The Unanswerable Question of Our Own Lives

My father was a so-called “absent father.” When I discussed this with him not long before his death, he had no objection to that characterization. The few times he played with me remain vivid in my memory. Otherwise, he was always at work. My mother is stoic and still struggles to express her emotions openly. As a parent, she was more concerned with doing what was right than enjoying moments with her children. When our dog died, I remember seeing her from behind, crying alone in a dark room. It surprised me because I rarely saw her cry.

In my 20s, someone told me: “You really like to sound smart, don’t you?” It stuck in my mind. The fact that it stayed with me suggested it touched on something deeper. I kept thinking about it. It’s true; I would eagerly tackle subjects reputedly impossible to understand as if my life depended on it. That’s how I ended up studying philosophers like Wittgenstein, Derrida, and Lacan. Most people don’t place such importance on appearing smart. Nobody wants to appear dumb, but not everyone needs to be perceived as particularly intelligent either. So why am I so attached?

My theory is that it stems from my absent father. I believe I created a defense mechanism, rationalizing why I didn’t need his attention, but deep down, I was desperate for it. Because my father himself valued appearing “smart,” this became my lifelong pursuit too. After he retired and grew bored, he began paying attention to me. I realized then that his attention wasn’t particularly great, yet my desire to be the smartest person in the room persisted. I had already internalized him, and it took on a life of its own. Had I been born in the US, my dream career might have been a professor. Would that have been good? It’s hard to say, as it would still be a psychological crutch covering a childhood wound. Becoming or rejecting becoming a Harvard professor wouldn’t solve the problem, assuming there’s even a problem to begin with.

Today, I listened to a podcast by the New York Times titled: Terry Real’s Advice for Dads: Open Your Heart and Loosen Up. I thought it might show me what it’s like to have the kind of parents I wished for. Instead, as I listened, I felt relieved that Terry Real was not my parent, openly sharing his vulnerabilities with his children. For example, he’d tell his son: “When you say that, it hurts my feelings.”

Not long before my father died, my parents and I were discussing a period from my childhood over dinner. At the peak of his career, my father had collapsed due to a mysterious illness, hospitalized and bedridden for several years. My mother held the family together. They revealed details I hadn’t known as a child. I said, “I had no idea we were in such a dire situation. I was just focused on my schoolwork.” My mother started crying, expressing relief, pain, and joy simultaneously: “I’m so happy to hear that. I tried really hard not to worry you.” The fact that she could now, four decades later, share what she felt had a cathartic effect on her, I think.

There’s a reason we don’t have sex in front of kindergarteners, even if it’s part of reality. Children need protection from the Real. Controlling their exposure involves creating fictional worlds, much like the story of Santa Claus. Nothing frightens a child more than seeing their parents afraid. If parents openly shared all their unfiltered feelings, anxieties, and fears, it would traumatize their children.

“When you say that, it hurts my feelings,” may seem harmless. However, to a six-year-old unable to manage her own emotions, it’s overwhelming to have to manage her father’s feelings as well. A child should be allowed the illusion that her parents’ feelings can’t be hurt. Only once she’s emotionally mature enough should she learn that her actions can affect her parents’ feelings.

Since Brené Brown’s TED talk about vulnerability, it has become a popular buzzword and an unquestioned virtue: the more vulnerable, the better. Imagine this scenario: a married man with a child goes out for drinks with a female colleague. She shares her vulnerabilities, hoping he’ll reciprocate. He responds, “Oh, that’s nothing. You have no idea how pathetic I am. I’m despicable. When we have Zoom meetings, sometimes I turn off my camera, claiming the plumber is here. But I’m actually jerking off while looking at you or another woman.” He’s telling the truth. It is indeed pathetic and despicable, but he’s only human. It would be dishonest if someone claimed they’d never had fantasies about coworkers. Still, there’s a good reason some truths should remain secret, even among adults. We maintain certain fictions to shield ourselves because confronting the Real can be disturbing or even traumatic.

Would I be happier today if my parents had been more emotionally present? There’s no real answer because that hypothetical person wouldn’t be me. Do I regret striving to be smart to impress my father? No. My motivation might have been misguided, but without it, I’d be a different person entirely.

Here’s a more disturbing example: Imagine a poet who was raped as a child. Because of her experience, she develops a profound understanding of human suffering, touching millions worldwide. It sounds like I’m justifying rape. Had she not experienced such trauma, perhaps she’d be a carefree person who uncritically conformed to societal expectations, marrying a hedge fund manager and living happily ever after.

Everything that happens shapes who we become. There’s no objectively better or worse version of ourselves because the conditions necessary for comparison are not available. The question itself lacks meaning. Even if cause and effect seem clear, the outcomes can’t be labeled as good, bad, better, or worse. They simply are.

My parents are who they are; they did what they did. I’m the result. Good? Bad? Better? Worse? Such questions merely distract me from living my life.