Charles, an introduction
All the men in my family have messy handwriting. My writing looks like a child’s, big, loose loops, tails that come off the letters in inappropriate places. My A’s look like they have mutant u’s growing out of their backs. My K’s resemble a pair of chromosomes, caught in flagrante delecte. My father’s handwriting is the hardest to read, like a doctor’s prescription. His words are perhaps the platonic essence of the letters, nothing more. A faint hint of the letter, a suggestion of an r, that trails off into another slight bump, it could be any letter, really. Aren’t they all the same, anyway? Reading my grandfather’s script, on the other hand, just makes my muscles tense. It’s amazing how much chaos can be contained within such an orderly form. Each letter, marching down the page precisely, perfectly accurate, absolutely legible. And yet, not a single straight line. Like a wrinkled uniform, hopelessly unable to pass inspection, yet standing at attention, eyes forward nonetheless. His writing has no swoops, no curls, no flourishes at all. The N’s are wrinkled, the L’s uncertain. Each line, painfully concentrated upon, carefully conforming to the standard, and yet abjectly failing the final test.
All three of us, with our imperfect handwriting have tried to compensate for our shameful lack of penmanship. I learned to type in grade school, was allowed to turn in all of my assignments on typed sheets, even math. I moved from manual, to electric, to Apple, to the laptop I now carry with me wherever I go,my crutch, my addiction. My father rarely writes anything, relying on secretaries, or girlfriends (or wives) to take dictation. I college, I would get a weekly letter from him, typed by Diane, who was something in between a friend and a patient. She would insert her own opinion occasionally, comments within brackets, always a few exclamation marks thrown in. Annie, my father’s third wife (so far), was the most recent stenographer. As their marriage worsened, her comments (also between brackets) became more caustic, more critical, less patient. A tottering marriage, mapped out parenthetically. Charles, on the other hand, forced himself to write in his cramped, wobbly script. Everything by hand. He filled dozens of notebooks, kept logs of everything, took notes, wrote letters, briefs, labels, postcards. I have them all somewhere, in leather trunk growing over with green mold, in a storage unit I keep in Michigan. Every summer, I go back to the unit, perform triage on the unit. Throw away anything I can stand to part with. So far, nothing I inherited form him has been tossed. I keep hoping I’ll learn some use for his belongings, the things his (third) wife discarded. When she gave them to me, I only read a handful, mostly the ones referring to times I might be mentioned. Then I boxed them up, to be examined later.. Here in Cairo, some six thousand miles from the place he died, I only have one example of his writing.
I found it on my shelf last week, when my three-year-old daughter was rummaging through our book shelves. It’s on a cream-colored, yellowing photo album, only filled a quarter of the way, with 24 pictures taken on a spring day in 1991. On school break, I was visiting him in Cambridge. He took me on a walking tour of Boston. A few months later, he gave me the album. Here’s a photo of a juggler behind Fanuil hall, perched on a ten foot tall unicycle, about to dropped one of his bowling pins. Here’s one of the old cemetery. The gravestones there are phenomenal. Those puritans really got into the idea of death. Rich, evocative bas reliefs of skeletons with scythes, hourglasses running out of sand, hooded characters with bad intentions. Death is like that, I suppose, grim, taking away what we most desire. What we need the most. The photo album has cute little captions next to each picture. Phallic Tree on Harvard Street. Love under a balloon. His handwriting only beginning to reflect his 72 years. There aren’t any pictures of him, of course, but you can still sort of see him. The wry comments, the choice of subjects, but especially the handwriting on the labels. Cramped, wobbly, totally giving him away, but struggling so hard to fit in.
About six months before he died, just as he learned that the cancer had metastasized, my uncle convinced him to make a record of his memories, for the grandkids, for the family. A bit of history. He talks about cost of tuition, about traveling to Nazi Germany as a high school student. About going to Harvard two years younger than he should be. A 16 year-old, son of a hat salesman. A Jew at Harvard in the Thirties. He talks about anti-Semitism as though he were a history professor, giving us notes for the final exam. Or perhaps he’s telling a joke. It’s so droll, he seems to imply. They had me room with the other Jew on our trip. The German official told us that Hitler had no ill-will to toward the United States. He is proud that, at 16, he could detect the irony of the Nazi’s words. Even in 1936. How clever he was.
I sit on the couch to watch the video with Makaylah. That’s my Grampa. My daddy’s daddy. Grampa Micky’s daddy. I think she gets it. Sometimes its hard to tell. He sits in a highbacked chair, Oreo (the cat) in his lap. At this point, at age 79, with several years fighting cancer, his age shows. His cheeks, always long, now have a crease down the middle. He slumps in a chair slightly. His digestive system seems to be troubling him. There are frequent interruptions on the tape, where, I assume, he had to take a break. Not visible are the morphine patches he was wearing on his chest to minimize the pain. Perhaps the slight glaze in his one good eye is the only evidence of the influence of the drug.
