Bill and I talk about this with our kids at the dinner table. Bill worked incredibly hard and took risks and made sacrifices for success. But there is another essential ingredient of success, and that ingredient is luck – absolute and total luck.
When were you born? Who were your parents? Where did you grow up? None of us earned these things. They were given to us.
When we strip away our luck and privilege and consider where we’d be without them, it becomes easier to see someone who’s poor and sick and say “that could be me.” This is empathy; it tears down barriers and opens up new frontiers for optimism.
Melinda Gates, 2014 Stanford Commencement address with Bill Gates (via soupnazi)
______, Grandmama tells me you want me to call you and the abandonment issue has again come up. It’s never really gone away. You and I were talking frequently and I helped you w paint, Perth, moving downstairs, put furniture together,etc. So this means everything is ok, I guess? That you’re doing your part? Then I was helping Mary Anne store stuff and you stated I was not to move stuff in your “office”. My reply was that was your mother’s call, not yours. You stormed upstairs and since that time have not answered my calls, some of which were asking you to go out for dinner. This is not completely true. If anything, it’s a complete twist of what actually happened. Yeah, there were calls, but the messages consisted of telling me to leave a key to my downstairs storage unit in my mailbox (so that he doesn’t have to come inside and see me/spend time with me) and when I forgot to leave it out on time, you came by my house, it wasn’t there, but my car was, you left, called again and left another message that you would be by in an hour to get the key and can I please leave it in the mailbox. You just couldn’t be bothered with actually seeing me. I then emailed you or called, don’t remember for sure, and made the statement that you must not need me at this time because you would not answer my calls. Because I’m nothing but a selfish greedy person and you are always there for me when I need you. Then I received an ugly email from you. Have not talked since then. You can argue any way you want but these facts are undisbutable. INdisputable for someone who sees things only in black and white and for someone who wants to see things their way. Easy, just another excuse to NOT participate in my life. That brings us to this point. I will not call to discuss these issues, inluding abandonment, with you. Who abandoned who in this case. I just do not have the time or inclination to go through this every 2-3 months and now it seems more frequently. I am very busy w work, study, and 1 meeting Mon, 2 on Tues, 1 on Wed, and company Thurs. That is not to say I don’t have time for you. I do, but I do not have time for these games you play. Many of these have to do with your period, E or his absence, or your Lexipro and other factors beyond my control.Right. Of course you won’t discuss these issues bc you don’t want to know how I feel, you don’t care to know how I feel and you don’t care to accept any responsibility.. And of course you don’t have the time or inclination. In other words, you don’t have the ability or willingness. Interesting. You’re too busy with your Bible study that really seems to be bettering you as a person. Isn’t that what it is supposed to be for? You’re too busy with your meetings and everything that you do around the community and in the church that you don’t have time for your daughter that has given you more than ample indication that she is in great need of your time, but who cares, right? What exactly is the point of your Bible study? I have to wonder. And, no, I’m not always on my period , etc. Many of these factors are ironically completely in your control It does not matter to me what Benji, your mother[altho I have the feeling she is not involved in putting me down at this time and if I am right I am grateful for this], or anyone else thinks about all of this as the above is the undisputed facts. Of course you don’t care what any of these people think. Is it at all possible that you care what anyone who isn’t feeding your ego thinks? I’ll tell you about indisputable facts. Your daughter needs you, has cried out for you and you refuse to care bc it is an inconvenience to your life. THERE is an indisputable fact. Too bad you’ll dispute it.
I do somewhat keep up with you and know you aced you last test. Congratulations. How do I know this? Because when I do not hear from you I can read your blog to be sure you are OK and I must say it is disgusting. It will end up hurting you in the long run, if not the short run. You also have a couple of people following you that could result in stalking or physical harm. They can isolate where you are exactly. Scary, particularily seeing the the gross info you post. That also does nothing to encourage me to want to keep up with you more closely when you are reacting as you are now. When things are normal I do overlook the blog and stay in touch. You need to concentrate on more meaningful, spiritual, and mature things.OK, let’s explore some things here. You keep up with me through this disgusting blog? Why not call me? And if you find this blog so disgusting, how is it that, despite your busy schedule and despite my frequent changing of the URL, have you found the time to find and follow my blog? And why, if it is so disgusting? And if my blog is putting me in danger, why have you not mentioned this until now? Are you genuinely worried or is this a wonderful excuse to not carry on a relationship? Bc, let’s be honest here, we both know the answer. PS: my life is not this blog. It has nothing to do with much of anything. In case you can’t tell, it’s NOT meaningful. It’s a joke, a place to vent, a place to be serious or not serious or whatever I want and now I’ve had to delete it bc you are using it against me. And we both know that is the only reason you ever followed it in the first place.
