Sh*t My Dad Says полностью

Although my mother came from a Catholic family, and my father, though not religious himself, developed a great understanding of Judaism and its customs, they decided to raise me and my brothers in a totally secular home. My dad is not a fan of organized religion. He’s a scientist, and he believes in science, and that’s that. “People can believe whatever the fuck they want. A turtle is God, whatever, I don’t give a shit. I got my own beliefs,” he told me when I first asked him about God over breakfast at age eleven.

In fact, the only time I ever experienced any sort of religious education was when my mother insisted I get in touch with my “Jewish roots” and sent me to a day camp in north San Diego County for kids who had one Jewish parent and one Catholic parent and wanted to learn more about Judaism. I lasted about three sessions before the rabbi complained to my parents that I just kept asking him to prove how he knew there was a God.

“Well, what’d you tell him?” my dad said to the rabbi.

“I discussed the idea of faith with him, and how God—”

“Listen, I think he just hates giving up his Sundays learning about it. No offense,” my dad said, cutting the rabbi off.

I never went back.

But my brush with religion had done nothing to abate my fear of death. Like a lot of people, I have always been afraid of death and plagued by the question, What am I doing here anyway? And having been raised with zero religion or spirituality, I never received any answers—or anything to comfort me when my anxiety got the best of me. Every once in a while I’d hear that someone famous or a friend of the family had died, and I’d start thinking about death and how I had no idea what was going to happen to me, where I would go, if I’d even be cognizant of what was going on. As my thoughts spiraled, my heart rate would quicken, I’d lose color in my face, and then I would have to lie down.

During a baseball practice in college, I heard that a kid I had gone to high school with had died in a car crash. As was par for the course, I got so light-headed I had to lie down. When my teammates and coaches asked why I was lying down on the field, I went with the obligatory no-one-will-question-this-excuse excuse: “I think I have diarrhea.”

I realized then that while my paralyzing fear of death probably wasn’t going to kill me, it was something I should learn to deal with in an adult way sooner rather than later. I decided to talk to my dad about it since he was the most unflappable person on the subject of death I’d ever met.

“When I die, I die. I could give a shit, ’cause it ain’t my problem. I’d just rather not shit my pants on the way there,” is a line I’d heard out of his mouth more than a handful of times. I wanted that same attitude. Or, at least, I wanted to understand how he was able to be so cavalier about it.

So one morning during college, when he was eating Grape-Nuts at the kitchen table and reading the newspaper, I sat down next to him and poured myself a bowl. After listening to us both crunch our way through two suggested daily portions of natural whole-grain wheat and barley, I spoke up.

“Hey, Dad. I have a question.”

He peered over the newspaper to look at me.

“What is it?” he asked.

I began a very roundabout way of getting to the point, philosophizing about religion and the possibilities of heaven and hell, until he cut me off.

“Is there a question somewhere on the fucking horizon?”

“What do you think happens after you’re dead?”

He set his paper down and scooped a big bite of soggy Grape-Nuts into his mouth.

“Well. It’s nothingness for eternity,” he said casually, then picked up his paper and began reading again.

“What do you mean, ‘nothingness’?” I asked, feeling my heart start to beat a little faster.

He put down the paper again.

“Nothingness, you know. Nothing. Like, you can’t even describe it because it’s not anything. I don’t know, if it makes you feel better, just picture infinite darkness, no sound, no nothing. How’s that?”

My heart rate rose further, and I started to feel light-headed. I couldn’t comprehend how he could believe this and be okay with it. Plus, his concept of death only added to my fears the fact that it was infinite. I’ve always had an obsession with keeping track of time. One night in college when I smoked pot, my roommates came home to find me sitting by the microwave, setting fifteen seconds on the timer over and over again so I could keep count of how many minutes were passing. Now I was being told that not only was there no afterlife, but what we all had in store was nothingness, an infinite period of it.

“How do you know that? You don’t know that, it’s just your opinion,” I said.

“Nope. Not my opinion. That’s what happens. Fact,” he replied, pulling the paper back up and starting to read. I could feel I was about to pass out, so I stumbled away from the table and walked toward my parents’ room, where my mom was sitting on their bed. Immediately she could see there was something wrong.