DADWAGON

Borrowed from the blog of Matt Gonzalez, the man who should have been mayor, a letter from Federico Garcia Lorca to his father, from 1920.

What’s the lesson here for DadWagon? That our children are narcissists. They are overconfident. They want our guidance, and just as much, they want us to get out of their way. And despite all evidence to the contrary, we probably should. There it is: a resolution.

It’s been good meeting you all in 2010. Have a tremendous New Year.

Letter to his Father, April 10, 1920. From Federico Garcia Lorca

Dear Father:

I’ve just gotten your letter, with its wise, serious tone, and I’ll answer you in exactly the same way. I’m much more anxious to see all of you than you are to see me—after all, you’re all together there, and here I am alone. . . But when it is a matter of circumstance and of one’s vocation, one has no choice but to submit. What I can’t stand is this business of whether I stay here or go home. It does me great harm, and at a moment like this what I really have to do is settle down and work hard and show a little cleverness, for what goes on now is crucial to my well-being. I know perfectly well what you think (alas!). But I am telling you and solemnly promising you—because I love you so—that when a man strikes out on his path neither wolves nor dogs should make him turn back. And I—fortunately for me— have a lance like Don Quixote’s. I am on my path, Papa. Don’t make me look back!

I know you all love me very much, but you’re only paying me in the same coin, because I love you all even more. I also know that you would like to have me there by your side, but this is something imposed by circumstance. What would I do in Granada? Be the butt of a lot of nonsense, a lot of arguing, a lot of envy and slander (this only happens, naturally, to men with talent)? Not that it matters to me—thank God, I’m above all that—but it would be very, very bothersome. One doesn’t argue with a fool, and just now, in Madrid, I’m being argued about, or rather talked about, by truly respectable people, despite the fact that I’ve just set out, and I’m going to really be a hit when I put on other things in the theater and I’ll probably end up with a great name as an author. Sudden, complete triumph harms the artist. Anyway, I’m preparing my things and going very slowly, very deliberately, so I can give birth to a sensational book. Up here I write, work, read and study. The environment is marvelous. I hardly go out at all. People (a few) come to visit me. I only go out to visit [Gregorio] Martínez Sierra and the staff of Espa–a, with a group of young, strong intellectuals. But the main reason I can’t leave isn’t my books (which is a very important one) but because I am in a student residence—it’s not as though it were a boarding house! It’s extremely difficult to get into this place and if I happened to have done so easily, without formally applying, because of my merit and the affection and friendship of others, with the director using his influence and getting me in while excluding another ten students who had applied, it would be unforgivable to simply get up in the middle of the academic year and announce that I’m leaving, and just say “thanks” and “goodbye.” The fact that I hesitated before, and didn’t come (you know the whole story) will make them say I’m a fickle person, and I’ll end up looking unworthy and ridiculous.

For this reason, more than any other, I implore you to let me stay. I am a man of my word, my dear father! Have I ever behaved badly to you? Haven’t I always obeyed? Here I behave the way one is supposed to, better than at home, because I have to adopt a serious attitude. Your letter telling me to go home because if I don’t you’ll come and get me, really bothered me. That attitude of yours would be perfect for a father whose son does some unspeakable deed, and the father comes to collect him to give him a good lashing or leave him high and dry. I can’t believe you really feel that way. You tell me “Come home for two months, and you can go back later.” When, dear father? When? In August? Why don’t you come up here? I would love to see you and the rest of the family. Come, and if you insist on my going home with you I will, but I can assure you that it won’t be long before you regret it. I will obey you—that’s my duty, or I think it’s my duty, but you will have dealt me a death-blow, the whole thing will fill me with disgust and discouragement and I’ll lose the enthusiasm I feel—an enthusiasm I have to protect. I beg you with all my heart to leave me here until the end of the year, and then I’ll go home with all my books published and the calm knowledge of having broken a lance fighting against the Philistines in order to defend and protect pure Art, true Art. You know, there’s no way you can change me. I was born a poet and an artist the way someone is born lame or blind or handsome. Leave me my wings, and I promise I will fly. So please, Papá, don’t insist on my going—even the idea fills me with anguish. I think I have stated my reasons. Are they reasons or not? If the real problem is that I am spending too much money, just tell me—I’ll respond like a man. After all, it’s easy to earn money when one has a good head. One must look at life and the world with clear, optimistic eyes and I, father, am an optimist and feel happy. Answer me the way I’ve answered you. And lastly, I beg you with my whole heart to read my letter well, and think it over. You should also realize that I am not some object who belongs to you and of whom you are very fond—I have my own life and my own resolve, and this business of coming and going harms me and is not serious. One has to be daring and brave. Mediocrity, the golden mean—those things are always fatal. Don’t consult about these things with your lawyer and doctor and veterinary friends, etc.—little, mediocre, nasty people—but rather with Mama and the children. I think I’m right.

You know I love you with all my heart.

Federico

Translated from the Spanish by Christopher Maurer

This letter previously appeared in jubilat 7.

