WILLIAMSTOWN- “What is your favorite thing to photograph?” It’s a question I
hear often.
I’m not really into superlatives when it comes to my work. I don’t have a favorite
subject matter or all-time favorite photo. I’ve taken countless photos in my 30
years as a professional photojournalist. My photographs are like my children.
How could I pick a favorite?
So, is it taboo to suggest that a parent has a favorite child? Is it an accusation of
discriminatory parenting? And is it really that uncommon for a child to have a
favorite parent?
Catherine Fransonn’s book, “Loving the Enemy: When the favorite parent dies
first,” addresses this very topic. Is the title blatant enough? Nix that, unnecessary
It probably wouldn’t surprise readers to know that my late mother was my favorite
parent. She was my person (mother) and ultimately became my friend. She was
present, involved, compassionate, empathetic, kind and equipped for the job of
motherhood. She loved me unconditionally. She was by no means perfect but
she did her best.
I have written about my father, who is survived by my mother, and is about four
years younger than she was. He lives in New Jersey and while he was the
“bread-winner,” for his family, he was not directly involved in the day to day child
rearing of us. He worked constantly, and in his free time, he apparently tried to
gain some joy from a community theater group for which he was a part of.
Sundays were the day he usually visited. Making the long trip from Manhattan, or
New Jersey, to our home on the north shore of Long Island in the 1970’s, he
would often share videos of theater productions he performed in. He wasn’t the
kind of father to throw the ball around in the yard with us.
Eventually the visits slowed and became infrequent to the point where it was
mostly just holidays or important dates like father’s day and birthdays that he
visited. When we moved to Massachusetts in 1982, my dad’s visits became even
more rare. I still cannot believe that for years he would take the bus up from Port
Authority in New York CIty to Williamstown to visit us for the day.
Because my parents split up when I was six, I have some fond memories of my
dad. I remember Easter egg hunts, birthday celebrations and holidays. For my
little brother, who was four years younger, there was arguing and anger
surrounding my parents in his very early life. My mom told me that during an
argument between my parents, my baby brother held up his hand to protect my
mom, who was holding him at the time.
My dad is perplexed about his relationship with his son because my brother
hasn’t communicated with him since 2009. It was sudden, my dad recalls, and he
doesn’t know what he did wrong to deserve the silence.
Trying to maintain a relationship with my dad has been challenging at best. Like
my mom, I have thrown up my hands many times and cried “It’s hopeless!”
No disrespect to my father, but while my father did provide financial support, my
mother made a home for us. She wanted children. In fact I believe she wanted
children, and a family, so badly that she married my dad.
My dad never hesitates to tell me how he went to New York City, after studying
theater at the University of San Francisco, to follow his dream of being an actor.
That dream never truly materialized. He met my mom, with whom he worked in
the same office, and said she “blew him away!”
I now know that my parents were ill suited for marriage and for raising a family
together. I also know that they both did the best they could.
Fifty percent of all marriages in the United States end in divorce or separation.
My mother’s own parents divorced shortly after she was born in the 1930’s. And
here I am, yet to marry, with the procreation ship having sailed.
I did not want to jeopardize my career, and livelihood, by having children and risk
having to raise them alone, or with a co-parent who was ill-equipped to handle
the task.
Something to the effect that, even though he was ill equipped for fatherhood, he
found some limited success as an actor. While my mom studied dance in New
York City, I don’t think she dreamed about being a ballerina. My dad, on the other
hand, has always had a flair for the dramatic and being the center of attention. I
cannot help but feel like having children squashed his dreams of being a
successful actor. I even suspect he may live with some regret for not having his
dreams realized and potentially reached.
After my dad retired, I encouraged him to get involved in the theater but his
inability to remember lines paralyzed him from doing so. My mom had told me
that he was a pretty good director as had seen something he directed at some
point. In my early 30’s I did see him perform in a theater production, off
Broadway. It was fun to actually see him perform in person and not on video. I
was proud of him.
However, Unless he is bragging about me to others, I feel like my dad has very
little interest in me. When we speak, our conversations always veer toward
discussions of his life: monologues in which he tells me the same story over and
over again about his limited success and lost potential, like a broken record.
When your favorite parent dies, you can feel like an orphan, regardless of your
age, especially if the parent who is left behind is not capable of taking on a role,
that they never truly embraced.