The letters continue with more “Arlene, you are my everything” and “Without you, I don’t exist.” I still feel like I’m invading into a very personal space by reading these.
Staying in Okinawa gave Mickey access to china at great prices. Of course, he was buying a set of dishes for his and Arlene’s new life together. Over the course of the letters, they discuss which patterns they like, where will it be shipped, etc. Mickey said he preferred to buy outright, not dealing with monthly payments and terms. That is a practice that I was always raised to do – if I couldn’t afford something outright, then I shouldn’t buy it at all. (This was the complete opposite of my ex-husband, who never hesitated to come home with something big and shiny, no matter how it was paid for. This included a boat.)
As sensible as he was about purchasing things, he was equally romantic about finances. In his mind, they “will always be wealthy in love and happiness, even if we don’t have a penny to our names.”
They often discussed my mom’s nursing training, and the patients she had been assigned. In this letter Mickey marveled at the human spirit, where a very ill boy has such a sweet personality while there other kids who are healthy and then get into heaps of trouble. He chalks it up to not being able to understand G-d’s ways for why things are the way they are. But, he adds, he has complete confidence in “him” and is certain he knows what he’s doing. This is another moment in time where I am moved by the fact that he had no way of knowing how life was going to work out.
If there is one thing that friends know about me, it’s this formula: Me + sports = disaster. I don’t play them. I don’t really watch them (except some baseball and only at the stadium, with a hot dog and a cold beer). Don’t ask me who is the kicker for the Packers, I have no clue. When people use sports analogies in business meetings, I smile and pump my fist like I know what they are talking about. A guy I knew in college talked about a girl giving him the “Heisman” and I had no clue what he meant by that. (This was pre-Google times of course.)
Now, this doesn’t mean that I am not athletic. I live for the endorphins I get from a good workout. I’ve run 4 half marathons. Pre-COVID, I hit our gym five, okay usually four, days a week. Since we’ve been homebound, I’ve been working on my yoga practice with online classes and I’m proud to say I can do a headstand and forearm stand. But these aren’t team sports, where individuals work toward a common goal.
Why wasn’t I into sports? There had to be a reason. I looked back to my youth. I did all the physical education I had to in elementary school. I mean, the Square Dancing unit really set me up for success in life. The fact that I was chubby didn’t do me any favors when it came to the Presidential fitness test Endurance Run challenge, which was really only a one mile run around the playground. I always came in last.
I remember taking ballet lessons. My friends were all signed up for t-ball league so I did that too. Although I was the only one that the coaches had to come to home plate for and lower the tee. I still remember the chuckles from the parents watching in the bleachers when that happened. Yeah, I’m a short person, which means I was a shrimpy kid.
I did what any grown adult does. I went straight to my mom to ask why I didn’t play any sports. Her answer: “Well, if you were any good at them, I would have made you play.” So there you have it.
Imagine my surprise and delight when I come across a letter from Mickey that talks about having enough kids to have a sports team. Of course, this was in the context of having a family. There was never any intention to have training sessions or speed drills in the backyard. But it makes me smile to think about my father did have that sports mindset. And how I might have had one too, had he lived.
Jennifer Grey is the mom (!!!!) in the show Red Oaks. PHOTO: imdb
Growing up in the 80s, my stepfather used to refer to Asian people as Oriental. (Come to think of it, he reminded me of Richard Kind’s character Sam Meyers in the Amazon series Red Oaks, who has an unsettling fixation on Asian women. The series begins in a New Jersey suburb in 1985 and that’s all you need to know. Go watch all four seasons on Amazon Prime NOW.) Our formal dining room was decorated with a Far East motif, including ceramic geishas (I think) and byobu, Japanese folding screens.
Time to get uncomfortable
While doing the research for this project, I shouldn’t have been surprised to find similar references to Asian culture. In a letter to my mom, my dad brings up his “Oriental” pen pal. Cue my cringe and me exclaiming “How can he be saying this?” The term “Oriental” describes rugs or a style of medicine, not people. Back in earlier times, the term was used to describe the eastern part of the world and people who originated from there. (Occident was used to describe the western part of the world, though I’ve never known anyone who’s been called an “Occidental.”) I found this video extremely informative so please check it out:
When I was young, the word “retarded” was used to denigrate someone or something that was deemed to be not normal or just different. Everyone used it, but that’s no excuse. Neither is being a kid – we can always be taught to be better. I hate the saying “Times were different back then.” It’s a way to dismiss bad or ill-informed behavior without any kind of consequences for being wrong. Shouldn’t there be consequences or is the progression of thinking a form of redemption for everyone?