Now, in conclusion, if you want to resume talking(remember it was you that broke it off) you can call me or email me and we can pick it up again but I will not discuss all the past and the crap. I broke it off? Right. Who’s the parent here? Who’s trying to work on things? Who’s asked to spend more time with who? Oh, and BTW, thanks for the permission to call you or e-mail you if I want. That’s real kind of you, father.
I have tried to reach you several times, granted not recently as I gave up after several unsuccessful attempts over several days, so make contact if you want. No discussions of above however. Give up should be your middle name. And what is a relationship if everything is one-sided, everything on your terms. I need something from you, but you refuse to discuss anything when there is obviously something wrong. Why don’t YOU move on to more spiritual and meaningful things? Like being a decent father.
You may feel a need to get some help with your issues. Maybe you should and maybe you should pay for it yourself so you can take some ownership.I’ve gotten some help with my issues since I am the one who needs to take ownership here.. You can keep up with them all here if you’d like. Since I deleted my other tumblr and you seem to be so interested in following my online blogs, why don’t you come have a look at this one? You can keep up with what is actually going on in my life here, rather than a bunch of BS that has nothing to actually do with my life like my previous tumblr. Let’s see how this works out.
Contact if you want. WOW! Thanks!
OK, so maybe my Dad doesn’t actually HATE me. Hate is a strong word. But sometimes it actually feels that way and oftentimes I do actually ask myself why it seems as if he does. I have often felt like he was “out to get me” and that he seems to be quite happier when I’m not successful or not doing well than he is when I have managed to do well for myself in some area of life, which, let’s be honest, has been pretty rare. This would explain his presence and eagerness to parent when it was time to discipline, when I had done something wrong, and his lack of presence when there was a birthday or a dance recital or something else that I felt was important growing up. I remember my 16th birthday was also on the second day of a dance recital I was performing in. The pictures from that day are of me looking quite miserable over at Grandma M’s house with my mom, sister, Grandma and little cousin and a birthday cake because we had to leave the house that day because my Dad had gone on one of his violent rampages (probably breaking some dishes and yelling and screaming and cussing and making everyone feel awful), for whatever reason, I cannot remember. it caused everyone to get so upset that we had to leave the house. I remember numerous birthdays and Christmases and dance recitals that turned out this way in the end. But there was never any reason for it. It just happened to be a day that was supposed to be good, but was ruined and nobody really knows why.
Well, this brings us to, whaddya do about this? How do you deal with something like this? Something intangible? Something so emotionally personal and hurtful that you cannot even explain it to anyone except the people that experienced it with you, your immediate family. Well, often I have tried to talk to my Dad about the hurt I deal with daily. If I’m down about the way he has treated me something he has said or done, and want to talk to him about it, I cannot think of a single time where he has actually been understanding and made me feel better, but rather every single time he’s taken the opportunity to “kick me while I’m down.” He denies it, accepts zero responsibility, refuses to hardly even listen, and as of recently, has told me that he will no longer discuss the past with me. If I want to contact him, I can feel free to do so (thanks, DAD!), but we are not going to talk about the past and he is not “playing my little games.” (A classic example of the whole “kick me while I’m down?” The time I felt so hopelessly depressed at 22 that I took a whole bottle of Effexor in front of my father. His response? “Why don’t you take the rest of them?” in regards to the ones that fell on the floor. He walks out and leaves for work while my mother and aunt break into my bedroom to force me to the hospital. We’ll come back to this. Another, more recent example: I’m very upset, hurt, bawling in the car with my father “Dad, what is it that you think of me? How do you feel about me?” “Well, I think you’re just as your blog states, selfish and greedy.” Oh, ok, good to know how my father really thinks of me. The blog he is referencing is the one I previously mentioned that he and P so avidly followed even though apparently it made them so sick that it conveneiently became one of the reasons/excuses for his lack of communication and time. My headliner on that blog was “Greedy Little Bitch”, which was ironically in reference to how I felt my dad viewed me. He left out the bitch part when saying it outloud to me. I wasn’t sure if it was out of regard for me or because he didn’t want to curse, but I was pretty sure I knew which one.)
