Tristan,
Tomorrow you will be seven years old.
And to celebrate this occasion, your mom and I are going to take you to the Oregon Coast for a few days to torment the starfish and the hermit crabs, because we had such a great time there two years ago. We’ve thought about what to do for you for some time now. That’s because your mom and I have already planned out your entire existence.
In some ways, our plans are coming together perfectly. You haven’t lost any of your hair in any of my numerous diesel/gasoline experiments, for example. I didn’t have to resort to bartering with pagan demons to keep your eyes so very blue. At seven years old, it seems your hands are nearly as large as mine. And when we shower you with affection, you have yet to turn us away.
You also have a way with the ladies. I don’t mean this figuratively. Full grown women ask me for your number. I give them mine, of course, but still. You = The Man.
Of course, I realize that your heart belongs to Dana, even though she is 17 years old and half a world away. I think it’s highly appropriate, if not a little Freudian that you have fallen for a beautiful 6 foot tall Romanian.
Okay, now it’s getting close to time where I become serious, and tell you how proud I am of you. But first, I have to remind you that you need to be proud of who you are. You are the firstborn of two kids who got married almost as soon as they met in the heart of Transilvania. You are Romanian by blood, and you should be proud of this. The Romanians descend from Roman soldiers who ventured across the Danube and were captivated by beautiful Dacian tribeswomen into making babies. In your fair skin and curly, blond hair, I can easily imagine what Trajan himself must have looked like as a child. In your will and determination, I am reminded of his archenemy Decebal, who cut off his own head rather than surrender his honor to the foreigners. You are the product of two very different, and very perfect people.
I’m talking, of course, about me and your mom, not Trajan and Decebal, who were both a little loony, even for those times. I mean, come on. Cutting off your own head? Who does that?
Of course, your mom and I weren’t always perfect. At one point we only had each other, and then we got a dog, which only made it worse. Then we got a cat, and pretty much all hell broke loose.
But then, I went on a trip to Tuskegee, Alabama, and when I returned I found out your mom was pregnant. And of course, in my naivete, I assumed you to be the second son of God.
This is a joke, of course, and not even a good one, because as I write this, it doesn’t matter. I know you’re my son, but even if you weren’t, you would be. And in a way, when I saw you come into the world, I thought again that you were in fact God’s second son, because you were so perfect. And I wanted to wrap you up and take you into hiding because I thought for sure we would be overwhelmed with visitors from the East bringing gifts of myrrh in exchange for hope.
Incidentally, we did get a visit from the Jehovah’s Witnesses, and I winked at the ceiling, saying out loud, ‘Good one, God.’
I merely shut the door on the Witnesses, not because I don’t respect others’ beliefs, but because it was just so damned tiring trying to love you and your mom and to a much lesser extent a dog and cat while I concentrated on finishing college so that we could have a better life, and by better life I mean cable. Here we are 7 years later, and we still don’t have cable.
But we do have another dog.
I digress. What we have is a 7-year-old boy who brings us joy every single day, and when I say joy what I mean is that sometimes you are a pain in the ass, and even in spite of this either one of us would give up any hope for our personal future to keep you safe and sound and happy for just one more hour.
(Don’t get too full of yourself, though, cause I think we gave up on this anyway a long time ago in exchange for a car with air conditioning. And it was sooo worth it. You may have been born in South Carolina, but you didn’t have to live there).
Did you know that in the Bible, God asked Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac as a test of his faith? Abraham actually had him on the altar/pyre, twigs and tinder all around the sweet boy, who innocently asked, ‘Where’s the lamb?’. Abraham I think even poured starter fluid on his boy and had already extended his trusty Bic lighter to the whole thing before God told him he had passed the test, and provided a ram to sacrifice instead of his son, who still never knew how close he came to being burned alive.
Fortunately for you, God knows I would fail this test, because I’m selfish. He knows that I would beg and beg and beg for Him to take my own life before you came to harm, and I would be so insistent and whiny and pathetic that he would give up on giving Man random tests forever after, because of how annoying I would make it. The point is, I didn’t buy you all those video games just to serve you up as a sacrifice. But God also knows how incredibly grateful I am. That while I thumb my nose at the Christians and Jews and Muslims and Buddhists, and to a lesser extent the Iowans, I secretly pray for your safety and happiness when I’m in the room alone. I am the worst kind of hypocrite, I suppose. But my fate is tied up with yours. What happens to you happens to me first and tenfold. Part of me almost hopes that you’ll do something incredibly stupid, like sell my truck to the neighbor for a plate of spaghettios, just so I can look you in the eye and tell you, ‘It doesn’t matter what you do, I’ll always be here for you, in forgiveness and gratitude for being a part of your life.’
‘Now go to your room while daddy wrestles with the neighbor.'
Sometimes you call me Brandon. I have to admit, I like this more than your mom. I’m a little torn between being your friend and being your father. In fact, it still totally freaks me out that I AM a father. I don’t know anything about fatherhood other than what you’ve taught me. And I’m afraid that I’m not a good teacher. You’ll be seven years old tomorrow and I think you might be the only 7-year-old in the whole world that doesn’t know how to tie his own shoes. I’m weird because in a way I think that’s kind of cool. There are certainly better things to learn. You know the difference between a Steller’s Jay and a Blue Jay. The difference between a yellow jacket and a honey bee. You know how to catch dragonflies.
