Article Preview
My Father's Son
- Abstract
NINE TIMES a week, at specified hours, I button my collar, gather books and papers, lay down my cigar to smoke out, and walk with a certain sense of excitement not unmingled with a sense of inadequacy (paradoxically mingled with a sense of all too much adequacy) toward one or another of the brightly fluorescent classrooms boxed row upon row in a box designated Humanities Languages And Literature in a compound of boxes called San Francisco State College, one mile the dry side of the Pacific Ocean.
This campus is a long way, even jetting, from the Lower East Side of Manhattan, where my father was born, and farther yet from a village somewhere in Poland, whose name I never knew, where his father was born. Both men are dead, and I the next in line. I compare my father’s timetable with my own, checking my heart in my doctor’s ears lest it early fail, as my father’s failed.
About the Author
This article is available for purchase to subscribers and for individual purchase
Subscriber Sign In
Not A Subscriber?