Another tragic effect from this horrible pandemic has been the harm to Asian American communities; not only through loss of businesses but in a dramatic rise in physical attacks against people. I was looking to hire someone to help me with my resume and had been talking to several people. I liked what one guy had to say, but the minute he referenced the pandemic using a racist term, I knew I couldn’t do business with him. When he followed up with me several weeks later, I told him why he didn’t get the job. I never heard back from him. Doing that didn’t take much courage, and it was the right thing to do. I’m going to do more of that.
I mentioned previously my Uncle Michael, my father’s best friend.
Michael is on the left.
Michael wasn’t drafted – he had already earned his Associate’s degree and was working during the day and going to Brooklyn College full time in the evenings, studying to be an oenologist. He worked a bit for Monarch Wine Company, testing wines for sugar and alcohol content.
FUN FACT: You may not recognize the name Monarch, but everyone is familiar with Manischewitz wines, which was licensed by Monarch in 1934. Post Prohibition, Monarch was keen to market wine with a name already recognized and trusted by many Jewish people. They produced the wine in picturesque Industry City in the Sunset Park neighborhood in Brooklyn.
Bet you didn’t know Sammy Davis Jr. was a spokesperson for Manischewitz???
Michael and my Aunt Roz were married in February 1966. They had practically parallel lives to my mom and Mickey. Both moved to NJ and had two kids, an older son and younger daughter. Even though my mom was remarried to my stepfather, I always thought of my uncle as kind of my second dad, since he was the closest person after my mom to have known my father. I thought being around him was what it was like to be with my dad. I remember going to a Yankee game with him and my mom when I was young – the only professional sports event I had ever attended. I know my dad liked baseball, and for this reason it’s always been my preferred sport to watch, as a way to be close to him somehow. (Also, it is extremely slow and easy to follow.)
Tragically, Michael passed away suddenly on March 6, 1991. It’s been thirty years that he’s been gone and I still remember exactly what I was doing and where I was at the time. I was in high school and in my bedroom at home. My best friend came over to comfort me and I cried so hard.
In this letter he talks about slacking off and not “sweating the small stuff.” I wholeheartedly subscribe to this policy. A lot of life is small stuff. Knowing how to discern the small from the big, that takes skill.
A side benefit as I tackle this project is the pleasure of learning about pop culture during this time. “The Les Crane Show” – a show Mickey enjoyed – aired in 1963 and was on for about a year, going head-to- head in a battle against The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson. PS. He lost.
He was a jack of all trades: beginning his career in radio, then moving to TV and then computer software. Does anyone younger than 45 remember Mavis Beacon typing lessons? Well, Les Crane was the chairman of the company that made “Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing.” According the the New York Times obituary from 2008, he was deemed an original “shock-jock” because he invited guests such as George Wallace and Lee Harvey Oswald’s mother onto his show. He sometimes hung up on viewers who called in to his show, a big faux pas back then.
The next letter I read was from February 1966. (I had to skip January letters because so many letters are all just “Arlene, I love you” or “Arlene, you are my life.”) I’ve never known anyone to love another being like this, except in fictional stories, from the words of great legendary authors. When I began this project, I wanted to know more about the kind of person my dad was. The single most important thing I’ve learned was how deeply someone can love another person.
He mentions Valentine’s Day and because we just made it through the same day 55 years later, I have to post some of the cards that he sent during this time. What was it about graphic art back in the 1960’s? This is an invitation for anyone who knows more about this topic to please get in touch with me. These are some of the wackiest, zaniest and borderline-terrifying images I’ve seen. The insides of the cards ran a bit on the edgier side, so I’m not including some of them. Enjoy.
In this letter Mickey mentions getting a letter from Benjy, who was my mom’s younger brother. (I’ve mentioned my Aunt Roz in previous posts, Arlene’s older sister by 14 months. My mom also has another younger sister, my Aunt Annie.) My Uncle Benjy was the first gay person I knew. He hated the name Benjy and legally changed it to Greg when he got older. My grandparents still called him Benjy, and our birthday cards were always signed “Love, Uncle GregBen.” When I was little, we didn’t really know what being gay meant beyond knowing he had a boyfriend. All I remember was that he was lots of fun to be around. I can still remember his laugh, and how we used to just crack up over silly things. He died in 1996, from numerous complications from HIV. He was 37 years old.
