Oy... Dad...
It was Father's Day last week. It's been ten months. I'm finally in Kubler-Ross's depression phase. It's not at all a major depression, just a minor creep on where you realize these 43 volumes of memories are just memories. No matter how grief materializes, you're here, yet you'll never be here again.
The last year has been a daze. I'm realizing it's whizzed by because I've spent half of it on ChatGPT and Gemini. It still feels like you passed yesterday. They warn you all the time how complex grief is, but you have no idea until you experience it. It's a palette of Baskin Robbins 31 flavors times a thousand, where every experience is tasted anew amid absence's black hole.
When it happened I was in love; for better or worse, your sudden death didn't hit me yet for a while. But as that relationship fades, you become ever more present. Denial can take many, many forms, and I feel like I experienced them all this year, but I think the mourning has genuinely started in the last few weeks.
You weren't just a person, you were a planet: a gravitational orbit so dense that there was no definition of the world outside of how Dad defined it. At every moment of our lives you were so present that through our very mouths were spoken the words of you. How do you mourn a planet?
But now, as I begin to stare down my jubilee and live the ages I watched you experience, life feels very very different even as it feels like you're here. People have been telling me I look old since I was a kid, but I always felt twenty years younger. Now that you're gone, I feel my own age for the first time. For the first time, I feel like life has truly advanced at the pace it should. For the first time in my life, there isn't enough time to understand the world enough. My memory repository is gone, my encyclopedia is gone, the seemingly effortless command of the world's events that I could go to with any question is gone, and now memory becomes as much a struggle as inquiry.
What never ceases to amaze me, and somehow amazed you still more, is that the rules of the old world apply yet again. After everything you showed me about how history happens, I was not surprised by how entropy's come for the US, but you seemed stunned. The more things change, the more they stay the same (you'd always said it in the original French), but the point was always that things change. As the great philosopher Patton Oswalt said: "You can't change nature, but nature is change," and in a country that's spent two-hundred fifty years giving history a middle finger, nobody knows how to negotiate history in a world they proudly don't know.
I said a little bit about a San Francisco interaction in the last letter, but my mind keeps going back to that interaction last month. I made the mistake of saying in San Francisco that I am a proud liberal Zionist (yet another reason I shouldn't drink...). A very nice lady (African-American) had cousins who were, according to her, making antisemitic comments about Jews online because of what's going on in Gaza, doubtless she meant blood libelous comments, and she wanted me to advise her how to make them understand that Israel is different than Jews. I can hear exactly what you would have said to her:
"Your cousins are right."
And if she'd pushed you on it:
"Maybe they're not, I don't care."
You didn't give a shit in these situations. If someone told you you were wrong, if someone got angry, if someone didn't find your condescension funny, you would just call them an idiot and relish the opportunity to get away with a faux pas. Over the years I've tried mightily hard to take your elan in vitriol, but I have neither your panache nor your confidence. I was never secure or certain enough of my own intelligence, I never had that ability to reduce opponents to quivering jelly with five words.
I was trying to be polite and having gotten myself into it, I had no polite means of withdrawing. All I could do was smile and nod as her husbands' ears turned into steam with every new thing I said that he of course insisted was just propaganda, in spite of admitting that all he knew about the situation was from Hasan Piker. If they still insisted on having the conversation, what could I do? Drinking or not, I knew my role as a guest in someone else's house. My hosts were quite a bit to the right of me, and later this husband got into a shouting match with them, but I was not going to give a history of Israel-Palestine to people who didn't know it yet would still dispute every word. Whatever one can say about you Dad, your confidence in verbal combat would shake Socrates. You scented weakness the way wolves smell blood, and there was no tactic you were not beneath. No one would ever figure out why you felt you had to stoop to it.
But you never had to deal with my generation directly: if you viewed me with a certain contempt, you viewed my generation as something on the end of your shoe. I can well understand why: my generation sometimes sounds as though confidence in nuance is something for past generations who felt like they have a future. To be as aware of the world in our time as you were in yours is nearly impossible. There's so much more information for us to digest than your generation ever knew what to do with, and in an age when data and evidence is procured so cheaply, everybody doubts the veracity of what they read. The end result: all those historical periods you talked about in such detail--when people cling to certainties and fanatical violence precisely because there's no certainty to be had? We now live them--or at least we begin to...
I don't know if you heard anything about 'Zohran' before you died, but you certainly had choice things to say about AOC that I had to talk you down from in ways even you admitted later were excessive. You spent a lifetime trying to sort the wires of Jewish values: figuring out what is the 'good Jewish programming' and what's the 'bad Jewish programming' in granular detail. With your capacity for nuance you'd have made a magnificent Rebbe even if you'd have abided contradiction from your followers about as well as a grand inquisitor.
Love and you were infinite, but they were very complicated things. Your reverence for Judaism was indivisible from your contempt for it, your veneration for education blurred with your disdain for it, your compulsion for material security obscured your absolute derision of it. It was all very Jewish. Was disparaging the things you loved a clever concealment of vulnerability? Was it an unconscious compulsion? Or did you just hate the things you loved?
Either way, there was not a single thing you loved that you did not think would benefit from an eternity of unsolicited nagging about how it could self-improve. A true sign of success in life is to be a liberator whose followers can take success so for granted that the liberator becomes the jailer. That's the story of sixties America, perhaps it's the story of 1848 Europe, perhaps it's the story of the Maccabee rebellion or Sinai, hell, perhaps it's the story of half the world's imperial powers (please don't parse these analogies Dad).
But so many people I know, far more than you, don't speak that language. Love means love, hate means hate, history means theory and values, not facts, and I often doubt they know what it means to have complicated feelings about anything. I don't understand people like that. I don't know how to deal with people like that. I fear people like that. They're not at all simple-minded, many are smarter than me in a hundred different ways, but they think the world is simple, easily understood, and you either get it or you don't. Mysteries don't really seem mysterious to them. Those are the people who can so easily be convinced to separate the world into love and hate, not realizing what an absolute labyrinth love can be. They're all nicer people than me: they're certainly nicer than you... but I always get the sense that the doubts about the world that keep me up at night, and I strongly suspect kept you up too, did not occur to them.
I don't really have repressed frustrations: frankly neither did you, but viewing the world on that level of realism is pretty brutal. Is there any consolation out there? Is there any reward? Does every victory carry the seeds of defeat? Does every political movement become everything it hates? Do all great things in the world eventually betray what made them great? Does love entail telling the people you love everything that's wrong about them? Are we all born to die?
I certainly hope you're still somewhere out there, because you now have a god's-eye view for the best history show on earth. With you, history had a reliable voice. Now it has mine. I already hear you telling me everything I get wrong.
Love,
Evan