so sad for her. I was, and am, so sad that
she went from being a world traveling, intelligent and vibrant woman to someone
who drank so much that she lost most of her ability to walk and often shit on
the floor. I am terrified that’s a possibility for any human being, but am I
sad that my mother, who drank so much that she lost most of her ability to walk
and often shit on the floor, is now gone from my life? Not really.
It’s
easy and sometimes enjoyable to say that my parents were bad parents. My father
was emotionally distant and occasionally abusive. My mother was resentful and
selfish, and this was before her debilitating alcoholism brought out, or
created, qualities in her that were much worse.
That
isn’t the whole story, of course, and just because I want or need to criticize
them doesn’t mean that doing so isn’t a bit ungenerous and ignorant. They
definitely weren’t ideal, but a lot went wrong in their lives, and I was a
pain-in-the-ass to raise.
But
when I try to consider my parents as people—people who existed before I did,
who didn’t disappear when I looked away—things change. The wrongs I’ve
been so attached to disappear, and what emerges are two people who were
passionate, successful and adventurous. My father was an international banker
who worked in Africa and the Middle East and dedicated the last years of his
life to helping Ukraine, his homeland, find its economic footing after
Communism fell. My mother was an environmentalist and a dedicated ESL teacher.
They traveled the world, and I think they had a fair amount of fun. This isn’t
a new revelation, but since I only just understood that I’m too old to be
complaining about my mom and dad, I suddenly have a lot of time to think about
other things, such as how my parents went from being cool people to unhappily
married, mediocre parents that I don’t miss, and how all of this stuff
relates.
My
mother’s funeral didn’t take place for a few weeks after her death, so I
started cleaning out her house, my childhood home, in the interim. The house
was a mess, and I spent most of my time in her study, which had become a
haphazard storage room for everything from soiled sheets to unopened mail. I
spent days bagging sweaters for Goodwill and organizing the incredible amount of
cheap jewelry and pantyhose she’d purchased from Filene’s Basement decades
before and had never worn—apparently she feared the world was going to
experience a devastating shortage of clip-on earnings and pink trouser socks.
While
I was going through her things, I found boxes of letters my parents wrote to
each other. I found ones where my parents were goofy and love struck and
cards where my mother’s friends referred to my father as “fun.” My mother had
such a difficult life, and things were so grim when she died, that it was
shocking to learn that things had once been different. They’d had a
relationship I never knew about, and would never have imagined.
For
days I sat in my mother’s filthy study, surrounded by photos, faded letters and
crappy jewelry, trying to take in my parents’ lives and thinking: I don’t know
these people at all. And for the first time, I really wanted to. As I went
through their stuff I realized that my parents had done way more interesting
things by 32 than I had. They were excited by the world, and they got to
experience it with a wonder that’s hard to muster now because we are
over-informed and over-stimulated. They were ballsy, and I think they were
happy. But things changed, and now I’m sorting through their leftovers, trying
to figure out why. They experienced real tragedy—between my sister and I they
lost a son when he was ten months old. Is that enough to permanently derail a
marriage? It’s probably more than enough. It’s possible they weren’t ever
very happy with each other and just got married because it seemed like an okay
option. But their letters show that they were more in love than I could have
imagined, so clearly there’s a lot I don’t know or understand.
I
spent years thinking my parents owed me something. Now I feel I owe them
more than a little. Maybe I can find a way to make how interesting they
were as individuals matter more than the mistakes they made as my parents, or
the bad things they did to each other. I think it’s worth trying, and
that’s what I’m doing here. I’m going through my parents’ things and attempting
to piece them together while also trying to understand my experience of
them. I’d like to figure out who they were, and maybe even find a way to
be sad that they’re gone."