Notes on Making My Father’s Portrait
There’s music in everything, even defeat.
Charles Bukowski
So, here’s a funny story. Or maybe it’s not funny at all. My mother told it to me when I was around 25, swearing it to be truth not mischief, though she sometimes couldn’t help mixing the two together. Here’s how our conversation went:
“On the day you were born, do you know what your father did when the nurse told him he had a son?” I told my mother no.
“He fainted. He really fainted. Out cold.”
I said, “You mean he fainted because, what, he was overcome with the emotion of becoming a father?” I knew right away how stupid that sounded.
“No,” she said, suppressing what I think was an eye roll. “Because he wanted a girl.”
To which I said, “You mean he fainted from disappointment?” (I was thinking, Who in fuck faints from disappointment?)
My mother smiled and said, “That’s right.”
And we both laughed, in a conspiratorial kind of way, quite liking each other for a minute or so.
Months before I was born, my father, not hedging his bets, had chosen my name: Rita.
Rita Rodick, Rita Rodick. Roll that over your tongue a few times.
