The Budget of Paradox

July 27, 2023
Sophia,
“Free, White and 21” is something my mother used to say. It symbolizes true individual freedom in America. Is it racist? I don’t know; maybe a little. But she grew up in another era. And you’re growing up in Lynchburg. Either way, a little bit of racism is tolerated, I’m sure.

Morey’s birthday is not lost on me. Hard to believe she’s 21. I feel like an old man writing this, but I remember the day she was born. You probably know that Morey was born several weeks premature. I remember your mother called me at work and told me that her water had just broke, and she was in labor. She quickly went to the hospital in Lihue, on the east side island of Kauai. But I was way out on the Westside, and it was a long drive to reach her. I drove too fast and I didn’t even stop for red lights. I was panicked, but my panic had only begun.

Your mom holds Morey when she was just a few hours old.

After I got to the airport and bought a ticket, I remember standing at the gate. I think it was Gate 6; that’s the gate in Lihue where Hawaiian flights to Honolulu normally departed from. The boarding area has a wide-open view of the runways. I stood there and watching the air ambulance take off. At the time, I loved your mother and Morey very much. The people I loved the most were on that plane, and they were in danger. And all I could do was stand there, helplessly, and watch them take off into the night sky.

The next day, a doctor in Honolulu scared the Hell out of me by telling your mother and me that Morey could be born with terrible disabilities. She might be retarded. She might never be able to feed herself or use a toilet by herself. I was more than scared. I was living a nightmare.

The next day, July 27, 2002, at about 17 minutes past 1:00 AM, Morey was born. When they wheeled your mother’s bed into the delivery room, we were alone. But I was shocked at how quickly the room filled up. Suddenly, there were two doctors, five nurses, aides, assistants, respiratory specialists, neonatal specialists, lab technicians, and God knows who else. There must have been 20 people in the room.

They quickly put Morey in an incubator and started hooking her up to machines. They told us to come to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) when we were ready, but they expected your mom to sleep for a while first. But she couldn’t sleep. Neither could I. About two hours later, I was pushing your mom in a wheelchair down a long hall towards the NICU when I collapsed. I was overcome by emotion and exhaustion. Your heart can only race – and break – continuously, for a certain amount of time. At some point, your body will make you sit and take a break. The body keeps score.

Twenty-one years ago today…. it was the most frightening day of my life. And I say that as someone who’s been in two wars, and flown in a small plane, at night, far beyond friendly lines.

God Bless You, Morey, or Percy, wherever you are. You’re never too far from my heart.

My dear Sophia,
Here’s a song from your iPod… Heaven or Las Vegas by Cocteau Twins. If you’ve seen the other letters I’ve written, you know I bought you an iPod for your birthday last year. I filled it with songs from my life and my youth. Behind many of the songs, there’s a story. I wanted you to have it not only to expose you to some new music, but to help you understand a bit about my life and who I am.

Back in high school, my first serious girlfriend introduced me to the Cocteau Twins. They’re from Scotland and I really like Elizabeth Fraser’s voice. Many years later, I saw the Cocteau Twins in concert at the famous Warfield Theater in San Francisco.

Lots of their songs have special place in my heart. “Heaven or Las Vegas” is one of them. Some of the lyrics:

Am I just in heaven or Las Vegas
It’s so much more brighter than the sun is to me
The chill must itch in my soul
That’s like any old playing card
It must be why I’m thinking of Las Vegas
It’s why it’s more brighter than the sun is to me

I’ll send you the iPod anytime you want. I’d love for you to have it. I want to share so many things with you. The world is such a big, wonderful, horrifying, amazing place. Part of my job as a dad (if you’ll let me) is to show you around a bit.

I’d love to know what you’re doing this summer.

I hope you’re well.

I love you,
Dad

Sophia,
For your 13th birthday, I sent you a $200 gift card to The Fresh Market. I had seen photos of you helping you mom cook. I thought maybe you liked to cook. It was just a guess. I wanted to get you a gift I thought you might like. I wrote you a letter and encouraged you to go shopping and try to cook something new.

You never wrote back. I have no idea if you ever got it.

Anyway, I suggested that you learn to cook a proper steak sandwich. Your mom used to like them back when we were married. I didn’t know how to cook steak back then. Learning how to properly cook steak is something I’ve learned living on my own.

I encouraged you to try Gordon Ramsay’s idea of a steak sandwich.

But now, I encourage you to try Guga’s idea of a steak sandwich. I haven’t made this version myself yet, but I will soon. I really like Guga’s ideas. If you need more money to go grocery shopping, let me know.

I wish I knew you better. Maybe you hate to cook. Maybe you like something else instead. I wish I knew. I hope you have a hobby that you’re passionate about; something that intrigues you and draws you in. Whatever it is, I hope you can be really good at it. Having a hobby is important, especially if it’s completely different from your “day job”.

Eighty years ago, the emperor of Japan was a man named Hirohito. He was a statesman, a military officer, and he had university degrees in economics and philosophy. But in his spare time, he studied – of all things – marine biology. He even built a small laboratory in his house. For a few very specific aspects of marine biology, he was the world’s foremost expert. He even published a few papers. No one paid him; he never had a job as a marine biologist. It was his hobby; his way of staying sane: perfection, patience, passion.

I hope you become really good at something.

Missing you, Dad

Sophia,
Do you like your name? I never had the chance to ask you. Obviously, we know how Morey feels about her name. Ironically, your mother and I quickly agreed on her name. But your name was in dispute for a long time, almost up until the time you were born. I didn’t realize it at the time, but Sophia is was the #1 or #2 most popular name for girls in the USA in 2008. If I had known that, I might have voted for something else. I mean, it’s not a bad name, but who wants to have the most popular name?

Mock me if you will, but I still like Dagmar. Your mother wanted Izzy.

Anyway, I was reminded today of this clip from a movie. Have you seen it?

http://black.blue/fl … /WhiteTrashNames.mp3

Sophia,
The last thing you remember about me is that I walked out of your life. Morey, too. She was just six-and-a-half when I left for Iraq. It was meant to be a short deployment. I should have been back before she turned seven.

I imagine that if someone were to ask you about your father, all you’d really be able to say is that he walked out on you. That’s fair. I mean, that’s what happened.

But that’s not the full story, not by a long shot. When you were old enough to travel by yourself (in my opinion), I started actively inviting you to come visit me. Check out the YouTube video I made about Christmas 2021. Read more; I invited you to Mexico City many times. To force you to wait until you’re 18 seems stupid to me. What’s the point?

Dad