Don't put that s**t on me
I am not evidence of my Dad's amazing accomplishments. I'm me. A real girl.
When I was in high school, my dad got a new job: Advocacy Coordinator at United Cerebral Palsy, on 23rd Street. By the time I was in college, he was teaching at Adelphi University. He taught Social Work and Self-Advocacy—how to name what was happening to you, how to refuse to be spoken for, how to draw the line between what someone else needed from you and what was actually yours.
He’d lived it long before he taught it. So had we—my sisters, my mom, and me.
When I was young, strangers would walk up to us in restaurants, in parking lots, on the street.
“Sorry to interrupt,” they’d say, “but I just have to tell you how inspired I am by you. If you can do this—you have such a lovely family—certainly I can!”
Dad would nod. “Okay, sure,” he’d say. “Thanks.” Then he’d turn away.
I can still see this. Still feel it. Dad herding us toward the car. Dad leaving a stranger standing beside our café table, unanswered.
It was awkward.
For us—for me.
By the time I was in college, Dad didn’t turn away anymore. Either he was prickly, snapping at them, “What does any of that have to do with me?”
Or, if they lingered, he’d sigh and turn toward them. Advocating, teaching.
“Look,” he’d say. “Try and imagine how it feels on my side. You’re walking up, interrupting me. I’m just trying to live.”
“It’s okay to be inspired,” he’d tell them. “But that’s your bag, man. Don’t put that shit on me. Don’t make me into some object you can point to so you can feel better about yourself.”
The thing is, while all of this was happening, I was standing there, too—called out of normal again. Spotlit.
Were my sisters there? The beautiful daughters lined up in a row. Evidence that if Dad could do it, anyone could.
Do what? I remember thinking. I’m not something Dad did. I’m me.
I remember laughing about this in my head, imagining myself waving, like—yoo-hoo! I’m over here. A real girl. Maybe my sisters were there. The three of us exchanging looks. Maybe we wandered away while Dad told another stranger in another parking lot, “You don’t know anything about me or my life. Keep your inspiration to yourself.”
As I am writing this, a memory arrives.
I am twenty-four, newly hired as a Customer Support Analyst at Wang Labs, one of the leading computer manufacturers in the world. I work in Wang’s New York office in the banking district, helping users learn to operate their new desktop PCs, printers, and networks.
I am told I have a preternatural ability. With no programming background, no training, I am able to solve impossible software problems. They call me the PC Psychic, but I’m not psychic. I’ve used their system for a year, and I understand it the way I will later understand any intelligence system—a squirrel, an angel, a human being.
One salesman, Paul, wants none of my magic. He is super-educated. Expensive suits. A true upper-class snob. “I don’t need her,” he told our supervisor. “I can do this myself.”
But the boss insisted we partner. So Paul used me as a demo model—silent, onstage, pointing to the equipment while he narrated.
I did it once. Refused to do it again. Requested a transfer. Got one.
Why is this memory returning now, as I think about standing beside Dad while a stranger talked about his family as if we weren’t there—as if we weren’t real?
Because to them, we weren’t real. Dad was the demonstration. We were the evidence — even someone like Dad could “do it.”
Do what? I am asking myself now. Make a daughter? Have a wife? Build a lovely family? Was that the amazing miracle “someone like Dad” had performed?
As I write, I am remembering what it felt like to stand there. To be pointed to. To be talked over. I am trying to remember what I did with my hands, my face. My posture a little too straight, dressed in a powder blue skirt set. Knee-length chiffon layered over polyester satin—with a little matching cardigan. What shoes? I’m remembering ugly brown sandals. Chunky heel. We must have been going somewhere. To a movie. A party. Out to lunch. No idea.
I just remember the feeling. Pressing my hands against my thighs. Squirming. Uncomfortable. I wanted it to be over. I wanted to get away. Also, I thought Dad was being a little mean to this man.
I feel differently about that now.
This week, I’m filling in scenes from earlier in the book. I’m remembering more. Finding more journal entries. This week, I sent out: Judge and Spine and Yes, your mother is crazy and Salamander and Little Pieces and Canoe. I have also been doing some soul-searching, rethinking what this book is really about - and where I want it to go next. That’s in Cartwheels.
It’s all from The End of Men, a memoir I started years ago. If you’re new to the project, read the first chapter here: Keys. The full list of scenes, in order, is here.
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