Papa

We often wish people would change. When they do, it’s hard for us to accept it.

Papa and I

30 years ago was the last time my dad left America. Until now. 

Let me backtrack. My dad grew up in Russia. At 18, he found Judaism. He went to New York, met my mother, and committed himself to raising his family with his newfound values. They made sense to him. They should make sense to his kids too. 

If you know Russian Jewish men, you know they’re even more intense than non-Jewish Russian men. My dad in particular grew up in a tough Russian household. He became a little bit fanatic when he had his first kids. A little bit is an understatement, but I’m not in the mood to recount everything today. 

He started having kid after kid. In total, my parents brought 15 children into the world. He did everything in his power to raise us as religious as he was. Often, that involved his belt, his hand, or his painfully loud voice. He wanted us to grow up like him but better; independent, strong and fearing both our dad and God. 

We were on our own often. I was 7 years old when I cooked dinner for my entire family. When I was 10, my parents left me with 4 siblings and went out of town for the night. At 11, I became a homeschool teacher. The local school wasn’t religious enough and my dad decided I could do a better job. 

We traveled a lot on our own. I took my siblings to visit my grandmother across the US and went to summer camp in New York. Later, I went to high school at 15, and would travel back and forth from Chicago to Milwaukee on the weekends. I’d often go in the middle of the night to be on time. When I was 19, my sister tried to commit suicide in Israel. She was alone in the hospital for a month and my dad had me pick her up. 

I know it did me well growing up with this much responsibility. But it hurt. It was scary. Once, I took a plane and lied about my name and age. They don’t check IDs if you’re under 18 years old. My dad purchased a cheaper ticket from someone else, thinking that airport security wouldn’t have a reason to suspect anything. Unfortunately, they thought something was off when my name was a male name, and my sister’s name was Chinese. They called the police. I thought I’d be taken away from my parents. Everything was smoothed out in the end, but it was terrifying lying to the police at 13 years old out of fear of being taken away.

I slowly stopped connecting with my parents. Sometimes, I’d remember all the bad things and wouldn’t talk to my dad for a while. It hurt; I thought I didn’t need him. We’d start talking again when I couldn’t handle it anymore. Sometimes, I needed a dad. 

About 5 years ago, I started hearing rumors that my parents were changing. They took my little sister shopping and bought her any clothing she wanted – pants and short sleeves included – instead of beating her up. My mother told me that my dad was spending hours every day doing homework with my siblings. Then, I heard about some Rabbi my parents were listening to. He formed a group called Twisted Parenting. This Rabbi preached that if you want your kids to be religious, you better prioritize your relationship with them. Emotional, mental and physical safety come before God. 

I heard how my parents were changing but I didn’t feel it. I visited home and I still saw the chaos. My mother would try and convince me of how different my dad was, but I thought it was my mom’s hopes for the good. My dad started showing me in little ways himself. I was in India and had an issue on a Saturday. After Shabbat ended, I talked to my dad and he helped me solve the problem. Before we finished the call, my dad said “you can call me on Shabbat whenever you need me”. It’s hard to explain how revolutionary that was. We used to be beaten for breaking the Shabbat rules. 

It was still hard to accept his change. I felt that my dad didn’t deserve forgiveness after the years of pain he dealt to his wife and 15 kids. I remained in this precarious cycle for a while. Forgiving, loving, remembering and hating. 

A month ago, my boyfriend’s mother died. I texted my dad and he called me 5 minutes later. “I’m coming to Paris tomorrow.” I didn’t know how to react. I asked him why and my dad said “you need my help. So I’m here”. My first thoughts were how am I going to get my dad Kosher food on such short notice. I couldn’t host and take care of him. But then I thought about it. If there was someone in the world who’d appreciate a gesture such as this one, it would have been my mother-in-law. Family was everything to her. So I told him to come. 

He got to Paris just in time for the funeral. We didn’t talk much but he stood out. At 6’4, with a big beard and big belly, my boyfriend’s irreligious Parisian family noticed him. They whispered to Nathan “you better marry Yehudis, her dad just gave you his blessing”. They tried to thank my dad in the way French people speak English (badly). My dad kept comparing everything to Russia. That was the last place he’d been to 30 years ago. 

I was talking with someone after the funeral. I wish I remembered who it was. We chatted about my dad, how I grew up, and the fact that he was here now. We finished the conversation and my friend told me “we always wish for people to change. When they do, we have such a hard time accepting the change and forgiving who they once were”.

My dad stayed for Shabbat. He figured out his own food and Nathan’s family helped with the rest. I walked him to his host family after the Friday night meal. I was on my phone, wearing a short dress, and eating non Kosher all day. I asked my dad, Papa, doesn’t it bother you that I’m like this around you?

He didn’t even pause before saying “all kinds of people have come to my synagogue for over 25 years. I didn’t care about their personal choices. Why should I care about yours?” He told me that someone convinced him of this a few years ago, and that’s why he’s changed. I think it’s the Rabbi from Twisted Parenting who preaches “emotional, mental and physical safety come before God.”

It’s been a month and I haven’t been able to get my dad’s visit out of my mind. For a long time, I didn’t want my dad to know my feelings, I didn’t want to be vulnerable with him. I still think he’ll hurt me. I keep going back to the conversation I had after the funeral. Maybe I can accept that someone I always wished would change finally has? I can remember the pain, but there is also truth in letting go. 

My dad stayed for a few days and then had to get back home. I keep thinking of telling him to come visit me in Brussels. Instead of Russia, maybe he’ll compare the Parisian suburbs to where I live now. I hope it doesn’t take another 30 years.