The pain of silence

The pain of silence

by Jennifer Vanasco - SGN Contributing Writer For the past two years, I have been courting the attention of my father. It started when I visited Jordan, in March 2006. I stood at the reedy, mucky place where Jesus was baptized in the River Jordan, and thought of forgiveness. I mailed him a circle of Rosary beads made from Jordanian olivewood, blessed, the shop proprietor told me, by the Pope. I was skittery with expectation and hope. Those beads were a talisman, a magical thought made real. How could he refuse to acknowledge me if I was sending him a gift from deep in his own, closely held, religious tradition? My dad was Catholic; I grew up Protestant. He was never happy about that - he thought my mom and her family had covertly prodded me into the wrong religion when no one was looking. One day, in fourth grade, I was driving with my dad through our smart suburban town, when we passed a local girls' school, Saint Mary's. "Who's Saint Mary?" I asked him. I don't know if I really didn't know, or if I was only asking to ask. I had learned early on that my dad liked showing his knowledge off. "You don't know who Saint Mary is?" his voice boomed in the tiny car. I cowered a little. "That damned church of your mother's. I'm enrolling you in Catholic school on Monday." He didn't and I felt saved. I never mentioned saints again. But church was only one of our many core differences. My dad thinks in numbers and results; I think in words and feelings. My dad is a social conservative Republican. I'm a liberal Democrat. My dad lives in the same town he grew up in, surrounded by many of the same friends, with the same career he has had since the military; I look for new experiences and hop jobs. I don't know what he thinks about Gay civil rights, but since he stopped speaking to me when his girlfriend expressed alarm at my Gayness, I'm doubting we'd agree. In the tug-of-war between my practical father and my visionary mother, I tended to side with my mom. My mom constantly told us that we could be anything - president, an astronaut, a famous writer. For my dad, regular life was good enough. You work, you come home, you have a beer. On the weekends you play ball with your friends and go to mass. But when I was young, that life seemed cramped and unimaginative to me. I saw my dad's swipes at my Gayness, at my life as a writer, at my choice to go to a women's college instead of a practical New York State institution, as his attempts at control. Maybe they were that. But maybe they were his way of saying, Don't dream too big. You might get hurt. You'll definitely be disappointed. Small happinesses are enough. I understand that better now, which is why, when I returned from Jordan, I thought sending the Rosary, with a soft note, would show that I would like to look past this very important difference, and all our differences. There was no response. My dad's absence and his long silence leave a tender, hurting place deep in the center of my chest. It makes me feel unresolved. During these past two years, I've kept trying, e-mailing him with invitations to casual dinners and notes about the things I really appreciate about him. But he has been silent. I thought perhaps I had a bad e-mail address until I learned that he had, in fact, gotten my messages - he just chose not to answer. But I wonder if it isn't that he is hurt, too, and his reaction - so different from my own - is to close up instead of reach out. The idea of rekindling a relationship with my father scares me. It wasn't all that successful the first time around. And there are things that he wanted of me that I will never be: Catholic, straight, tractable, a Republican, a practical businesswoman. But it scares me more to think about never sitting across from him at dinner, never seeing him laugh, never again being even a small part of his life. Sometimes I look through pictures of that trip to Jordan. In one, I am bent low to the water, the grasses brushing my knees, my hand submerged in the muddy water. I search for the hopefulness I felt there. But in the water's reflection, I see no sign. Jennifer Vanasco is an award-winning, syndicated columnist. E-mail her at jennifer.vanasco@gmail.com