Kenneth Paul Kramer - A Life of Dialogue: Love Letters to My Daughters

Leila and Yvonne,

Long before memory had time to find me, there was only relationship. Nothing else existed. As far back as I can remember, it was a strangers question that initiated my story. I was still in diapers in a playpen when, one afternoon, a visiting nurse stopped by to check on me. She looked over the side of the playpen as I was entertaining myself, grabbing this and pulling on that. A sweet smile brightened her face. The vivid sun illuminated the concrete as she and my mother talked.

Mrs. Kramer, the nurse asked, do you know what your son is going to be when hes grown?

No, my mother answered, surprised by the question. I have no idea.

I do. The nurse replied with certainty, a curiously playful look in her eye. Hes going to be a lawyer.

Why do you say that? my mother asked, puzzled yet intrigued.

Watch him, she said, turning to look at me. Look at how curious he is. He is interested in everything. Hes going to make a good lawyer. Oblivious, I continued playing and banging.

Your grandmother was a woman of beauty, common sense, wisdom, and sweet, sweet grace who didnt want anything for herself. Beauty, because she never, ever wore make-up, except a little rouge on her cheeks. Wisdom? Not until you listened to her or, more often, she listened to you. And grace. This is the trickiest. To notice her grace, I think would require you to be around her for quite a while. No, for her whole life.

Once she caught me with my pants down in front of my cousin Nancy in her garage. Perhaps I was eight or nine.

You show me yours, and Ill show you mine, I said, full of audacious confidence.

When your grandmother showed up, the world halted. Her eyes were filled with shock, disappointment, and anger as she stood in the doorway, hand on her hip, strong, bold, and unmoving. Not only had it gone horribly wrong that my mother, whom I idolized, had caught me but I knew that when she told my father, he would hit me.

It was this man, after all, who once punched me in the jaw. I was six or seven at the time, but what happened remains remarkably vivid. I was sick and feverish so mom wanted my father to drive us to the doctors office because she didnt drive. I remember him coming home in his brown United Parcel Service uniform, his short-sleeved shirt covering the American eagle tattoo on his left shoulder.

Roy, my mother said as soon as he entered the living room, Kennys been sick. Can you take us to Doctor Bradfords? She made small, graceful movements and spoke in a soft, unassuming tone.

Disgruntled, he shot back: Im hungry Rose. I want to eat first. Then Ill take him. He continued angrily banging around in the kitchen without missing a beat.

But Kenny has a fever, she protested. She stood taller now, her voice stronger. I stood halfway between them. My fathers back was to the front door and my mothers back was to the kitchen door.

Goddammit Rose, he blasted. In one powerful motion, he sprang from the kitchen chair, shouting, Ill take you after I eat! His face flushed with blood-reddened anger, and he turned around, staring straight into her beautiful eyes. Usually, in my fathers explosive moments, my mother retreated submissively.

Not this time. This time, she said, Kenny, lets go! Well walk, and she directed me toward the front door. I had never witnessed such defiance. Neither had my father. Instinctively, like a cornered bear, he swiped his huge paw-like hand at me. Just as I stepped toward the door, he struck me in the jaw with his fist with enough force to knock me onto the floor and across the room.

With unflappable determination, my mother reached out her hand to me: Lets go! That was all. Like a single strum on a guitar after the singer is finished, she said it again: Lets go. My father didnt move, but we did. My sickness was completely forgotten. Off we walked, twenty minutes to the doctors office near Broad and Allegheny Avenue. I was already feeling better.