I put the kids in a borrowed Radio Flyer wagon (the red plastic kind with two folding seats and even, in a nod to American rapaciousness, two cupholders for each kid) and went down to Fausto’s Grocery Store on White Street in Key West this morning.

To be honest, my kids don’t spend much time in grocery stores. In New York we mostly buy online, using FreshDirect, because it’s slightly cheaper and much better than our usurious local grocers. So I hadn’t really gotten a chance in a while to see how transformed my children were by… the cereal aisle.

You would think that we had just made a left turn from the pet food aisle into Disneyland: suddenly, at their eye level, there was an explosion of color and cartoons. Leaping frogs, dancing leprechauns, smiling vampires. The kids acted accordingly, their eyes lighting up, the little hands reaching out to touch all these friendly creatures.

The thing you notice, of course, is that General Mills and all the other grainpimps only put those cartoons on the most execrable corn syrup concoctions. The reasonable cereals, the ones you might want to feed to someone you didn’t wish diabetes on, are all tastefully presented (ie, boring to the eyes of a child). So while General Mills makes Cheerios, which we love, and Cascadian Farms Organic Cereals, which I guess sounds healthy, they put their real energy into the delightfully juvenile packaging and marketing of cereals like Kix, Trix, Lucky Charms and Count-fucking-Chocula.

So maybe I’m uptight. I know a bowl of Lucky Charms isn’t going to kill anyone. But I’m revolted by the thought of the board meetings, the marketing calls, the offsites where General Mills and their executives cook up the next plan to slap cartoons on junk cereals. They should barely be allowed to make that crap, much less market it to preschoolers.

I’ll give my kids some credit: there wasn’t much protest after I pulled down Rice Krispies and told them that’s all they’re getting (I know, Rice Krispies is probably all larded with weirdness, too). Perhaps on this, the four millionth time I’ve said ‘no’ in their young lives, they finally figured out that I mean it. We moved on with a bit of sadness, but without incident.

I’m wary of efforts currently and constantly underway in New York and San Francisco and elsewhere to regulate the relationship between food companies and consumers. I’m no teabagger, but I also think there are limits to what the government can and should do. Telling us what to eat seems to stretch those limits. And yet, today on the cereal aisle, I became a little more amenable to government intervention. Because when the big cereal companies stop talking to me about what my kids eat and instead talk directly to my children, then they’ve gone too far. I hope you’ve eaten your Wheaties, General Mills punks, because this is war.

Okay, so Goldie and I Dunno are baby koi fish, so calling this a love story is a little overwrought. We bought the pair yesterday from the unbelievably smelly pet store in New Town in Key West (how anyone can work in a place that smells like ferret ass is beyond me). Dalia was well-prepared to name hers, calling her gold-colored fish Goldie. Nico was less decisive, saying I Dunno until I decided to end it there and make that the name.

I don’t know if the fish love each other. They sorta disappeared as soon as we put them in the pond. They are probably little backstabbers who will now fight each other for dominance of the pond for years to come.

I don’t know if the kids love the fish. But I do.

I had a friend in college who was kind of a self-absorbed prick, always wanting other people to entertain him and keep him happy–until, that is, he started dating someone needier than him. And then he was absorbed in taking care of her, and he himself became much more pleasant to hang around.

That same dynamic is why it was such an inspired idea that my mother had to get these koi. The kids have been driving me near-insane with their constant whining, carping and pleading. But as soon as they had the baby koi carp as a project, they forgot about their deranged, constantly changing list of demands and began thinking about how to take care of the carp: how to introduce them to the pond, how to try to feed them. Like my friend in college, they became much more pleasant to be around once they had to actually take care of someone else.

The carp that stopped the carping: now that’s a love story.

I think I realized that we had entered a new language/thought phase just around the time my four-year-old–cocooned in a bolt of black velor I’d originally bought for her Darth Vader cape (unused because it made her look more like Liberace than Lord Vader)–said, “I’m so cozy I cannot even stand it at all.” It wasn’t just the coziness. It was hunger, deliciousness, joy, whatever: beginning a few weeks ago, her speech suddenly started including superlatives at every turn. “This is the most delicious thing that I ever seen,” she might say about something that frankly wasn’t that delicious, “and I think I might die right this minute.”

Before you know it, she’ll start sounding like Single Dad Laughing: “Today,” she’ll tell me when she wakes up in the morning, “will be the most important, inspiring 24 hours I’ve ever spent on this earth and I just know you’ll be moved beyond belief at how incredible it will be. I’m crying just thinking about how amazing this journey will be.”

I suppose this hot-bloodedness is good news. A new report shows that people who are “chilled out” or have blunted reaction to stimuli and stress tend to struggle more with obesity and depression (although there might be some chicken-and-egg problems with that kind of study–depressed people have depressed responses!). But still, my daughter has tended to diffidence and caution, so I’m glad to see her responding strongly to her own emotions.

But that’s the question (the most important question ever!) for all of you who know four-year-olds better than I do: is her new language just new language? Put another way: is she feeling more powerful emotions now or is she just describing the same emotions more powerfully?