I’ve never confronted him and walked away feeling better. I have ALWAYS walked away feeling about 10, 20, 100x worse. So, is there a pattern here? It appears that way. Have I learned this pattern? It appears not because I continue to go back for more, hoping this time it will be different, he’ll get it, he’ll see how hurt I am, he’ll see his daughter hurting and want to make it better. It’s never ever, not one single time turned out the way I hoped it would. Mac explained this doesn’t make me crazy. My feelings are appropriate. It’s typical to always hope for more, particularly in a parent-child relationship, even at my age, particularly if I did not get what I needed at a young age.
So it’s Session #2 with Mac. Upon arrival he asked me if anything significant had taken place since my last, and first, visit. I answered no, but told him that I had run into my stepmom at the grocery store and she invited me over to dinner that night. I wasn’t going to go, but Dad called to extend the invitation and I accepted. Even though we all know that the relationships are strained, nobody brings anything up and I make it a point not to, even though there’s not a minute out of any day that it’s not bothering me in some way, I don’t bring it up. One thing I’ve found about these two: as long as you’re not pointing out things that are wrong, everything seems to go quite swimmingly. Am I the only one that knows something is wrong here? No. I’m just pretty much the only one that cares. This, in their eyes, makes me the crazy one. The irrational one. The one that can’t let things go. The one that needs to grow up. The flawed one.
This is the tricky thing about my Dad. If things were always bad, I would have given up a long time ago. But, that’s the thing, there’s the times that are good. There’s the times we have a good laugh, some good food, a little bit of fun for a change. We do have the same sense of humor, so there seems to sometimes be a connection there. Things go from bad/horrible to fine. Never good, just “fine.” It’s been this way all my life. The push-pull tug o’ war of the relationship. And that’s part of what makes it so hard. I explain all of this to Mac. But this does not a father-daughter relationship make, he explains. And I already know that. That’s, again, why I am here.. I pointed out to Mac that if I had not happened to run into P in the store, that I may very well have not communicated with them to this very day. And I was 99.9% sure of it. I’m just an afterthought. So, I was spotted in the grocery store two hours before dinner. I guess we should invite her over?
I also explained that I wasn’t just 99.9% sure that had I gone to medical school or law school or something of that nature, that my Dad would accept me, respect me, that things would be different. I was 100% sure of this. Mac was quick to point out that this is not because something is wrong with me and the path I chose (we all make mistakes), but because my Dad’s values are in the wrong place. They’re skewed. Flawed. If I was getting his respect for one of those reasons, it still wouldn’t mean that he was valuing me as a person. He was valuing what I could produce…an image. He explains that it is important for me not to devalue myself or view myself as unworthy because his values are in the wrong place. This is vital for me to understand in order to have a mature relationship with a man in the future. So it’s not too late? We’re working on it.
Mac explained that in a successful relationship, two things must be present: ability and willingness. In my Dad’s case, it appears that both are lacking. Is he really unable, though? I refuse to believe this. I can’t help but wonder about someone that is so involved with the church, so involved in his Bible studies, so involved with all of these things that a person normally does to better oneself. To have a more realistic look at oneself. To learn. Why, then can’t he look at his family and see that they are hurting? That they have hurt for so much of their lives when it comes to father things. (My mom told me that my sister asked her about what has been going on with me and Dad. Apparently something had been mentioned. When mom explained to her the place I was in, her response was “I know exactly where she is because I’ve been there and if I allowed myself to, I’d still be there.”) Why do I have to learn, at 31, how to move on and meet my basic needs that have been lacking? Why do I have to hurt and struggle and take care of the hurt that someone else has caused? I don’t understand and it’s not fair! I’ve got to heal myself, I’ve got to nurture myself. I’m simply not going to get what I need out of this relationship. It’s not going to happen. The ability, the willingness, the warmth, love, nurture… they’re all lacking. I’ve got to stop the pattern. The Bible studies? Perhaps those aren’t for the right reasons, either. Yeah, I said it. And I’m not the only one that said it. How can you say something like that? How can I make that judgment call? Well, the truth is I can’t. I can only judge what I see, and actions speak louder than words. And who better to improve yourself for than you own child, right? Life isn’t a play, a stage, and we are not merely actors. We don’t, or shouldn’t do things for merely for the people watching, but for the people we love.
