Letter To My Father - 2021-04-01

Letter To My Father - 2021-04-01

 

Dear Daddy,

 You died 42 years ago today. I think about you every day. You are still the most admired man, and I model my life after you. When you died, I thought about writing letters to you monthly to let you know what was happening. Alas, this is the first letter.

 Remember how impressed you were with people who were executives of big businesses, especially banks? You thought they were brilliant and rich. I may not be brilliant, but in many ways, I am rich. In 2009, after almost 30 years, I retired from Wells Fargo, one of the world's largest banks.

 The most obvious way I am rich is by having a great family like you! You taught me to be active in the world but remember that the people who will always love me are my family and lifelong friends who know the real you. Denise and I married in 1983. I met her at the Carolians, the Saturday afternoon recreation program we attended. We have great friends, including Judy Heumann. You always admired her for how well she spoke. She became the most famous and well-respected disability activist in the world.

 Judy, Denise and I are in a film called Crip Camp. It's about how Camp Jened showed us that everyone, regardless of disability, has value. I hear you wondering why they call it 'Crip Camp?'. Jim Lebrecht, one of the two directors and producers, wanted people to know that the film is not the typical heartwarming movie about people with disabilities. We will know if Crip Camp wins an Academy Award in a few weeks. Don't worry. It won't go to my head. I remember how you hated any of us being in the limelight.

 Probably the most critical event in my life happened when I was three. Doctors suggested that you and Mom put me in an institution. You visited the hospital. I vividly remember how horrified and disgusted you were when you returned. You saw children sitting lifelessly in wheelchairs. There were babies in cribs that had fetuses. Everyone looked malnourished. Not realizing that you could decline the doctors' recommendation, you sent Mommy, Eta, and Steve to Florida and told the doctors that because of them, we ran away. We returned nine months later. The doctors never again mentioned it.

 Your visit to the institution was when I knew I wanted to adopt a child with a disability. On the first date Denise and I had in 1982, she and I discussed my desire to adopt. On January 23, 1987, which would have been your birthday, Denise received a call from a stranger in St. Louis telling her that there was a baby who may need to be adopted. The baby was supposed to be adopted by a couple in St.Louis, but when they heard that he might have a disability, they decided not to adopt him. Denise called me at work, sounding freaked out. When she said the baby was born six weeks earlier, I knew he was our son.

 We named the baby David Jacob Jacobson. Yes, I wanted to call him Jack in your memory, but Denise and I have difficulty saying words with a 'J' in them. You would have loved him. He was the best baby I ever knew. He almost always smiled. When he cried, it was because he needed something. He's 34 now and still a great kid, very kind, gentle, and always there if we need help. He's a great chef, although you might think it's what you called 'foofoo.'

 Daddy, I always wanted to be like you. Mommy always received credit for me being successful. Indeed, she did most of the work regarding my therapy and exercises. She advocated for my education and ensured that I had everything I needed. You showed me how to live well and enjoy everything life offers.

 You always said that since you survived the Holocaust, you would be happy the rest of your life. You would come home from work every evening. When you got out of the car, the kids on the block gathered around you as you teased them, made them laugh, and then gave them candy. You always had a joke and made people smile. Sure, you got angry once in a while and started screaming and banging the table. We always knew that when you calmed down that it was over. You never carried a grudge.

 My self-confidence comes from you. You warned me that people might think that because of my disability, people will believe that I am stupid, pitiful, and dreadful to see. You told me that occasionally you saw me that way. You instructed me not to worry about other people's thoughts and to forge ahead.

 One of your biggest sources of pride was your grocery store. You bragged that a Jew from the old country owned the biggest Italian delicatessen in Brooklyn, including the sticky cheeses hanging down from the ceiling. Seeing you stand proudly in your store wearing a white apron is the image I remember the most.

 I was amazed that someone who only went to kindergarten and came to the U.S. not knowing English could become as financially stable as you. My appreciation for the need to save and to never spend more than have you stayed with me. I remember how you had me sit with you at the desk in the dining room once a month as you paid bills. Semi-annually you brought home a large paper bag of coupons. You put me on the floor, poured out the coupons, and had me sort them by the originating manufacturer of the product. The manufacturer could reimburse your store. Your simple formula to save 10% and give 10% to charity has proven more helpful than anything I learned in the MBA program.

 You always hated when Steve or I cried. I don't think I ever apologized for that awful summer I spent at the New York State Rehabilitation Hospital in Haverstraw. Every weekend I'd start bawling from when I left the hospital on Friday evenings until you brought me back there on Sunday. The scariest day in our lives is probably that Sunday in August. We were returning to Haverstraw, and I was crying at the top of my lungs. You pulled off the road and went for a walk next to a lake. When you returned, you told me that you considered killing yourself. I am sincerely sorry for that. You never knew that at that hospital; instead of learning how to walk, the nurses and other patients taught me about the hierarchy of disabilities. Nurses would pick straws. Whoever picked the shortest straw got stuck feeding me. Patients with paraplegia often threw me off the toilet, telling me that people with Cerebral Palsy should not be there. I also had to go to counseling, where the doctor told me not to study law because of my speech impairment. They also told me to be prepared that my friends would soon leave me and go away to college.

 Daddy, I can you hear you saying, 'Why are you hocken mir ein chonik (Yiddish for 'telling me so much)? It happened long ago. Get over it. Move on!'

 You never liked speaking about yourself. When I was a young child, Mommy would take me for a walk on Mermaid Ave. She told me everything, including how she grew up, how the Nazis took her and her mom to Auschwitz, how being a pretty teenager saved her mother's life one time but not the next, and much more.

 Everything I know about you I learned from Mommy or my cousins. I wanted to hear your stories from you. I vividly remember a Sunday when you came to Hofstra by yourself. I was so excited to finally have the chance to ask you all my questions about your past.

 We went off-campus for dinner. You insisted that we talk about Mommy, Eta, Steve, your store, and my classes. You didn't give me a chance to ask my questions. As you pushed me in my wheelchair back to my dorm, I was scared that I was blowing this opportunity to get to know your history. When we got near the dorm, you came in front of me, shook my hand for the first time, and said, 'Neilie, I am proud of you.' As he left, I went to my room and busted into tears. I realized that my Dad and I knew each other in ways that talking cannot express.

 Perhaps the most important thing I learned from you is not to be scared of death but to fulfill your life purpose. When the time comes for you to go, go quickly.

 The mid-1960s were when people throughout the country were protesting against the Vietnam War, demanding civil rights for marginalized minority groups. The sense that everyone wanted to make the world better. One evening, around the dinner table, I asked you what your purpose in this life was. I expected some socially-minded answer that had to do with you being a Holocaust survivor. Instead, you told me that your goal was to see Eta, Steve, and I grow up, move out of the house, and be OK. In 1979, after my sister, brother, and I lived on our own, you had a heart attack, drove yourself to the hospital, and died. I am, however, comforted knowing that you lived and passed away your way. Every day, I dearly miss you.

 Daddy, I love you! I'm sure you will understand that I look forward to being with you soon, but not too soon.