This time he meant it, and from our wobbly kitchen table, while flicking cigarette ash into a pile of unwashed dishes, he taught me literature, philosophy, geography, history, and some nameless subject that involved going through the daily newspapers, barking at me about how the media do something he called “whipping up moral panics” and demanding that I tell him why people allowed themselves to be whipped into panicking, morally. Other times he gave classes from his bedroom, among hundreds of secondhand books, pictures of grave-looking dead poets, empty long necks of beer, newspaper clippings, old maps, black stiff banana peels, boxes of unsmoked cigars, and ashtrays full of smoked ones.
This was a typical lesson:
“OK, Jasper. Here it is: The world’s not falling apart imperceptibly anymore, these days it makes a loud shredding noise! In every city of the world, the smell of hamburgers marches brazenly down the street looking for old friends! In traditional fairy tales, the wicked witch was ugly; in modern ones, she has high cheekbones and silicone implants! People are not mysterious because they never shut up! Belief illuminates the way a blindfold does! Are you listening, Jasper? Sometimes you’ll be walking in the city late at night, and a woman walking in front of you will spin her head around and then cross the street simply because some members of your gender rape women and molest children!”
Each class was equally bewildering, covering a diverse range of topics. He tried to encourage me to engage him in Socratic dialogues, but he wound up doing both parts himself. When there was a blackout during an electrical storm, Dad would light a candle and hold it under his chin to show me how the human face becomes a mask of evil with the right kind of lighting. He taught me that if I had to meet someone for an appointment, I must refuse to follow the “stupid human habit” of arbitrarily choosing a time based on fifteen-minute intervals. “Never meet people at 7:45 or 6:30, Jasper, but pick times like 7:12 and 8:03!” If the phone rang, he’d pick it up and not say anything- then, when the other person said hello, he would put on a wobbly, high-pitched voice and say, “Dad not home.” Even as a child I knew that a grown man impersonating his six-year-old son to hide from the world was grotesque, but many years later I found myself doing the same thing, only I’d pretend to be him. “My son isn’t home. What is this regarding?” I’d boom. Dad would nod in approval. More than anything, he approved of hiding.
These lessons continued into the outside world too, where Dad tried to teach me the art of bartering, even though we weren’t living in that type of society. I remember him taking me by the hand to buy the newspaper, screaming at the baffled vendor, “No wars! No market crashes! No killers on the loose! What are you charging so much for? Nothing’s happened!”
I also remember him sitting me on a plastic yellow chair and cutting my hair; to him, it was one of those things in life that was so unlike brain surgery he refused to believe that if a man had a pair of hands and a pair of scissors he couldn’t cut hair. “I’m not wasting money on a barber, Jasper. What’s to know? Obviously, you stop at the scalp.” My father the philosopher- he couldn’t even give a simple haircut without reflecting on the meaning of it. “Hair, the symbol of virility and vitality, although some very flaccid people have long hair and many vibrant baldies walk the earth. Why do we cut it anyway? What have we got against it?” he’d say, and let fly at the hair with wild, spontaneous swipes. Dad cut his own hair too, often without use of a mirror. “It doesn’t have to win any prizes,” he’d say, “it just has to be shorter.” We were father and son with such demented, uneven hair- embodiments of one of Dad’s favorite ideas that I only truly understood much later: there’s freedom in looking crazy.
At nightfall, the day’s lessons were capped with a bedtime story of his own invention. Yuck! They were always dark and creepy tales, and each had a protagonist that was clearly a surrogate me. Here’s a typical one: Once upon a time there was a little boy named Kasper. Kasper’s friends all had the same ideas about a fat kid who lived down the street. They hated him. Kasper wanted to remain friends with the group, so he started hating the fat kid too. Then one morning Kasper woke up to find his brain had begun to putrefy until eventually it ran out his bottom in painful anal secretions. Poor Kasper! He really had a tough time of it. In that series of bedtime stories, he was shot, stabbed, bludgeoned, dipped in boiling seas, dragged over fields of shattered glass, had his fingernails ripped out, his organs devoured by cannibals; he vanished, exploded, imploded, and often succumbed to violent spasms and hearing loss. The moral was always the same: if you follow public opinion without thinking for yourself, you will die a sudden and horrific death. For ages I was terrified of agreeing with anyone about anything, even the time.
Kasper never triumphed in any significant way. Sure, he won little battles now and then and was rewarded (two gold coins, a kiss, the approval of his father), but never, not once, did he win the war. Now I realize it was because Dad’s philosophy had won him few personal victories in life: not love, not peace, not success, not happiness. Dad’s mind couldn’t imagine a lasting peace or a meaningful victory; it wasn’t in his experience. That’s why Kasper was doomed from the outset. He didn’t stand a chance, poor bastard.
One of the most memorable classes began when Dad entered my bedroom with an olive-green shoebox under his arm, and said “Today’s lesson is about you.”
He took me to the park opposite our apartment building, one of those sad, neglected city parks that looked as if it had been the location of a war between children and junkies and the children got their arses kicked. Dead grass, broken slides, a couple of rubber swings drifting in the wind on tangled, rusty chains.
“Look, Jasper,” Dad said as we settled on a bench. “It’s about time you found out how your grandparents fucked up, so you can work out what you did with the failures of your antecedents: did you run with them or ricochet against their errors, instead making your own huge gaffes in an opposing orbit? We all crawl feebly away from our grandparents’ graves with their sad act of dying ringing in our ears, and in our mouths we have the aftertaste of their grossest violation against themselves: the shame of their unlived lives. It’s only the steady accumulation of regrets and failures and our shame or our unlived lives that opens the door to understanding them. If by some quirk of fate we led charmed lives, bounding energetically from one masterful success to another, we’d never understand them! Never!”
He opened the shoebox. “I want you to look at something,” Dad said, scooping out a pile of loose photographs. “This is your grandfather,” he continued, holding up a black-and-white picture of a young man with a beard leaning against a streetlamp. The man wasn’t smiling; it looked like he was leaning on that streetlamp for fear of falling.
Dad switched to a photograph of a young woman with a plain, oval face and a weak smile. “This is your grandmother,” he said before he flipped through the photographs as if he were being timed. What glimpses of the monochromatic past I caught were puzzling. Their expressions were unchanging; my grandfather wore a permanently angst-ridden grimace, while my grandmother’s smile looked more depressing than the saddest frown.
Dad pulled out another photograph. “This is father number two. My real father. People always think biological is more ‘real’ than a man who actually raised you, but you’re not raised by a potent drop of semen, are you?”