The last stop on our Boston tour was Harvard yard. We walked across the quadrangle, stopped at a statue of John Harvard. Grampa explained to me, with pleasure, how there were at least three things wrong with the statue, historically speaking. He told me about his first semester as a Harvard student, showed me his dormitory. Enjoyed pointing out how strict they were about propriety, an unaccompanied girl may only be in the room before 7pm, the door must be open in excess of one foot. He described in detail the logistics of the dorms. The cost of tuiton, how often the maids came in to clean. How big the suites were. There are three pictures of Harvard in the photo album, one of historically offending statue, another of a Henry More sculpture, and finally he put a picture of a couple, a balloon over their head, sitting at the entrance to building, on top of a broad flight of steps, holding hands and kissing.
Makaylah and I sit together on the couch watching him tell about his time at college. About the isolation he felt, too young, too ethnic, blind in one eye (and thus, an awkward athlete). Completely unable to cultivate the effortless sense of belonging that draped off of his classmates. Makaylah loves the video. Its Grampa Mickey’s daddy, Daddy’s grampa, the magical algorithms at play here, mysterious relationships at once static and dynamic, completely entrance her. She has no idea of what he means by alienation. I sit on the couch with her, my arm draped over her shoulders. I don’t know if it’s to snuggle or to protect, to hold her close to me, or keep her far from everyone else. ….
How he once got invited to a mixer, but it must have been by accident. Case of mistaken identity, maybe just a joke, invite the jew. For him, it is a non-story, something to mention in passing, another funny story. For me, it is a coda to his entire life, and by extension, to mine. I imagine him, crossing the quad, dressed nervously in a garish jacket, maybe a bow tie. Thick glasses between him and the world. At the door, a few guys are smoking, a habit he never picked up. They are taking sips from a paper cup. He’d love to be offered some, waits for a moment, but passes on after their conversation stops. He enters the party hall, knows no one. Crosses to the drink table, pours himself some juice. Has a bite of a brownie. Notices a guy from his labor law class, tries to think of something to say, nothing comes to mind. It is unnerving to be motionless at a party, though. Either you are engaged in raucous conversation, making bawdy jokes, or you are moving through the crowd, looking for your set. I imagine he walked through parties the way I do, sweaty palms, moving from room to room, pausing long enough to rest, catch a snatch of someone else’s conversation, but not long enough for anyone to notice you. Notice that you don’t belong. Eventually, the illusion of fun becomes completely untenable, and you can slip outside, back into the dark, back to the lonely dorm room.
At least, that was what my college parties were like. Sweaty palms, no conversation, nothing to say, really, but a desperate need to fit in, to be funny, liked, admired. I assume it was the same for him. My daughter sits there on the couch with me, totally entranced by her great-grandfather’s image on the television. She’s too young to have messy handwriting, to young to notice she doesn’t fit in. But I see her in groups, already leaning to the outside, and I cringe.
All three of us, with our imperfect handwriting have tried to compensate for our shameful lack of penmanship. I learned to type in grade school, was allowed to turn in all of my assignments on typed sheets, even math. I moved from manual, to electric, to Apple, to the laptop I now carry with me wherever I go,my crutch, my addiction. My father rarely writes anything, relying on secretaries, or girlfriends (or wives) to take dictation. I college, I would get a weekly letter from him, typed by Diane, who was something in between a friend and a patient. She would insert her own opinion occasionally, comments within brackets, always a few exclamation marks thrown in. Annie, my father’s third wife (so far), was the most recent stenographer. As their marriage worsened, her comments (also between brackets) became more caustic, more critical, less patient. A tottering marriage, mapped out parenthetically. Charles, on the other hand, forced himself to write in his cramped, wobbly script. Everything by hand. He filled dozens of notebooks, kept logs of everything, took notes, wrote letters, briefs, labels, postcards. I have them all somewhere, in leather trunk growing over with green mold, in a storage unit I keep in Michigan. Every summer, I go back to the unit, perform triage on the unit. Throw away anything I can stand to part with. So far, nothing I inherited form him has been tossed. I keep hoping I’ll learn some use for his belongings, the things his (third) wife discarded. When she gave them to me, I only read a handful, mostly the ones referring to times I might be mentioned. Then I boxed them up, to be examined later.. Here in Cairo, some six thousand miles from the place he died, I only have one example of his writing.