You can say I’ve screwed up. Easily. You can say I’ve made mistakes. You can say I’ve cursed and made crude jokes and drank too much on occasion and maybe I experimented with marijuana at age 18 or 19 like the majority of the population and maybe I didn’t care about success or a career or making the best grades, but one thing you can’t say about me? I’ve never intentionally hurt someone. I’ve never looked at someone that I may have hurt and had no regard or remorse or responsibility for it. I’ve never not tried to make it better when I’ve UNintentionally hurt someone.
I ask M if there is something wrong with me? He smiles and asks what I mean. “Well, here I am at 31, still struggling, still hoping. Should I have figured this out a long time ago?” His answer: “Yes and no. Your feelings are typical and appropriate. You have quite frankly come from a dysfunctional family.” What was inappropriate here were Dad’s feelings. [or lack thereof, amirite?] Biologically, nurturing follows a descending pattern, from parent to child. That is how things should be. That doesn’t mean it is how things always are. Just because someone has the name “mom” or “dad” doesn’t mean that they naturally take on that role. “Your dad is not a psychologically minded man”, he said. So wait, he did remember him. “Yes, I looked back at the file. He came once, which is typical.” I nodded.
This type of abuse is difficult because it’s there, but you can’t touch it. The abuser can easily deny it when confronted, leaving you feeling hopeless and crazy. It’s sometimes like that with emotional abuse. You sometimes want to say, “Just hit me, will you? Leave a black eye or a bloody nose. Give me something that I can see or touch so that I know I’m not crazy, I’m not making this up, it’s not all in my head.” These feelings are enough, though, I have to realize. These feelings are enough because who wants to sit around every day and feel unloved, unappreciated, and disrespected by their parent? Who in the hell wants to actually oftentimes feel hated? Who wants to fight this constant battle that becomes so emotionally and physically exhausting that some days you do feel as if you are going insane? Nobody. Definitely not me.
So, here I was at Mac’s office. From what I remembered, which wasn’t much, I really got something out of my sessions with M. Even though I’d been seeing Mark off and on since 2003, through my suicide attempt, throughout my relationship with E, throughout my pregnancies and I felt that his intentions were in the right place, I never seemed to make any progress. He always wanted to fix something, or for me to think he could fix something that I was slowly learning couldn’t be fixed. I needed a dose of reality. If things can’t be fixed, tell me so I can move on with my life. If things can be fixed, let’s get them fixed please so, again, I can move on.
I explained to Mac the basic gist of what has taken place in the ten years since I’d seen him last, which was difficult, at best. All the emotions, all the wounds, all the hurt are hard enough to explain on the day to day, but ten years worth? I felt overwhelmed, but thank goodness, Mac remembered a a lot which helped with my need to explain the earlier years. I explained to him the recent past. I explained my faults as well as what I perceived to be the faults of my Dad. If I was going to do this, I was going to DO THIS. I’ve got issues, too, and we’ve gotta deal with what we’ve gotta deal with. If there is something wrong with the way I am seeing things, and what I am expecting, then I wanna know, just as much as I seek to be validated for the feelings I have that I know are real.
