The Talk with My Dad I Wish I’d Had

Recently, as I was writing a memoir, I gained a new emotional perspective on my family, and especially on my father. The exercise of revisiting my early life then led me to envision the conversation I would have with him now.

Then. After working all night as manager in a bakery, my dad would come home to our apartment on 22nd Street in Brooklyn and settle into his morning routine. He’d brew some coffee, sit down at the kitchen table, and begin dunking buttered rolls into hot coffee and immersing himself in the Daily News. I often complained that he should have been reading the more sophisticated New York Times, or the Forward, to get more news about the situation of the Jews in Europe during the war.

Now. Dad, I’m happy to see how much you’re enjoying your roll, coffee, and newspaper. I’m sure the Daily News is fun to read. I appreciate how hard you worked all night to put a roof over our heads and provide for us. Our home is filled with the aroma of those fresh onion rolls and the sliced Jewish rye bread that you always remember to bring home for us. We savor those — so generously buttered. Please enjoy your few moments of relaxation.

Then. My aunts and uncles had a poor opinion of my dad because he didn’t earn as much money as they did, and they made it known with cryptic remarks. He most likely developed a poor image of himself and was self-conscious in their company. He might have felt that we shared that impression of him, since we were certainly aware of the murmurs. Why didn’t I defend him? Was I too young to understand and speak out against all of those uncaring adults? Or not strong enough?