(The Daily Rumpus) Fever of Unknown Origin

5 maanden geleden


Text only:

While pregnant, I worried a great deal about DNA. Genetics is complicated when you have an abusive addict father. I was terrified that my son might re

   

While pregnant, I worried a great deal about DNA. Genetics is complicated when you have an abusive addict father. I was terrified that my son might resemble my father. That he’d inherit the “bad genes.” That I might raise a bad man.

I fiercely believe that our genes don’t define us. Blood doesn’t make family. But then you get older, you have a child, they get sick or you get sick. Doctors ask questions, and genetics do matter. It does matter, at least a little, who your father was.

I don’t know that I’ll ever fully reconcile my anger about this. That my father lives on in my blood, and in my child’s blood. My father died the week my son was born, a small gift, but I cannot dig out the DNA that lives inside us, that hides in our warm and alive bodies.

I’m circling around the edge of truth even now.

I’m still fighting my way through my essay on women and anger, and as it turns out, writing about anger is difficult. I’ve written through my anger for most of my life, but I’ve never looked it in the eye. I’ve never thoughtfully asked questions of it.

Anger, why do you stay? Anger, what do you give me? Anger, what do you cost me?

I’m sick. A fever of unknown origin. What that means is I’ve been running a low-grade fever for too long (for two months). What that means is blood draws and ultrasounds and CT scans. What that means is maybe just a stubborn virus, or maybe lupus, or maybe rheumatoid arthritis… a pile of maybes.

I’m angry that I am sick. I am sick while I’m trying to write. I am sick while I’m trying to parent. I am sick while I’m trying to edit. All of this, it is physically exhausting. But it is not why I am angry.

I am angry because I am sick and it might be my father’s fault.

I am sick of being angry about this.

But my son looks only like me, like his father, and like himself. My son is not angry. His childhood is not a war against blood. He understands family to mean safety, to mean home.

This, too, is a gift.

Love,
Marisa

WHAT TO READ WHEN BEACH WEATHER ARRIVES

Rumpus editors suggest some of their favorite summertime reads!

ENOUGH: CLARA, TOO

I am tired and disheartened. I am guilty for caring more about the art than the artists and, I’d argue, about the people he’s hurt.

QUESTIONS OF LEGACY: TALKING WITH ADRIENNE CELT

I will also say: without giving anything away, the end surprised me.

MIXED FEELINGS: YOUR DIVORCE WON’T RUIN YOUR KIDS

The biology of love is as reliable as the biology of blooming.

HAVING A FEMALE ORGASM DURING THE TRUMP ADMINISTRATION

Who gets to be happy? Who gets to want more? Who gets to have it?

LESSONS FROM A LIFE: ALEXANDER CHEE’S HOW TO WRITE AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL NOVEL

It is such a gift, and I am grateful.

LOOK AT HOW THE BULLETS HAVE MISSED

I praise everyone I can still touch, their warmth a violent protest against the cold weapons of death.

LETTING GO OF WHAT WE LOVE: TALKING WITH RACHEL HENG

I think fictional language allows us live in the spaces that words can open up for us.

Your support is critical to our existence. Donate today!  

©2018 The Rumpus | therumpus.net

Preferences   Forward   Unsubscribe    
Powered by Mad Mimi®A GoDaddy® company

Deel deze nieuwsbrief op

© 2018