Polite Language, Existential Crises, and Other Euphemisms - Plus a Recipe

Dad’s Dead: A Year Later, I'm Still Trying to Figure Out What It All Means

Dad died one year ago today, more or less. Much like we never mention the C-word, my mother prefers I use polite language—'dad passed away,’ ‘dad left us,’ ‘dad’s gone.’ But like most polite language, all it does is obscure the truth. In the end, it means the same thing: Dad’s dead and I can’t argue with him anymore.

Words mean everything and nothing at the same time.

In the early 90s, after a brief pause, I returned to university to study French at LaTrobe University. This was back when there were four universities in Melbourne, before every tech school was renamed ‘university,’ back when getting a degree from a ‘university’ meant something, when you could study subjects that would never get you a job, when you studied for the sake of it, before uni fees.

So anyway, when I was at uni, studying French, one of the books that fashioned my world view was L’Etranger (The Stranger) by Albert Camus. In the ensuing 35 years or so, much like many literary wankers, I’ve been on a mission to understand the first line of the text by the narrator, Meursault:

Aujourd’hui maman est morte.

In the first English translation of the book by Gilbert Stuart in 1946, it is translated thus: ‘Mother died today’. But I prefer my version, the literal, ‘today, mother died.’ There is something in the phrasing of the French, which is journalistic in nature: When, who, what.

Today, mother died.

After all Albert Camus, the rather hot French-Algerian existentialist was indeed a journalist, like Ernest Hemingway. The rules of traditional journalism insist on objectivity, on detachment. ‘Today, mother died’ perfectly echoes Meursault’s cool indifference to the world around him, and the casual reader is forced to see him as a monster because someone who does not feel desolation at the death of a parent can be nothing but.

Aujourd'hui, maman est morte. Ou peut-être hier, je ne sais pas.

(Today, mother died. Or perhaps yesterday, I don’t know.)

This morning, I stumbled into the Chiesa Madre in Piazza Garibaldi and stayed there until the last Amen. I sat on a wooden pew, which did not exist when I was born - people brought their own chairs to church - and I wondered: Am I a monster? Why haven’t I cried over my dad’s death?

Like dad, I am restless, and as much as we are (I’ll speak in the present tense because one of us is still alive) charismatic and social (descriptions other people have provided), me and my dad, we strive for solitude. Dad’s solitude came from his solo walks, from reading the paper and listening to the horse races in the shed and, in the last twenty years or so, he sought the church, where he encountered solitude and community. Alone. Before mum got out of bed.

Before dad’s funeral the priest who knew dad well, told me, “Your father was a very spiritual man.” I responded in much the same way as when countless others told me, “Your father was a gentleman”: My dad?

When did my dad become a spiritual gentleman?

This morning during mass into which I stumbled after a jet-lagged sleepless night, gazing adoringly at the painted idols (I do love a Catholic idol and thus would never make a good Jehovah's Witness), glorying in the statues of the Virgin, of Jesus, of Saint Joseph, it did not feel at all anomalous.

I grew up Catholic which, much like the little I know of Judaism, is more of a cultural belief than a religion. I went to Catholic schools my entire life and I emerged, like Camus’s Meursault, disconnected and indifferent. Perhaps it was the time in which I grew up. After all, we Gen-Xers are the ‘don’t give a shit’ generation. We are the modern day existentialists. Or maybe, after twelve long years of false weekly confessions, I learned that the Catholic church was one that reveled in pain, fear, and dread. Despite what we learned in preparation for Confirmation—turn the other cheek, do unto others, and so on—there was no love, just suffering and retribution. Sure, Jesus came to earth to change the shitty perception of a vengeful God, but I am a cynic, my bullshit detector is set to 11. God was a jealous, angry father, and Jesus’ sacrifices won’t change my mind.

During mass this morning, I acknowledged a welcome disconnection. A disconnection from my phone, from my laptop, my iPad to which I am attached by the hip, the fingers, the insomnious eyes. Instead I connected to my very real history via the baptismal font to my right, the very one used for my baptism fifty-five years ago. I connected to the altar, the very one where my parents said “si” fifty-six years ago. My mother tells me that when she arrived at the altar, the first thing dad said was, “could you have arrived any later?” He was hilarious, my dad. A real gentleman. Spiritual.

This morning at mass there were a handful of us, around ten in the pews and a choir of women, the priest and his helper, virgins, saints. My aversion to it all was nowhere to be found. I searched from my seat for signs of Christ and cynicism. I pored over the stations of the cross, the chandeliers dripping with blood and donations. I asked our patron saint, and my namesake, Giuseppe, but my contempt and bitterness were nowhere to be found. Is this how it started for dad? Was it restlessness that led him into church one day? Was it the search for tranquillity, for more than a wife who likes to sleep late, the princess who cannot tolerate even the palest of murmurs as she rests, a daughter who questioned everything he said. Did dad commune with God simply to get away from us?

Church spoke to dad over the last couple of decades. I still don’t know why; I never asked—my curiosity came late. How did dad become a spiritual man when all I see in church is a rich tapestry of history, art, buildings constructed by slaves, and actual tapestries. What does speak to me in church today is the cool breeze of solitude, the Scirocco winds that bear with them a fine red sand from Africa that settles over cars and in our pores. These are the things I worship.

Yesterday I visited the bar where dad spent his afternoons whenever he was back in his Sicilian home. I took whisky and cigarettes. Dad would have wanted it. Although he may not have appreciated the kangaroo testicle bottle-opener I also brought the owner. After all, he was a gentleman, my dad.

A Recipe

Zia Giovanna’s Pesto Trapanese

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My zia Giovanna Dad’s little sister, makes Pesto Trapanese with sun-dried tomatoes. While at the market in Ortigia, Siracusa, last week, I picked up a bag of perfectly sweet dried ciliegini (cherry tomatoes) from Caseificio Borderi, the famous deli with the best panini you’ll ever eat. Their little gems are the base for zia’s pesto.

In a mortar and pestle (or a blender/grinder), take a handful of sun-dried tomatoes (not in oil, just the dried kind), blanched skinless almonds, a few cloves of garlic, fresh basil leaves, some chili (fresh or dried), plenty of extra virgin olive oil (oh my god, I’ve been given freshly made oil from my aunt’s trees), and grated Pecorino or Grano Padano cheese (just use the best Parmigiano you can find—I’m not precious about it). Grind to a paste. I like it a bit chunky, but it’s up to you.

Meanwhile, cook your pasta in salted water until al dente. Save a cup of pasta water before you drain it. Drain the pasta and put it back in the pot. Add some pesto and a little pasta water. Stir. Keep adding a bit of each until you’re happy with the consistency. That’s it. Enjoy!