I wanted to write another one, this time a dedicated post about what I feel about circumcision, but even after reading this incredible article, I know we'll have to do it. I've talked to people at work, some of them had to do it later in life, whether for medical reasons or because at the age of 27, they were sick of being called Russell. I understand why some people think it's a horrible thing. I understand it all. But at least after talking to other people I know I'm not doing it for some random religious idea, but because I've come to believe it's the right thing to do for Jr.
And if he comes later in life to resent the choices I've made for him, and if later in life he comes to see this as the first of many betrayals, then all I can do is apologize in advance and reiterate my promise to always do what I think is right for him. There's no manual to life but the worst you can do is fail, which isn't a big deal, after all. Now, parenting--that's a different issue. He will trust me to take care of him, to guide him, to teach him, to love him, and to know him as the individual he will become, and failure is not an option.
So with that, I thought it was the right time to reprint this essay I wrote a few years ago. If you've read this far then I know you'll enjoy it because I used to be a better writer then.
One Day I Cried
One day I was playing with a girl from my class. Her name was Meital, and I liked her. This piece is not about her. It's also not about her father, who grabbed me by my ten-year-old neck and lifted me up, moved me around, carried me an inch off the wall, warned me never to come near Meital again, and dropped me on the ground. The piece is about my father, who ten minutes later told Meital's father that if he ever came near me again he would kill him. Meital's father started explaining what had happened, but my father told him to shut up, and that the conversation was over.
It's the same guy who laughed when I burnt my finger and screamed when I was four-years-old. I'm still scared of fire. The same guy that embarrassed me for years because he insisted on wearing a stupid furry hat when he started going bald. The other kids used to call me "The Russian." The same guy who told me every night to brush my teeth, until one night I asked him to say "Good night" once in a while instead of "Brush your teeth," and he smiled and said, "Good night." Then, when I walked to my bedroom, he shouted, "And brush your teeth," and laughed.
One day, in the car, he told me a story. A fairy tale, perhaps. A young Prince was having a ball in the palace. While he was standing by the door, welcoming his guests, he accidentally farted. Yes, farted. Everyone started whispering: "Did you hear that? Who...? You think...?" After all, the future of the country was at stake. Suddenly, a poor young woman, one of the Prince's maids, approached the group of distinguished guests, lifted her head, and said, "I was the one who farted. It was I." Naturally, the Prince was so moved by this gesture, that he married the woman the next day, and they lived happily ever after.
In my father's tale, the Prince married the maid because she said she farted. I mean, this guy doesn't make any sense.
One day we were watching television, and he said the conductor in a weekend talk-show orchestra used to be with him in the army. Then, every Friday, the family would sit in front of the television at 8 pm, and every time David Kriboshe's face appeared on the screen, my father would say he was with him in the army. I thought it was sad that people saw themselves in the context of others, and I thought I wouldn't be like my father when I grew up. I would be somebody. I would be the reference point.
When I'm a father, I thought, I would hug my son every night and tell him how much I loved him; and I would never hit him; and I wouldn't spend family meals alone in front of the television; and I would always know how old my son was, and who his teachers were; and I would never wear silly hats to embarrass him; and I would set a good example.
And one day I got home from the army and cried because my friend died from a landmine in Lebanon. My father took the backpack off my shoulder, put it away in my room, and asked me to follow him to the car. We drove to Jaffa and sat on a bench in the old city, overlooking the peaceful skyline of Tel Aviv. We sat there, and I cried, and he hugged me and cried, too, because his son was suffering, and he couldn't handle this first experience of watching his son carrying so much pain. And I realized nothing was his fault, because he didn't know better; because there was probably a moral in that story, and she was now a princess; and he was just worried about my teeth, because the dentist took away his when he was twenty; and I could see the helplessness in his sad eyes, and I realized he was crying in my arms just like I was crying in his.
I had to overcome my don'ttouchmycomputerphobia to put him there.