My uncle Greg/Ben
Like a lot of the letters, Mickey talks of having children in this one. My mom explained to me that their plans were to have two children, and then adopt two children. One of the hardest things to read in these letters is all of the future plans that never got fulfilled.
In addition to learning the basics about Mickey, the letters give insight into exactly the kind of person he was. It’s already been established that he was just “such a good person.” But reading his own words drive this home over and over. He talks of what it’s like to argue with someone you love.
Last week was the first time my brother Andy (yes just like my husband), and I talked about Mickey. (Though his given name was Ralph Michael Marks, everyone called him Mickey. It’s weird to refer to my father by a nickname, and not call him “Dad” or “Daddy.” But we never had a chance to form any kind of bond or deep relationship with him. And because there was never that familiarity, he’s always been this omni-present stranger in our lives.)
Andy’s never read these letters. He felt that they were too personal, too intimate to read. I would repeatedly ask him over the years if he ever wanted to read them. A quiet and firm “no, thank you” was always his answer.
I’m sure there’s another photo of Andy clutching a KISS album.
It sounds really bizarre that we’ve never talked about this tragedy. When we were younger, we were close, and we’d make up silly games to play. But never once did we talk about Mickey together. And we knew not to ask about the fine details because we didn’t want to upset our mom. It was as if any question could re-open a wound that never quite healed.
As we talk, neither of us is wistful nor sad. Just matter-of-fact, like we were discussing the weather. We considered what kind of people we would have turned out to be, had circumstances been different. Andy thinks he’d be less self-critical, maybe more confident. Sometimes I think the same about myself. But we’ll never know.
How can you mend a broken heart?
Barbra Streisand, who also lost her father when she was an infant, has spoken about how this experience has affected her life, article here: http://bit.ly/3p4zwgo. (Trivia note: This is not the only thing we have in common with her. She attended Erasmus Hall High School in Brooklyn, the school that our stepfather taught at for years. Second Streisand trivia note: Some of my favorite memories are driving to my cousins’ house in Hackettstown, NJ while my mom belted out the entire Guilty Duets album with Barry Gibb.)
STILL ONE OF MY FAVORITE ALBUMS EVER.
In an interview she mentions how during tough times in her life, she looked to her father for answers and guidance. It made me think – Did I ever do that? It was only during seminal moments in my life. When I graduated college. When I got married. It was a quick status check-in, usually framed around “Hey, you seeing this?” As if I just wanted him to know what I was up to, checking the box on accomplishing big events.
Now, don’t judge me here, but when Andy and I talked, it was also the first time I learned the meaning of Pink Floyd’s The Wall album. Andy’s a huge musicophile, so he knows a lot about certain bands and albums. He taught me that when he was in college, this album touched Andy the most. It was all about how Roger Waters dealt with being a rock star, and he built a wall between him and the world. He started with the death of his father in the war, who died before he was born. His dad’s death was “the first brick” in the wall.
Losing my father left an exposure, something incomplete. But rather than close myself off, I think I did the opposite – welcome everything and anything in, to help fill the void.
My father was assigned to Communications. In this letter he mentions a new technology where messages are transmitted and received simultaneously from other countries. He marvels at this – and it made me sad because it just hit home the myriad things that he never got to experience. The internet. Email. Mobile phones. GPS. Netflix. Cat videos. The 1986 World Series Mets. Digital music. Online anything. Meatless meat. On demand EVERYTHING.
For anyone who’s lost someone you were close to, there are times when you could find yourself saying “Oh, So-and-so would have loved to see/hear/do this!” But it’s never happened in my family. We never discussed what he may have thought, or how he might have reacted to…well, pretty much anything. It is too painful to wonder. To let in the mind space that there could have been more life with my dad in it, is to open back up the grief for a life cut too short.
Entertaining even a notion about what my dad would have thought about driverless cars just was too much to bear.
This letter is really long so I’m only posting a portion of it. It’s Mickey recounting a letter his father, Albert (my Poppa), wrote to him while he was stationed in Okinawa.
(In case you don’t know where Okinawa is:)
This is where my father was stationed. He never had to go to Vietnam.
Since I never got to see my father with his parents, this section ( second and third paragraphs) shows a slice of how they were to each other.
Even after my father had passed, my Nana and Poppa still came to visit us, even after my mom got married again. They were so loving toward each other and just great to visit with. My Poppa would walk us to elementary school in the morning or meet us to walk me and my brother home.
They were the kindest and gentlest people and were crushed when my father died so suddenly. I don’t think they ever got over the loss.
Learning about the father I never knew, in his own words.
