May 2001

Missing the American Dream

I am the kind of person who makes himself miserable thinking about my own missed opportunities. Some nights my mind wanders into a high school dance or middle school classroom when I said nothing, or what's worse, something terrible. It could have been an opportunity to get a piece, or a question I should have known. The torture is detrimental to my health.

Please, don't worry. I don't get suicidal. I am not stupid. My problem with the past is that I won't let it leave me alone. This past I speak of is always my own. Not only am I not stupid enough to think about eating a bullet, I don't waste my time thinking how other people could have made their life different. Thankfully, I have grown up to realize that trying to help other people is a losing proposition. That saves me time for myself.

That being said, and despite all of my training and practice, I have spent the last couple of weeks bothered by something not directly relating to me. I am upset that I never met my father's father.

You see, my grandfather, died thirteen or fourteen years before I was born. I have no photo of baby me in his arms. I never said a bad thing to him. I never ignored a visit of his to watch MTV. He was gone long before my father contemplated having me.

Two weeks ago, for the first time in my life, I saw a picture of the house he built. The house is not huge or complicated. It is a simple, brick house in upstate New York built by my grandfather for his wife and five kids. As far as I knew, until then, my father grew up in a house like I did: previously owned.

But alas, my grandfather did build his own house. He lived out an important aspect of the myth that is "The American Dream." That Dream is about starting with nothing, or next to that, and making something out of it. For many, the United States is a country that allows you to make a life for yourself.

Like all American's, I descend from immigrants. Each person has his or her own story of trials and tribulations. I have always respected the hard work of the generation that went before me. They worked harder to make a life for themselves than I have at any time in my life. My grandfather is a tribute to the possibilities both in America and every individual.

Basically, my grandfather moved out of the city into a home he built with his own hands. His hands. Those same hands held my father when he was a baby. Those hands played catch with my father.

Those hands of his never held me. I never had the opportunity to learn one thing from him. For me, having one lesson would be enough.

(Even I am bothered by how self centered I am about this. My father and his siblings lost more than I can ever know. But I do not think with respect to others too well. I like to mourn for myself.)

Most people have an opportunity to know their parents, for better and for worse. A few lucky people have an opportunity to know their grandparents as adults. I am not asking for that. In fact, I can't say for certain what it is that I do want. I know that I regret not meeting him. I hope that it would have been wonderful

* * *

I do not talk about my grandfather much with my father. I don't know how to talk about his father with him. When I want to, I chicken out. So now, I not only regret never meeting him, I consider doing penance for not asking more about him.