Two days ago I woke from a nightmare: a daughter I was unaware of (quite unlike Professional Bleeder
or Occasional Speeder, my known daughters) wanted to marry a male offspring of
Donald Trump. The pair had already reached "an understanding".
Try not to be obvious. Reflect on this as a parent. Let's
assume you are not a fundamental Christian, a cast-iron, gun-toting Republican,
a fan of cage-fighting and/or presently short of money. Let's assume, too, you
have not spoilt your daughter but have accorded her a reasonable degree of
moral freedom. That you have told her that, while there is no rush, you look
forward to the day when she is able and willing to fly the coop.
Dissuasion? If her intended had been a heroin addict you
would probably have intervened. But just which arguments would you mobilise in
this instance? Assuming, of course, you are able to suppress haunting visions
of future "all family" gatherings.
Parenthetically, the dream horrified me. Especially when I
tried to sneak out of his campaign visit
to a manufacturing plant and found myself stonily observed by my daughter's
possible father-in-law, that rosebud mouth pursed in disapproval. But my
sleeping imagination is a mere shadow of that when I'm awake. I try to think on
other things.
But I'm interested in your reaction. Play the ultimate
libertarian and book yourself a dinner jacket? Draft some minatory sentences
which carefully avoid social or intellectual snobbery? Take a one-way holiday
in the Democratic Republic of the Congo? Or drink your way through the state
liquor store (Pennsylvania residents only).
Briefly she's your daughter now.
My daughter briefly dated a Trumpish sort of US exchange student. At the time, it was more the fact that he was the firstborn of a mob family from New Jersey that gave me nightmares. He was an example of excellent behaviour, brought thoughtful presents (the complete works of Toni Morrison, leather bound, a most delectable selection of US jazz classics another day, and so on) and always acoompanied by written invitations from his parents to please come and visit. An Irish cousin living on the East Coast offered to drive by their address one Sunday and sent back what looked like stills from the Godfather movie, a driveway to a mansion, complete with heavy set guards, fat cars bearing men wearing hats arriving and leaving, I could almost see their pinky rings flashing.
ReplyDeleteThe family court - sans daughter - debated almost every night, plotting and arguing until thankfully, daughter sent him packing because really, he was boring.
We met him again a few years ago, he was passing through, again bearing gifts. We had just returned from a holiday in Sicily and I made a joke about you know what. He got very angry and told me that there was No Such Thing as the Mafia, all in the past. Only a thing for the movies. No more xmas cards since then.
I realise this is not the point you were after but I think after that I could handle a Trump geezer any day.
Sabine: Did the family court (sans daughter) come to any conclusions?
ReplyDeleteIt may not have been the point I was after, but it's pretty damn close. Thank you for this most horrid revelation.
Were I in your shoes I would regularly seek advice from that daughter on everything under the sun from now on.
When my daughter was a young and dramatic tween she asked me if there was anything she might do that would make me stop loving her. I laughed and said no. Then, as a joke I said, "Well if you became a Republican, of course" Within 24 hours she was imagining she might be both a Mormon and a Republican. I didn't laugh then. After raising one eyebrow to the ceiling, I ignored her. It passed. Had she become a Mormon, and married in their church in their exclusionary forever model, I would not have been able to attend her wedding because I wouldn't be allowed. That actually horrified me more than her thinking she might grow up to be a Republican. I'm pretty sure I would go to her wedding no matter what. If I was invited.
ReplyDeleteColette: I can't believe it. An excruciating (real!) nightmare from Sabine and now one equally excruciating from you. Illustrating, I think, that parents need patience ("...it passed...") on a grand scale to look after children. In comparison my problems have been titchy. As father of the bride at OS's wedding I chose to ignore tradition by not referring to weddings and/or relations at all and instead aimed to read a famous comic verse (The Rolling English Road, by Chesterton) and a passage from Brazilian Adventure by Peter Fleming (brother of rather more famous Ian) about a hilarious visit to a snake farm. Only to discover at a late date that the groom was a herpetophobe. But then I've rewritten against tight deadlines all my life.
ReplyDeleteI never speak about political things because once you have three or more children, the range of opinions possible is rather larger than expected--and I simply don't judge people according to their political opinions. I feel that is a wrong stance for a writer. I prefer to be interested in and curious about people, not certain types of people.
ReplyDeleteNor do I watch the television news, which is hyperbolic and skewed and often incorrect. I fell out of listening to NPR some years ago when I realized that they were often wrong about my husband's area of expertise and also often wrong about things I knew. Now I just get my news from a range of websites. It's a much calmer way.
Thank you for the sonnet! I am pleased...
Marly: Turn off the sound and simply view the faces of children starving to death in Yemen, others trekking 1000-miles from Honduras into a chilly silence, the crowd of 700,000 that choked the centre of London to protest about the Brexit cock-up, etc, etc. We can all be wrong and sometimes we can be right, it is the human condition. The wheat... the chaff... they're our job.
ReplyDeleteBut without the sound you would have missed the rabbi and the Pittsburgh councilman interviewed by a British TV journalist in Squirrel Hill. The calmness, the sympathy, the articulacy were astonishing. Within two weeks of arriving in the USA to work I was taken to dine "at a Jewish restaurant" in Squirrel Hill. My friend, a Catholic from Rhode Island, complained that the interior was "overlit". It seemed like a very small complaint. Me, I liked the place. It hummed with life and there are times - even retrospectively - when we need that aural confirmation.
I'm pleased you were pleased about the sonnet. I could, of course, have recorded it and thereby undermined whatever value it possessed. Once my speaking voice was nasal, even plaintive; now it is slower, frequently defensive, the regional vowels worn away by longer spells elsewhere than in the West Riding. Given these defects the recording would, I suppose, have been more authentic. Authenticity is synonymous with truth. Was I therefore being evasive in not recording it?