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D̶e̶a̶r̶ ̶D̶a̶d̶̶H̶i̶,̶ ̶D̶a̶d̶̶D̶e̶a̶r̶ ̶F̶a̶t̶h̶e̶r̶̶H̶e̶y̶!̶...Greetings. I don't know what to call you. Dad is too familiar. I haven't seen you in six years and I've never liked you as a person. Also that kind of rules out using the word "dear," even if that's how one is supposed to begin a formal letter. But I believe- not that you know this or should know this or have a right to know this: I am a stranger to you- in attaching a tremendous amount of weight to words, and "dear" is, by definition, an affectionate word: Dear. adj. dear·er, dear·est1.a. Loved and cherished: my dearest friend.b. Greatly valued; precious: lost everything dear to them.2. Highly esteemed or regarded. Used in direct address, especially in salutations: Dear Lee Dawson.3.a. High-priced; expensive.b. Charging high prices.4. Earnest; ardent: "This good man was a dear lover and constant practicer of angling" (Izaak Walton).5. Obsolete Noble; worthy.6. Heartfelt: It is my dearest wish.So I shall begin my letter here, using my explanation of why I did not begin this letter with "dear" as a substitute for the usual formal address. You're probably wondering why I'm writing you now. I've made no effort to contact you in a very long time. Perhaps you hope that I miss you. If so, I really am sorry. I thought of you last night after I woke up from a complicated dream. In the dream, I wandered through the rooms of my home, I drove my car through my city. Every time I looked out through a window, I saw blank, anonymous faces staring back at me. In their hands were guns, pointed straight ahead; they only noticed me. I woke up drenched in sweat, full of paranoia and panic. These dreams are recurring. They come to me every few months, manifesting themselves in new and insidious ways. They make me think of you. I have no idea what you are doing. I have no idea where you are. Maybe you are happy. I'd like to think so, at this moment at least. Sometimes I don't. I'm doing well. The family who held me together with glue and twine in my childhood is beginning to chisel me apart. They are not as perfect as I thought, but it has been too long since I have seen you. Perhaps that comparison would make me change my mind. I love a boy who is my best friend. He is nothing like you, I made sure of it. Don't worry, the people I talk to don't know you're a monster.Two weeks ago I went out to brunch with an old friend. He told me that, in all five years he's known me, I've never mentioned my father. I told him I didn't have one. We changed the subject. You have transformed my thoughts on love and family and pregnancy. Society places too much weight upon marriage and birth; take this into consideration. I am related to you through the most finite sequences in your genetic code. I have half of your DNA in my body. I carry your family's diseases, recessive genes, predispositions to mental illness. Yet, by some true miracle of science and faith, I feel no closer to you than the nameless stranger who is probably sleeping in the bed in the room across from me in my motel. If I were ever to get pregnant by the semen of a monster like yourself, I would have faith that genetics alone are not a death sentence. I like words a lot. I am smart. I don't care if you disagree. I am not what you wanted me to become; I am not a brain surgeon. I cannot fix you. I am a writer. I can observe with my green eyes (a genetic surprise which no one in my family shares, you included) the honesty, suffering, joy, and comedy of life, interpret it as I wish, and make it so. What I write will someday become someone's history. Centuries from now, it will not be the brain surgeons who have recorded written messages to permeate eyes from beyond the grave. It will be the writers. It will be a biased history, from the standpoint of the ones who took advantage of their humble means to power. You will not wish to read what will be written in your history books. Thank you for giving me life. Other than that, my feelings for you remain unchanged. Sincerely, Your daughter
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