When I was 7, my younger sister would make me angry and I’d pinch her or pull her hair. One time I bit her. When your sister makes you angry, you’re kind and forgiving. One time she tried to bite you, and instead of defending yourself you screamed and ran away. I think this makes you 10 times the man I’ll ever be.
Once, we accused you of doing something we thought you had done, but you didn’t, and you cried because we didn’t believe you. It’s painful to know that I hurt you this way, because trust and love are sisters who will turn upon each other if one gets more attention than the other. I’m proud of you for knowing this. I’m proud of you that you care so much about our trust. I would trust you with my life.
One time, after sending you to the corner, I realized that parents need discipline more than children do, but there’s no one to give it. So the next time I made a mistake, I told you that you could punish me. You sent me to the corner, and you made me stay there a loooong time. It wasn’t fun, but I found myself playing with the light switch. Just like you do.
I want you to know that when you tell Mom a secret, that she keeps it. I want you to know that I would never ask her to share with me what you meant to remain in confidence. And if you ever want to tell me something and not tell another soul in the world, know that I would cut my own heart out before sharing your words with another. Unless they tickled me, and then I would spill it, but you have to understand I cannot physically stand to be tickled.
I want you to know that when I found out you were a boy, I was overjoyed.
I want you to know that I love you and your sister equally.
We still bunk together every few Saturdays. Now that you’re seven, I realize that there’s not too many more of these days.
We watched Return of the Jedi last month, and at the end, when Luke’s father died, you walked out of the room. I thought you were just going to the kitchen to get a drink, but when I found you, you were crying. When I asked you what the matter was, you said that you were sad because his father died. Do you know how amazing this makes you?
For the last year I’ve spent every weekend working on those books, and I’m sorry for all the lost time. And I think it’s great when you interrupt me with your endless questions about praying mantises. Or telling me about how you peed in your own eye and wondered if you had somehow poisoned yourself. I thought that was the funniest thing anyone has ever said.
Tomorrow is June 9th, and it’s your day. And in addition to the presents, I want to give you a gift.
You won’t have any memories of your grandfather, because he died shortly after you met. So I will have to give you those memories. He loved you, and one day perhaps I’ll share with you the secret of the past, and you can return to those days and hear him tell you himself.
I’ll help you this one time, but you’ll eventually need to learn this on your own, because man is not meant to be able to change the course of history, even if those changes only take effect in his own mind. We are supposed to learn from our mistakes, not erase them entirely.
Hold my hand. Don’t think about much. Don’t think of anything connected to modern times. Think about sitting on the shores of a lake, tossing stones into the water. Think about tasting blackberries and the sound of tree frogs in the night. Now turn around. You’re standing on a dusty street besides the tallest man you’ve ever seen. He has steel blue eyes and hands like large stones. He is staring up at the second story window of a concrete building. He waves to a woman who is holding a newborn child. It’s very cold, because it’s January 9th.
He smiles, but it’s not the kind of smile you’re surrounded with, day in and day out. This is the smile of a father who has seen his first three children, all boys, die at birth. The child he is watching is a daughter, his second. It’s your mom. It’s important to remember this smile, which doesn’t seem like a smile, because it’s like the legend of a map. No matter where you travel in your grandfather’s history, this smile will keep you oriented.
Now turn back towards the lake. It’s gone, of course, replaced by what looks like a basketball court. But instead of basketball goals, there are small nets that you might see on a soccer field. You are watching a handball match. Your grandfather stands and watches the action with intent. He should. He was one of the country’s best at handball before he succumbed to alcohol and tobacco. Still, he always dreamed of standing along the sidelines and watching his son achieve the glory that escaped his grasp.
You look to the court, however, and see that all the players are girls. One, much quicker and much taller than the rest takes the ball from the other team, outruns them all to half-court and fires like a cannon as the clock expires. She scores, in a feat so amazing that the crowd quietens. No man could ever score from such a distance. That girl is your mom. Now look back at your grandfather. Do you recognize that smile? That is the smile of a man whose child has realized his lost glory.
Your mom would later go on to be the greatest handball player Sibiu has ever known, joining the national team as a teenager. She would suffer a knee injury that would slow her down just enough for me to catch her, and steal her from your blood country as a wide-eyed, and hard-hitting, 18-year old girl.
Now turn from the lake once more, Tristan. You are standing in a small room. Do you recognize the blond haired, blue eyed baby in the playpen? That’s you. And the little you is looking up at the tallest man he’s ever seen. The man looks different to you, because he has wasted away. But his hands are like stone, and his eyes like blue steel, and you think you recognize him. He looks down at you and there it is. Do you remember this smile?
I wanted to bring you here because you should know how proud he was of you. Though he died just a week after having met you, he smiled at you like he smiled upon your mom, in that same sense of glory and fulfillment. You made his days go lightly, and it’s a talent you share with all of us.
Now turn a final time. Do you see me? It’s not the same smile as your grandfather’s. It’s the confused look of a man who doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do for his son on the event of his seventh birthday. This is new ground for me because I have no experience sharing a birthday with a father as a 7-year-old boy. Bear with me, and be patient. I plan on doing this as many times as necessary until I get it right.
Tomorrow is your birthday. And no starfish or hermit crab from here to Astoria will be safe.
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