Hereditary Syntax

My father saw the post I made about Bert last week, and as a type of birthday present to me, he sent me a copy of an essay he wrote over 18 years ago.

I read his essay for the first time yesterday, and it is too good not to post. I found myself captivated by his prose style. After reading his essay, I found myself hoping syntax is hereditary. And so, I bring a guest writer for today.


Welcome Back, Bert (1991)

It wasn't America's Most Wanted, but it could have been.

We were ripping my car apart, my boys and me, looking for that elusive fugitive from G.'s backpack, Bert.

Bert (the Stan Laurel of Sesame Street) was given to G. by my other son D. when G. was first born. And as a son bonds to a father, Bert bonded to G. After many years, Bert has become, well, extremely loved. Faded, dirty, ripped, with no discernible facial features, save a formerly orange nose, and a straight line for a mouth, twisted slightly at the corners. Funny what love can do to you.

Everyone used to have something like Bert. The old blanket, the old pillow, the old rabbit or the old doll. For me, a blue blanket with blue satin binding. And as it was for each of our treasures, Bert has become totally indispensable.

Bert has been lost many times—in fact, many times a day. He was once saved after being thrown in a trash can in Japantown. He spent the night at a Taco Bell. He was given a special ride to the airport by my sister when we rushed off to catch a plane without him. But always, always, he returned.

In the two years I have been separated from my boys, I have not had to locate Bert as often as I used to. But even on part-time duty, I had built the reputation of being able to locate Bert in any setting, under any conditions, within two minutes. My secret, I would tell G., quelling tears with bravado, was to think like Bert, and figure out where he was hiding. And however that happened, it would happen.

It was my fatherly power, a gift, duty and responsibility. It also made me a little indispensable as well. After all, a divorced, absentee dad needs every edge he can maintain. Among all the things I could no longer give G., this was still a shining star skill.

But today, it was different. He was nowhere. Not in the house. Not in the car. And the gnawing possibility of an outside abduction became stronger and stronger. So I made the obligatory calls to each of the five places we stopped earlier this afternoon, looking for any trace of the errant Bert. No luck.

At first, G. seemed brave, and a little angry. At me, for failing to think enough like Bert today, and at himself, for having lost him. The search began with an air of sport and adventure. But toward 8:30, having searched a park in the dark in vain, adventure had turned into calamity, and the mischievous grin transformed into tears.

I and my ex-wife J. have been trying to wean G. from Bert for the last two years. A lot for maturity reasons. A lot for self-preservation. After all, how many trash cans in parking lots do you want to commit yourself to examining? We returned to J.'s house, two vanquished warriors. G. may have lost Bert, but it was on my watch. And we were all faced with the harsh reality was that G. would have to go solo tonight.

G. and I went through the obligatory lessons, about responsibilities, about losses, about new bondings and new beginnings, about growing up. I tried to convince him of the temporary comfort of one of his other friends, his chipmunk with the T-shirt, the birthday bear, the bee hiding in his own winged cocoon. He wasn't buying this temporary idea too well. Not here tonight might as well have meant not here forever. This might be the time that Bert would not come back. G. was grasping at the reality of a separation forever, even if I couldn't.

As he lay down on a dinosaur pillow, bee under his arm, he told me he missed Bert. So did I. I wasn't any more ready for this than he. The sixth sense a father should always have was gone. No magic, just the comfort I could give with words and a hug.

As I left their house for mine, I thought about how much I always hated losing all my valuable little things, wishing they would magically come back. For me, it was always pens, and key chains. I knew that there was, somewhere in the world, a pile of things that I had dropped, lost, misplaced, or left behind. Someday, always someday, there would be a large homecoming for me. But I refused to believe that the things wouldn't somehow show up.

Then, as today, there was a lesson about coming to grips with losses, about growing up. It was always a tough one.

Today, it was G.'s. And I felt peculiarly responsible for the whole thing. We were both too young for this. He failed as a son, me as a father.

After returning home, my friend R. presented me with the unexpected—the prodigal Bert. While straightening the bed, she had pulled down the sheets, only to find Bert staring back at her. Magically returned to us, exactly where G. had forgotten him, precisely where I couldn't find him.

Bert went right back under G.'s arm the next day. I breathed the sigh that only guilty fathers sigh. And I rued the day that Bert would be lost again, when even R. won't find him.
Oh well, we can grow up some other day.