I am an adult orphan.

In 2008, my father died and my mother followed him two and a half years later.

Even though they are no longer in body, they are very much present in my daily life. My father, the gym rat, accompanies me during my workouts where I hear his voice urging me on “You can do it, Doll Baby. A few more minutes, a couple more reps.”

As a result, my workouts are longer and I am stronger.

I was the first of two daughters born to Selma and Morris (a.k.a. Moish or Moe) Weinstein. I was named for my maternal grandfather Edward. In the Jewish religion, children are given names to honor loved ones who have passed. Had I been a boy, my name would have been the same as the man who left this plane when my mother was 18. My nickname likely would have been Eddie.

As it was, on the first day of school throughout my childhood, teachers would mis-pronounce it as such—much to my embarrassment. One of my dad’s affectionate nicknames for both of us was “goofy kid.”

My father raised Jan and me to be kids as well as girls. He organized a Sunday breakfast club for the boys at our synagogue. She and I broke the gender barrier and soon after, other girls attended too. He spoke up to a sexist rabbi who didn’t want to count us in a minyan, which is a quorum of 10 needed to say certain prayers.

Back then, only men were considered qualified to do so. Although the rabbi didn’t agree, I was proud of my father for taking a stand.

We wore our share of frilly dresses and black patent leather shoes (it was the 60’s after all) in our earlier years, but we also were encouraged to dig in the dirt, get muddy, ramble around the neighborhood on our bikes, climb trees and monkey bars, clean the garage, learn to change the oil in and tires on our cars, and box…yes, you heard it correctly.

My father had been a Golden Gloves boxer in the Navy, still jumped rope that had weighted handles on them, ran daily and lifted weights. His job as a milkman had him hauling heavy crates and jumping down from a large truck. On occasion when Jan and I would have squabbles, he would get out the gloves and lace them on us, giving us mouth guards and head pieces and tell us to go at it.

We would take half-assed swings and swats at each other. I say now that it is a good thing I was a pacifist even back then, since I could have developed a mean right hook. Although my father wasn’t a war monger, he had certain ideas about the value of fighting.

When I was in my sophomore year of college, I came home to visit. The young neighbor from across the street walked over to talk to my dad about a disturbing event that happened at school. Another kid had called him a name, but didn’t lay a hand on him. He asked my father’s advice. My dad countered with “What did your parents tell you to do?” Paul answered: “My mom said to walk away and my dad said to hit him so he wouldn’t bother me.”

My father agreed with his father. I was astounded that he would encourage someone else’s child to hit when it wasn’t in self-defense.

I told him that and then stormed out of the house in tears.

Maybe an over-reaction, but I was really feeling triggered.

After cooling off, I came back and talked it out with him. He told me something that I had heard many times: “There’s a different code of ethics for men.” He went on to explain his belief that if men don’t defend their honor, then they will continue to be bullied. In many ways, it made me glad to know that I wasn’t expected to put up my dukes, if someone hurled an invective at me, even though he had trained me to do it if need be.

Fast forward to a few nights ago and I am sitting across the table at Applebee’s with my 28-year-old son. We were talking about his grandfather with whom he had a bond and misses at times. I had told him that my father had never laid a hand on me in anger. He then asked a pointed question. “Would Grandpop have hit you if you had been a boy and if he had, would you have felt differently about him than you do now?” Adam knows that I tend to idealize my parents.

I had to consider that. Goody two shoes that I was, I can only think of a handful of times when I had talked back to them. If I had been born with an X and Y chromosome rather than two X chromosomes and more testosterone than estrogen, would I have been more of a smart ass and rough and tumble? Would I have exasperated my father to the point that he would have lashed out physically? He used to say “Your life is in the hands of anyone who makes you lose your temper.”

Would that have extended to his “coulda been” son, who by virtue of DNA was female rather than male?

That is a question that I will never be able to answer.

As Fathers’ Day rolls around, I honor the man who offered “Moishisms,” including one that guides me whenever I am tempted to be intimidated by someone who I have placed on a pedestal.

“They put their pants on one leg at a time, just like you do.”

As a result of my parents’ belief in me and my ability to succeed, I was the first in the family to go to college and grad school.

I have made my way in the world. I am doing work that I love and supporting myself well.

This milkman’s daughter is grateful to be a “goofy kid”‘ who can bring home the vegetarian bacon and cook it up in the pan.

 

 

 

Author: Edie Weinstein

Editor: Renée Picard

Image: Tony Alter at Flickr