I explained that I am emotional, that I have a bad case of PMS pretty much every month, that sometimes, every now and then, I forget to take my Lexapro and that will send me over the edge of where I need to be. I explained that my Dad knew these things and used them as excuses for why I reacted to him the way I did. If something went wrong or I got upset with him, it was always “You must be on your period”, or “did you forget to take your Lexapro?” or “You must be upset about something E did. You must have talked to E recently.” Never ever ever was it something that he could have possibly done. “So he fails to accept any responsibility?”, Mac asked. “Pretty much”, I said. Yeah, I’ve got first-world white girl problems, but that doesn’t mean they’re not problems. Everything is relative. And that is why I am here. I also explained that, at 31, I have an intense need for things to be right with my relationship with my father. I explained the things that have taken place with us in the ten years since I’d been here. I explained the hurt I’d felt as a result. And then, Mac asked me something I’d never really thought about “Why, L, do you feel such a strong need to have a relationship with someone that doesn’t value you?” I was sort of stunned, “I don’t know… because it’s my Dad?” “Well, that’s what you call him.”
I explained the most recent events: the fact that I didn’t hear from him much even though we were in the same town, the fact that he told me I needed to seek counseling for my issues and pay for it so that I can “take ownership”, the fact that we have a “breakdown” every other month because I get hurt and beg him to spend time with me and he makes me feel like I am crazy for asking, the fact that, apparently, even though I don’t remember it, I called my stepmom a bitch on my former blog, which has now been deleted due to the fact that yes, there was some inappropriate material on there (it was a place for venting, for joking, for not taking things too seriously or taking things too seriously, whichever I felt like doing that day), but mainly due to the fact that my dad and stepmom were intently following this blog– if for no other reason than to use it against me.
I further explained the thing with my stepmom, P. I explained to him, that I must have called her a bitch on my blog sometime within the year because Dad had brought it up to me numerous times, the most recent being when we had our last “blowup” the week before. I explained to him that it was hurtful that all of a sudden, after he got remarried, my sister and I were left to fend on our own for Thanksgiving since he and P go to my stepsister’s every year and there was never even a conversation about it, whether we would have a separate Thanksgiving together (no) or whether we would be invited, too (no). He said “Well, you pretty much shot yourself in the foot with that one after you called M’s mother a bitch on your blog.” OK, fine, So I guess I did it. (I still don’t remember.) But what about the other three Thanksgivings they’ve been together? I mean, really. There’s always an excuse and the excuse never makes any sense. And there shouldn’t be an excuse at all. You are hurting your children. There’s not an excuse. And besides, if I called my stepmother a bitch, I shouldn’t have, but come on I did it on what I thought was a private arena to vent and I did it (if I am timing it right and I know I am) after she came to my home and said some pretty hurtful things to me. Things like “Don’t you think you’ve been a disappointing daughter?” “You are a strain on a relationship.” and “Your dad doesn’t want to spend time alone with you because he doesn’t want to spend time away from me.” Is it just me here or are those things not worse than calling someone a bitch on a private forum in response to these comments? They’re not only tacky, but an invasion of boundaries.
So, naturally when my Dad said this, all I could think was “I wonder if M knows what P said to me?” And I’m sure she doesn’t, and if she does she knows half the story and who cares anyway? The point is not that I want to be invited to M’s house for Thanksgiving every year, it’s that my Dad doesn’t seem to give a damn how I feel about anything ever. Not just Thanksgiving. Everything.
Things with Mac were left like this: “If we are going to get you through this, you cannot pursue a relationship with your father at this time.”
“Well, what if he calls me? I mean, I was actually trying to do this, and now his latest thing is saying that he called me and I didn’t answer, so how can he have a relationship with me if I don’t answer the phone?” (Which quite frankly is just another excuse not to have one.)
“It doesn’t matter. Unless he comes to you with some humility, with some understanding that something is wrong and some intent to fix it, don’t have any contact.”
It was my first session with Mac in approximately ten years. To be honest, I didn’t remember much about coming to him, I remembered what Mom and MA had told me happened, but other than that, I didn’t really remember anything about it except being in the room with Mary Anne, Mary Anne bawling, and Grandma Mary being in the waiting room with us some ten years back. That is honestly all I remembered. To get through some things, we block others out. There are some things we wish that we could block out, however, but we can’t, no matter how much we would like to.
