Through a Daughter’s Eyes...
My dad was the one who taught me to write. And re-write. And re-write. He has been writing his whole life and always told me that he’s not a good writer, but an excellent re-writer. He used to mark up my drafts with his red pen over and over which I certainly resented at the time when I just wanted to get out of the house to be with my friends. But now I see it for the gift it was. For him writing was more important than any sport or instrument I might learn. Because writing for him was an extension of living. And so much of living for him was about trying to impact a country he saw as deeply unjust.
My dad believed before all else in utter truth. No flowers, no protecting feelings, just calling it like you see it. He always attributed it to his working class upbringing in Coney Island by two immigrant parents. He said his house was full of the noise of people saying exactly what they thought at whatever volume the situation warranted. Following the bigger fights, he said he’d know if his parents were still mad because his feisty mom, 4’9” Ida, would sleep with her feet at the top of the bed and head at the bottom so as not to have to look at his father Nathan. But in the morning, they would get up and move on.
For me, growing up, he treated me as he would an adult, bringing me with him to whatever outing he and my mom went on, expecting me to engage in adult political conversations with his friends, holding signs on picket lines alongside him, and telling me exactly what he thought without holding back. That wasn’t always easy for me, but I knew what I was getting from him was always real. He loved to tell the story about me coming home crying after my first dance when I was 11 when no one had asked me to dance and he told me that I was going to have many other problems in life but boys wasn’t going to be one of them. And he tells how it made me feel better, which it did, in a way that it never would have if it was from my sweet sweet mother. She would have said anything to make me feel better. I knew whatever he said was nothing but raw truth.
So while his truth was sometimes warm and sometimes hard to take growing up, he gave me a view of the world that most children don’t get. He talked with me about race and class and his biggest passion, unfair working conditions. He believed in organizing together alongside workers, and going after what is right until it was achieved. He saw people as people, something that I have found to be quite unusual in this world. He didn’t give additional deference to someone because of holding a higher position, he believed in the good of hard working people and valuing that core of people above all else. While he would have said he was the most cynical person alive, always assuming the worst, I think in some ways he was the most hopeful. He worked for goals believing they could be achieved, as if there were no barriers. And he achieved so much because of the way he connected with people and organized in partnership.
I am in his backyard now where he loved to sit, drink coffee, and write. Although if I’m being honest, he would far rather be at a coffee shop around people, but quarantine led to him enjoying this space too. He and I and sometimes his grandchildren would sit out here three times a week, talking about life. I am sitting across from his empty chair and his empty coffee cup and his folded newspaper knowing he will never sit across from me again. But he is still here with me. With all of us. With the changes he made in the world during his 91 years, with the words he wrote that were published in different papers, forming connections with people that changed us all a little. He will not be able to submit another article or attend another rally, but his influence and his spirit will carry on in each of us. So, for him, for you, for our world, let’s look at the world in a raw way, the way my dad did, and keep on fighting for what you know is right.
*Harry Brill, born 7/25/1929, died 12/28/2020 at age 91.
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