Dear George

Dear George, 

We haven’t met yet, this is your Uncle. I want to welcome you to the world and I could not be more excited to meet you. First off, my apologies for the circumcision. You’ll thank your parents later for that choice, but I know it’s like getting a brand-new sports car only to have it swapped out for a fuel-efficient Prius (you’ll get the reference one day). 

Over the next 40 to 50 years (or until I inevitably slip and fall in the shower) I will be your emotional guardian, your biggest fan, and your cultural sherpa, offering guidance through the highs and lows of this crazy thing called life and all of the little things that make it worth living. 

It’s a responsibility I do not take lightly and one that was built on a tacit agreement between your father and me many years ago. You see, while we may not be bonded by blood, we are connected by something deeper – something you’ll only come to know and appreciate once you come of age. The world is made up of two groups: the ones who operate from instinct, question little, and react immediately – and the ones who question everything, think about their thinking, and feel deeply. You are the product of two magnificent people that squarely fall in the latter. 

Now, I’m not going to bullshit you –– it's the tougher of the two groups. Life is more difficult when you don’t accept what’s handed to you and crave satisfaction beyond the status quo. You’ll judge yourself harshly and you’ll rarely find solace within your thoughts and feelings. The world will turn one way while you’ll feel compelled to turn the other and there will be days where you wish that you could just drift through mindlessly like your peers. It’s on those days, that if you’re lucky enough, you’ll be able to turn to someone like your father as I did. 

Your Dad I met a long time ago, in a place known as “suburbia”, an insulated bubble where the upper echelons of wealth and status did everything in their power to pass on their misguided values onto the next generation. In reality, it was actually a lovely place to grow up – safe, great schools, all the opportunities that a young kid could ask for – but that didn’t change the fact that your father and I loathed what it stood for. We hated being told what to like, what not to like, what to aspire to, what was considered cool (not us) and what was considered lame (us). Most of all we hated the invisible scorecards that hung around the necks of every member of the community that silently told you how to value them: how much money did their family make? What base have they gotten to with a girl? Were they good at sports? Were they smart? What college did they get into? In retrospect, we thought we were revolutionary for being angsty, adolescent teenagers, rebelling against expectations –– but in reality we were just teenagers. 

While I have too many stories about your father to choose from this time period, I think the one that best exemplifies just how on edge we were, is the one when he told the dean of students at our high school to “go fuck himself”. Your father, believe it or not, was quite the thespian — we both acted in a High School Comedy group that routinely performed at assemblies and school gatherings, poking fun at the happenings about the school. Usually this was done all in good fun, but I’ll admit that we definitely crossed some lines. In one such instance, we made a joke about a particular group of students that the Dean took issue with. He pulled your father and I aside and gave us a stern talking to, which of course, being hormonal teenagers, caused us to throw a childlike temper tantrum. After the dust settled, the Dean informed us that our performance would be cancelled. It wouldn’t be the last time that our overly emotional tendencies would get us in trouble, but this one hurt. Comedy was one of our escapes. It was our special little place where we could laugh, try, fail, succeed and none of it mattered. We didn’t do it to win something, or be the best, we did it because we loved it. There was something so pure about it that we found it almost sacred. So, when the Dean of students informed us that our performance would be cancelled, your father turned to this man, looked him straight in the eye at 16 years old, and said, “You know what? GO FUCK YOURSELF.”  I swear you could hear a pin drop. It was like a record scratching and every head within a 50ft radius turned in our direction. I was stunned. I’m still stunned as I write this. But even now I think of this story and a smile comes across my face. Yes, it’s hilarious– but to me it displayed a fearless honesty that I’ve admired ever since. 

One day, you will come to me and complain about your father. You will tell me he’s “annoying”, he’s an “asshole”, he’s “so emotional”. And you will be right –– it’s what makes him the most brilliant, honest, and loyal man I’ve ever known and you’re lucky to have him as a father. 

Also, if you ever need to settle him down when he’s on one of his rants, the secret ingredients are as follows: 1 tightly rolled joint. 1 glass of mid-priced bourbon. 1 vinyl record from 1969. It works every time. 

While your father and I bonded over music, weed, and existential questions about what our lives would be like, neither of us truly understood how short life really is. The stuff we spent hours agonizing over, has since become a distant memory to be chuckled at. You’ll find like we did, that the best way to weather any storm is to sail through it –– you just need the right crew. 

Luckily, we both found your Mother – well, really he did, I just shanghaid her onto my crew too. Your mother changed both of our lives almost immediately. You see, growing up, women weren’t particularly our forté. We kind of found ourselves stuck between a rock and a hard place – not athletic enough to be a “jock”, not cool enough to be a “hipster” – just two young men, cosplaying as two old Jewish men in a deli complaining about life. Turns out, that wasn’t such a big hit with the ladies. 

We dreamt of families. We dreamt of children and houses. But these dreams were so foggy that I don’t think either one of us ever considered the possibility of them actually occurring. That was until he met your Mom. 

I had just returned from studying abroad and was going to surprise your father by waking him up one morning. Cheeky asshole that I am, I grabbed my guitar, plugged it into an amp, and started playing a very hungover version of “Here Comes The Sun”. Sure enough, your Dad sat up with half-open eyes and smiled –– but little did I know there was someone else in his bed that I just serenaded. That’s how I met your Mom. 

While I had no doubt been relegated to the “third wheel”, I did not complain. I had gained another best friend to experience life with. What your parents did for me was shatter the notion that love, happiness and relationships were something beyond my reach. They dispelled the idea that love was this fairytale about “happily ever afters” and unrelenting passion. Instead, they simplified a concept that seemed so foreign to me that I often believed it to be something I would never experience. And yet, your parents believed that I would. They taught me how to love and for that, I am forever grateful. 

That brings me to you, sweet George. By the time you read this, you’ll be a grown man (with hopefully more hair than your father) and will certainly ask yourself why your father’s closest friend wrote such a note. Well, it’s because you too are going to one day feel lost, hopeless, and alone, as we did. When that moment comes, just know that being vulnerable is your greatest strength, not a weakness. It’s in these moments that we find our true selves and discover our true friends. Turn to them. Praise them. Berate them if you must. Because true friends can take the hit and won’t run away. 

I cannot wait to watch you grow. I will always be here with stories, bad advice, and a helping hand. 

Love,

Uncle S