I found it on my shelf last week, when my three-year-old daughter was rummaging through our book shelves. It’s on a cream-colored, yellowing photo album, only filled a quarter of the way, with 24 pictures taken on a spring day in 1991. On school break, I was visiting him in Cambridge. He took me on a walking tour of Boston. A few months later, he gave me the album. Here’s a photo of a juggler behind Fanuil hall, perched on a ten foot tall unicycle, about to dropped one of his bowling pins. Here’s one of the old cemetery. The gravestones there are phenomenal. Those puritans really got into the idea of death. Rich, evocative bas reliefs of skeletons with scythes, hourglasses running out of sand, hooded characters with bad intentions. Death is like that, I suppose, grim, taking away what we most desire. What we need the most. The photo album has cute little captions next to each picture. Phallic Tree on Harvard Street. Love under a balloon. His handwriting only beginning to reflect his 72 years. There aren’t any pictures of him, of course, but you can still sort of see him. The wry comments, the choice of subjects, but especially the handwriting on the labels. Cramped, wobbly, totally giving him away, but struggling so hard to fit in.
About six months before he died, just as he learned that the cancer had metastasized, my uncle convinced him to make a record of his memories, for the grandkids, for the family. A bit of history. He talks about cost of tuition, about traveling to Nazi Germany as a high school student. About going to Harvard two years younger than he should be. A 16 year-old, son of a hat salesman. A Jew at Harvard in the Thirties. He talks about anti-Semitism as though he were a history professor, giving us notes for the final exam. Or perhaps he’s telling a joke. It’s so droll, he seems to imply. They had me room with the other Jew on our trip. The German official told us that Hitler had no ill-will to toward the United States. He is proud that, at 16, he could detect the irony of the Nazi’s words. Even in 1936. How clever he was.
I sit on the couch to watch the video with Makaylah. That’s my Grampa. My daddy’s daddy. Grampa Micky’s daddy. I think she gets it. Sometimes its hard to tell. He sits in a highbacked chair, Oreo (the cat) in his lap. At this point, at age 79, with several years fighting cancer, his age shows. His cheeks, always long, now have a crease down the middle. He slumps in a chair slightly. His digestive system seems to be troubling him. There are frequent interruptions on the tape, where, I assume, he had to take a break. Not visible are the morphine patches he was wearing on his chest to minimize the pain. Perhaps the slight glaze in his one good eye is the only evidence of the influence of the drug.
The last stop on our Boston tour was Harvard yard. We walked across the quadrangle, stopped at a statue of John Harvard. Grampa explained to me, with pleasure, how there were at least three things wrong with the statue, historically speaking. He told me about his first semester as a Harvard student, showed me his dormitory. Enjoyed pointing out how strict they were about propriety, an unaccompanied girl may only be in the room before 7pm, the door must be open in excess of one foot. He described in detail the logistics of the dorms. The cost of tuiton, how often the maids came in to clean. How big the suites were. There are three pictures of Harvard in the photo album, one of historically offending statue, another of a Henry More sculpture, and finally he put a picture of a couple, a balloon over their head, sitting at the entrance to building, on top of a broad flight of steps, holding hands and kissing.
Makaylah and I sit together on the couch watching him tell about his time at college. About the isolation he felt, too young, too ethnic, blind in one eye (and thus, an awkward athlete). Completely unable to cultivate the effortless sense of belonging that draped off of his classmates. Makaylah loves the video. Its Grampa Mickey’s daddy, Daddy’s grampa, the magical algorithms at play here, mysterious relationships at once static and dynamic, completely entrance her. She has no idea of what he means by alienation. I sit on the couch with her, my arm draped over her shoulders. I don’t know if it’s to snuggle or to protect, to hold her close to me, or keep her far from everyone else. ….
How he once got invited to a mixer, but it must have been by accident. Case of mistaken identity, maybe just a joke, invite the jew. For him, it is a non-story, something to mention in passing, another funny story. For me, it is a coda to his entire life, and by extension, to mine. I imagine him, crossing the quad, dressed nervously in a garish jacket, maybe a bow tie. Thick glasses between him and the world. At the door, a few guys are smoking, a habit he never picked up. They are taking sips from a paper cup. He’d love to be offered some, waits for a moment, but passes on after their conversation stops. He enters the party hall, knows no one. Crosses to the drink table, pours himself some juice. Has a bite of a brownie. Notices a guy from his labor law class, tries to think of something to say, nothing comes to mind. It is unnerving to be motionless at a party, though. Either you are engaged in raucous conversation, making bawdy jokes, or you are moving through the crowd, looking for your set. I imagine he walked through parties the way I do, sweaty palms, moving from room to room, pausing long enough to rest, catch a snatch of someone else’s conversation, but not long enough for anyone to notice you. Notice that you don’t belong. Eventually, the illusion of fun becomes completely untenable, and you can slip outside, back into the dark, back to the lonely dorm room.
At least, that was what my college parties were like. Sweaty palms, no conversation, nothing to say, really, but a desperate need to fit in, to be funny, liked, admired. I assume it was the same for him. My daughter sits there on the couch with me, totally entranced by her great-grandfather’s image on the television. She’s too young to have messy handwriting, to young to notice she doesn’t fit in. But I see her in groups, already leaning to the outside, and I cringe.
posted by Jonah at 6:58 PM
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