Absent Fatherhood and Redemption
By Gene Aronowitz
I lived in Chicago during the turbulent sixties. In 1964, I began working at Hull House Association. After only one year at the agency, less than three years after getting my master’s degree in social work, I was promoted to Director of Social Work Services. My career was taking off, and I was totally absorbed by it. I had little time and energy to devote to my daughter, Lisa, who was born in April 1966.
A month before Scott was born in October 1967, I began very consuming doctoral studies at the University of Chicago. I disliked being a student. After being a respected professional for the previous five years, I found the experience of being back in school somewhat infantilizing. I knew that Scott and Lisa needed my attention and affection, but again, there wasn’t much time, and, because of considerable stress and dissatisfaction with school, there was also limited emotional capacity.
Then, in 1968, the protests during the Democratic National Convention took place in Chicago. In September 1969, the Conspiracy Trial began. Eight of the activists were indicted for their part in the protests. These events, my studies, and a part-time job kept me extremely busy and somewhat distant from my growing family. Cami was born in December 1969. Two months later, as the Conspiracy Trial jury was just starting to deliberate, the judge sentenced the remaining seven defendants and their two attorneys to lengthy prison terms for criminal contempt of court. I believed that the very biased judge essentially provoked their contemptuous behavior, and therefore, the sentences were unwarranted. I spent a considerable amount of time organizing and participating in demonstrations, even though I was still working on completing my dissertation and preparing to defend it before the faculty.
A week after I received my Ph.D., in June 1970, we moved from Chicago to Belmont, Massachusetts. I had accepted a job as Associate Director of Boston Children Service Association. Jeffrey, our adopted son, was born in Anchorage, Alaska, and was less than a year old when we picked him up in Boston in April 1972. As usual, I was absorbed with work and with the added complication of getting settled, both personally and professionally, in a new community. I was absent much of the time, and even when present, communication was difficult. I had little to say about family life. Conversations about daily events flew past me. This pattern continued for a few years.
I was not happy with the situation and knew I had to carve out some time just for me and the kids. When each child turned six years of age, and every subsequent year, whenever possible, I would take the celebrant out for a birthday dinner, just the two of us. Initially, I was unaccustomed to speaking directly with them, and our conversations were often stale. My regular opener was to ask them to reflect on the year just past. I would start off with “How was your year?” That stilted question became a family joke, and the kids, now grown, often ask me how my year was at my birthday parties.
When I separated from my first wife and moved out of the house, Lisa was 15, Scott was 14, Cami was almost 12, and Jeffrey was 10. Each weekend, one of them stayed with me at my apartment, so I saw each child every four weeks. This was a real challenge. If we had little to say to each other over a birthday dinner, you can imagine what an entire weekend was like. One of my first steps to remedy this distressing situation was to begin listening to American Top 40, hosted by Casey Kasem, a well-known disc jockey. I wanted to discover which songs and which recording artists were connecting with kids. I also knew that I had to listen attentively during those weekends to understand what was on their minds and respond thoughtfully. Each week, I got a little better at it.
Although our communication improved, I was not living with them and, as adolescents will do, they began moving away from family, not only emotionally but literally. They grew up, went to camp, went to college, traveled extensively, and moved away. Ironically, it was during these times that redemption began.
The catalyst was when my mother needed to go into a health-related facility, a step just before a nursing home. They asked for a biography so they could know who my mother was before she became debilitated. But her memory had diminished, and when I tried to fill in the gaps of her story, I realized I didn’t know very much about her. That was both shocking and sobering as I realized that my children, then 21,19, 17, and 16, knew very little about me. That’s when I began writing these brief memoirs, sharing each one with them as soon as it was completed. As they increased in number, I could hear them sighing, “Oh no, not another one.”
But, as I wrote, I realized I didn’t know as much as I wanted to know about them. My wife, Linda, came up with the idea of sharing family stories at birthday parties, and I decided to record them, a project dubbed the Legacy Project. In the first year, family members talked about the celebrant. It was like we were delivering eulogies, but of course, the person could hear what we were saying. During the second year, the celebrants shared their personal stories, offering their own perspectives on significant events in their lives. That was the first time that any member of this very loquacious family could speak uninterrupted for even a minute, but at the parties, those recitations could exceed an hour. Breathtaking. During the third and fourth years of the project, the celebrants discussed their values, what was important to them when they were growing up, and how those values changed over time. During the fifth and subsequent years, celebrants could still hold the floor but were able to speak about whatever topic or theme they chose. All of this was digitally recorded, and I was able to amass about thirty hours of family history.
Before the legacy project began, most of my knowledge about them was related to significant events in which I was a part, including bar and bat mitzvahs, graduations, performances, athletic events, holiday celebrations, and weddings. However, at the parties, I learned about family life that I had not experienced while I was away from home. I learned what was important to them and why. I got to know about the details of their relationships. And I heard about the “little” experiences of which they were proud. It was exciting and emotionally heartening to get a fuller understanding of who they are. For each of my progeny’s 50th birthdays, I produced an edited “This Is Your Life” audio excerpt, drawn from their birthday recordings. Listening to all the recordings repeatedly as I edited, I gained a more comprehensive understanding of the lives they led. The last of these audios was produced this year. Jeffrey became 50 in 2021.
I always felt bad that I had been so absent and uncommunicative when my progeny were growing up. I owned up to it frequently, especially at Father’s Day events. It was interesting when they would say that they didn’t remember it that way. They knew I was a responsible provider and reasonably non-judgmental, and those characteristics seemed to overshadow the behaviors that bothered me so much. The relationships are close and loving, and the guilt I once felt about not being there when I should have been is now gone.
A version of this memoir is included in the book Brief Memoirs.