Letter to Dad

I loved our neighborhood a lot and thought it was the safest place on earth: a residential area with detached houses, absolutely no major roads or highways to speak of — everyone knew everyone, and there was no one and nothing to fear. Except for the thousands of junkies who trudged past our house on their way from "Palermo" to the trolleybus stop — junkies who were laying sprawled under every fence, overdosed; junkies who would fall asleep standing up with syringes still clutched in their hands — and we saw it all. Do you have any idea how many of my neighborhood friends ended up with needles from the street stuck in their legs? We used to say our goodbyes to them, telling them they’d die of AIDS — and, I believe likely, that is something that happened to some of them. I watched my godfather, "The Elephant," we called him, come storming out into the street and beat those junkies half to death right outside our house; yet they never seemed to run out — new ones would appear, and sometimes the same old ones would get beaten up multiple times as well. We thought of my godfather as nothing short of Superman. It was as if he were purging the earth of evil spirits. Remember our favorite game? We’d head down to "The Pit" (that’s what we called the abandoned construction site) where we’d snap branches off trees to find the straightest sticks and fashion them into batons. We made sure it looked modern, too — after all, we were superheroes ourselves: we’d strip the bark off the sticks, let them dry in the sun, wrap them in duct tape, and then immediately put them to the test. The place was constantly swarming with junkies hiding in the bushes to shoot up; sometimes guys would even bring prostitutes there — so, at the innocent, as it must be, ages of ten, eleven, and twelve, we were already getting an uncensored, adults-only view of the world. It wasn't until I finally left the neighborhood that I realized it wasn't nearly as cool as I’d thought — nor as safe — and that the games we played were actually pretty twisted. We were like little wild animals, like hyenas. We watched people literally fading away like a song on fast-forward — once they got hooked on the needle. I honestly don't know how anyone could view that as normal. And I certainly don't know how, once trapped in the midst of it all, people ever manage to find their way out.

I remember the times you tried to give up drugs — several times, in fact. Does that mean you realized it wasn't normal at all, but simply couldn't pull yourself together to quit? Or were those attempts just for pretending in front of everyone else? You would lie there for three days without your usual drug solution — that five-dollar solution — literally dying before our eyes, and we saw it all. I was only seven or eight years old back then; to get to our bedroom, we had to pass through yours — the room where you laid writhing, with foam at your mouth. Mom didn't know what to do; she was ready to go buy that solution for you herself just so you wouldn't die right there in front of her, but she was terrified to leave you alone. I’m sure you don’t know this, but even back then, I was already making a little money by buying sunflower seeds and chocolate bars at the market and selling them to the addicts hanging out at the entrance to the "Gypsy Alley" — a place where, at any given moment, there were always over a hundred junkies gathering around. I used to burst with pride knowing that I was on good terms with one of the top Gypsy drug lords there — and that he took care of me. I was the only kid doing that kind of business there — aside from that old Gypsy woman who actually lived in the alley. That was the moment I told Mom: "I’ll go buy the drugs myself so Dad doesn't die." I explained to her that I had connections there and that there was nothing to be afraid of. So I went, bought the drugs for you, you shot up, and just like that, you were back to being "sweet Sasha": the kind, healthy, intelligent man to whom his eight, maybe nine, year-old son had just delivered a loaded syringe. Just like that. How is it even possible to miss a father when you know and remember all of that? Or maybe what I miss is just an illusion of my own making — something that has nothing to do with you at all, but is simply an idealized image lifted straight out of a movie? Or perhaps I miss you because I know that you weren’t always this way. There was a time, after all, right when you first started using, when Mom wanted to leave you. I don’t know if that’s actually true, or if Mom was simply shifting the blame onto me for not leaving you before we’d suffered hundreds of emotional traumas; but she used to tell me how, for a while, we lived in Tairova with her fiancé, Seriozha, and how she was tired of my tears. She said that I would cry for you every single night until you finally showed up and puffed out your belly like it was a balloon, just so I would laugh and fall asleep after. Then again, whether it was true or not, will remain a mystery to me. You know, very few people — those who aren’t overweight — can actually do that with their bellies. I can do it, too. Many times, I was dreaming about how we might have lived, and where we might have ended up if we had stayed with Uncle Seriozha back in Tairova.

Maybe then my godfather, Elephant wouldn't have received my Holly Supper dishes (an actual tradition of bringing food to God parents in Ukraine) the day after he had already hosted all his other godchildren at his table. I only brought my dishes once everyone else had left — the time when there was no one left to see him welcoming a godchild who happened to be the son of a junkie. But still, it’s a good thing he welcomed me. I heard it so many times: other godparents whispering about how I was there visiting right alongside all the "normal" kids. Or maybe that was just my own twisted illusion and trauma playing tricks on me, even back then. I often share stories from my childhood with my friends; and when I used to feel ashamed to reveal who I was and where I came from, now, with each passing day, I am filled with an overwhelming sense of pride at how I managed to steer my life in a completely different direction. When I imagine the alternative scenario — what would have happened if I had followed your footsteps — it terrifies me. The only thing I truly fear in this life is ending up with nothing behind me: returning to the ruins we used to call home, drowning in debts just like you did, and having to hide in a closet while your children tell everyone that "Dad isn't home." You have to admit, that’s not exactly a pleasing picture. And yet, there were several times when people didn't believe us — and actually found you hiding in that closet. Or is that just my imagination? And how did you even manage to fit in there? It could hardly be called a closet. I am happy with the person I’ve become today, and I am proud of myself. Thank you for the few pieces of advice you actually gave me. They are engraved into my mind, like a tattoo on my arm. Even if you did it unconsciously, I am deeply grateful for that.

To boast a little, I wanted to share a story with you — about the first time I traveled to France to live there. It was in 2019, the year your granddaughter was born, and I went with my wife and her brother, whom we had taken in because her parents, too, were struggling with their own issues. We settled in Antibes, on the French Riviera. That was when the coronavirus first emerged, and we found ourselves stuck in the midst of a severe global crisis. Yet, it was precisely during that difficult year that I ascended to a new rung on the career ladder. I transitioned from the ranks of small-scale entrepreneurs into the realm of major business owners. During the crisis, I sold a portion of our clothing company for 350 or 400 thousand dollars, and in doing so, I realized how to think and act on a much larger scale. Of course, I had always dreamed that you