Dear Andres & Amy & Sophia & Cayo,
We are all authors.
Some of us are story tellers, some of us are memory keepers, some of us are listeners & readers of stories, some of us share the stories & memories we read & observe.
Some of us write.
I realized today, Fathers' Day, 2011, that most of the stories I keep about my father's childhood were given to me by my mother.
Jean is a memory keeper & a story teller.
My father gave Jean those memories & she gave them to me. I cherish them.
And yet, they are just glimpses of who my father Jack was before he married Jean.
I don't know how he felt when he & his mother Helen moved in with his grandparents because Papa John went to another state to work under the New Deal.
And although I know he read (he & Jean went to Half Price Books the day he died), I don't know what he read when he was a little boy.
Sometimes I find glimpses of my father in correspondence – in letters he wrote to his parents from the Army, in legal correspondence about his divorce from his first wife, in letters his first wife wrote to my grandmother, in pictures my grandmother kept, always writing down the date & occasion.
But I don't know about Pete, his dog.
My father taught me to add, subtract, multiply & divide before I could read. And when I could read, Jean took me to the library & made sure books were available. They were a great team. Not perfect, but exceptional.
My father taught me to listen to what people say, to think about it & weigh it & question it & make a decision. Those evenings with him, watching the conventions of each party, talking over the issues, Jack shared his stories, his thoughts. All that mentoring & conversation did not turn out as he planned.
I became a Democrat, like Jack's father.
But still Jack's daughter. And John Simpson Alexander Ettinger's granddaughter. Perhaps Democrats skip generations in some families.
So thinking about how Jack did not share his history or stories with me, I think how important it is for people like Andres & Amy to share their families' stories, not only with the exquisite Sophia or the amazing Cayo, but the rest of us. We need to hear it.
Just as I needed, & still need, to hear Jack's history.
And now I am going to tell you a story.
My friend Gulu is from India, from a wealthy family. A wealthy family. Someone did the laundry, someone coated peas in horseradish, someone brought Gulu her tea & breakfast on a tray every morning. All of this Gulu shared with me, telling me her story.
Gulu was a bit of a rebel. She became a flight attendant, cut her hair, lived with a man. All of which appalled her family.
When her affair with the man ended, she went home & asked her parents to find her a husband, a Parsi.
Gulu told me that her family was descended from a long line of Parsis, who left Iran to escape a wretched leader when it was Persia & ended up in what used be known as Bombay. The Power in charge of Bombay at the time told the refugees that they were welcome. that they could practice their religion, if they agreed to learn the local language.
So Gulu's parents found Sarosh & they married.
Parsi tradition & history has always been passed down from father to son, an oral tradition.
Apparently, a dying tradition.
Sarosh is instrumental in a movement to write down Parsi history. The Parsi community has assimilated into life in America & elsewhere & their youth are not interested in the past. It is a fierce job – and a father equal to the task.
It is what I wanted to tell you, Andres.
Your family's story needs to be preserved. And chronicled. And shared.
I don't want any one's daughter or son to wonder about a dog named Pete.
Much love to you all,
Jaki