Here I was, ten years later, still pretty much in the same place… emotionally, anyway. Sure, lots had happened in the ten years since I’d been there. My whole relationship with E had taken place, and that was significant. But as far as the reason I was there, because I couldn’t seem to get ANYWHERE with my Dad, not much had changed. Besides the time between 2004 and 2008, when my parents were divorced and before my Dad remarried, things were the same. During those four years, though, things seemed to be on the up and up as far as our relationship went. Dad was calling me almost every day. He came to visit me in the various towns I lived in, he said “I love you” at the end of our telephone conversations. He cried once when leaving me in Portland, ME, where I lived for half of 2004. Was this a turning point in our relationship? Was he finally beginning to care, or at least show that he cared? It seemed that way. And I think if nothing else, I chalk my further disappointment in our relationship up to the hope that those four years brought to it. In those four years, I was able to forget the worst of the worst. I was healing and I was hoping.
Well, since Dad has remarried, it seems, once again, his apathy is profound. Things are never good anymore. At best, things are “fine.” We’ve had many more of what we have always called “blowups” and things appear as if there is no hope. Just like they appeared at 16, at 18, at 21, and at 23. Here I am, at 31, with no hope. Shouldn’t, at 31, you be at a place where you can move on from the past, move on from what has happened in your childhood, adolescent years, and early adulthood? You would think so, but studies show that women that did not get what they needed from their father at those crucial ages, can sometimes become obsessed with it in adulthood. This, I’m afraid, has happened to me. http://www.yourpurelife.com/relationships/father-daughter-relationship/
Landslide - Fleetwood Mac
Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?
Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?
Well, I’ve been afraid of changing
'Cause I've built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Even children get older and I’m getting older too
“Cripples and Other Stories,” by Anne Sexton
My doctor, the comedian
I called you every time
and made you laugh yourself
when I wrote this silly rhyme…
Each time I give lectures
or gather in the grants
you send me off to boarding school
in training pants.
God damn it, father-doctor,
I’m really thirty-six.
I see dead rats in the toilet.
I’m one of the lunatics.
Disgusted, mother put me
on the potty. She was good at this.
My father was fat on scotch.
It leaked from every orifice.
Oh the enemas of childhood,
reeking of outhouses and shame!
Yet you rock me in your arms
and whisper my nickname.
Or else you hold my hand
and teach me love too late.
And that’s the hand of the arm
they tried to amputate.
Though I was almost seven
I was an awful brat.
I put it in the Easy Wringer.
It came out nice and flat.
I was an instant cripple
from my finger to my shoulder.
The laundress wept and swooned.
My mother had to hold her.
I know I was a cripple.
Of course, I’d known it from the start.
My father took the crowbar
and broke the wringer’s heart.
The surgeons shook their heads.
They really didn’t know—
Would the cripple inside of me
be a cripple that would show?
My father was a perfect man,
clean and rich and fat.
My mother was a brilliant thing.
She was good at that.
You hold me in your arms.
How strange that you’re so tender!
Child-woman that I am,
you think that you can mend her.
As for the arm,
unfortunately it grew.
Though mother said a withered arm
would put me in Who’s Who.
For years she has described it.
She sang it like a hymn.
By then she loved the shrunken thing,
my little withered limb.
My father’s cells clicked each night,
intent on making money.
And as for my cells, they brooded,
little queens, on honey.
Oh boys too, as a matter of fact,
and cigarettes and cars.
Mother frowned at my wasted life.
My father smoked cigars.
My cheeks blossomed with maggots.
I picked at them like pearls.
I covered them with pancake.
I wound my hair in curls.
My father didn’t know me
but you kiss me in my fever.
My mother knew me twice
and then I had to leave her.
But those are just two stories
and I have more to tell
from the outhouse, the greenhouse
where you draw me out of hell.
Father, I am thirty-six,
yet I lie here in your crib.
I’m getting born again, Adam,
as you prod me with your rib.
Sexton, Anne. “Cripples and Other Stories.” Famous Poets and Poems. 10 Aug. 2009
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time—-
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal
And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off the beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene
An engine, an engine,
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
I have always been sacred of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——
Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I’m finally through.
The black telephone’s off at the root,
The voices just can’t worm through.
If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two—-
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There’s a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.