There are some days I like it less. It is often entirely stressful, it can be frustrating, and working in the field of sex education often leads to me being questioned as an educator, told I’m not enough not a real educator, etc.

However, some days are just wonderful – I realize I’ve changed people’s lives, I’ve helped to save people’s relationships, I’ve helped people to discover things about themselves.

And somedays? Wow.

At my last Let’s Talk Sex workshop in Phoenix, after the class, a young woman came up to me. She looked familiar — I realized that she was a Fascinations Facebook Fan, and commented often, as well as attended classes. She told me that her sister had died in November, and that was why neither of them had been at my November class. She told me how much my updates on social media had meant to her sister, how much she loved attending my classes, reading my facts of the day, etc. She told me, through tears, that she was just hanging in there, but that her sister would have wanted her to tell me how much I had meant to her during her life.

I went home, driving 45 minutes thinking about this. Q was out of town, so I made a cup of tea, tucked myself under the covers with the kitties, and cried.

What I do, what people in my field do, changes lives. Period. We often present to people that we never seen again, never talk to again. Unlinke a college professor, or a therapist, we don’t have a lot of continuity with the people whose lives we touch. But this? Hearing from someone’s family member how much what I did had meant to them? It’s both very heavy and very lightening at the same time.

Sex education remains a difficult field…but things like this? THIS is what keeps me going, every single day, despite the frustration and the tiredness and the being broke and the getting called out and the long days and longer nights. What I do matters.

-Essin’ Em

For a long time, I thought I was going to be alone forever. I viewed myself as unloveable, as broken, as not worthy of love. I didn’t think anyone would find me “worth” dealing with, putting up with my insecurities, my disabilities, my career, my snarkiness, my messiness, my anthropormorphisizing of my cats.

And then, I met Q. At a strap on class that I was teaching even. Well, this way I knew that for the most part, sex ed wasn’t going to be an issue. Q is incredibly caring about social justice, about equality (or the lack there of), actually cares about politics and truly works towards creating change in this world. On top of that, Q is witty, hilarious, fun to be around, incredibly smart, and laughs at my ridiculous jokes…and Q is more co-dependent with Jasper (the Maine Coon) than I have ever been with my cats. Although I don’t believe in the concepts of perfect matches (because you have to work on making them work), I can’t imagine finding anyone more perfect for me than Q. I wonder sometimes if I even deserve such happiness. Q says I do.

There are few things more wonderful than waking up in the middle of the night from a bad dream, and having loving arms around you, or getting a “hello beautiful” text message in the morning, or an “I love you” sign on the holiday shrubbery, and knowing that the love is actually meant, and isn’t just some trite or cliche message. Few things more reassuring than your partner bringing you ice packs and pain killers when you can’t walk, or calling to see how your neurologist appointment went.

I am not perfect. I am a hard pill to swallow at times. It is hard to love me, and sometimes harder to be with me. I know all of this. And yet, I am lucky enough to have found someone as wonderful and driven and loving as Q, who takes me how I am.

Next October, we’re having our “Queer Celebration of Love” — AKA, the wedding. I’ll have to write about my views on marriage at some point, but the wedding is our celebration for our friends and family, a showing off of our love, a rejoycing in our connection.

Sadly, Q is still in New York for today’s anniversary, but Q’s family is important, and I understand that. Instead, this Saturday I’m making a special dinner for us, and for Christmas, we’re driving to a relaxing resort outside of Vegas to take advantage of their special pricing, and cooked food, and will celebrate there. I love being together, experiencing things together, trying new things together.

So happy anniversary stud muffin. I can’t imagine being happier with anyone else ever, anywhere, any time. Thank you for letting me love you and trust you,

Babycakes.

Dear Daddy,

I miss you.

This whole letter could say nothing but that, and still be complete, but for the sake of writing things out, I will continue.

Sometimes, when I’m lonely, or tired, or driving on a long trip, I wonder what you’d think of who I’ve become. I like to think you’d be proud of me, but doesn’t everyone think that of their deceased family/lovers/friends?

I know you’d be proud of me for working the system, and graduating high school at 16 and college at 20 – you did your whole undergrad degree in 2.5 years. I know you’d be proud of me for living in Germany for 6 months, and I wish I could thank you for introducing me to that language and culture, and reminding me that just because I’m a Jew, it doesn’t mean I have to hate/distain modern day Germany.

I like to think you’d be proud of me for forging my own way. Mother is always reminding me that I chose this field, that when I’m broke or jobless, it’s my fault. I can hear you in my head telling me that it’s 100% worth doing what you’re passionate about, regardless of how important other people think it is, regardless of how much stress and controversy this is.

I still don’t ride roller coasters. I still am scared of heights. Spiders still make me scream. I tried to cure myself of these fears, because I knew you were virtually fearless, and didn’t understand where these fears came from. I’m sorry I failed…but I did kill a sewer roach last month when Q was away and it ran across the floor. I hope that counts for something.

I wish you were here to meet Q. She reminds me a lot of you, especially her silliness, and how she calms me down. I think you two would get along swimmingly. Don’t worry – we’ll break a glass at the wedding and do the hora for you.

I wish you could have seen me play hockey or roller derby. I know you were surprised when I chose dance, figure skating and horseback riding over archery and softball. I know you wanted me to be sportier, but I appreciate that you took up figure skating just so you could be with me, and learn along side me. Q and I played catch the other day, and I dedicated that silly little session of throwing a ball around to you.

I wish you would have known me when I grew up, as I continue to grow. I wonder how much I’ve changed in the 11 years since you died. How would you have reacted to me coming out? To being a sex educator? To my disablity? I don’t know. I like to think I do, but honestly, I don’t.

I’m almost to the point where you’ve been dead longer than you were in my life. That terrifies me. I hardly remember what you sounded like, although I will never ever be able to forget your smile, your face. Even your laugh still haunts my memory.

I love you Daddy, still and always. I miss you terribly, and I can only hope that what I am doing, that who I am would have made you proud.

Love,

Me

Dear Annabelle -

I miss you. SO. FREAKING. MUCH. You helped me survive college. Whether it was helping me to figure out who I really was, or discussing how much I dislike wearing socks and sneakers, or making Kinsey do the cat “dance dance dance” or finding places to have a nice cuppa tea, or keeping me from going crazy when I was directing shows, you were my life force through that time. Not only that, but even when we were on opposite coasts as I attempted to survive graduate school, you always had interesting advice, and a way to cheer me up. Through out the past eight years, your smiles, tidbits, teas and care packages have helped me to keep my sanity.

I love that whenever we are in the same place, or finally are able to play phone tag long enough, that it seems like we begin where we left off, as if there weren’t heaps and ooodles of time between. I wish you lived near by, so that we could meet regularly for tea dates, and revolver belt sushi and book talk and cupcakes. You are one of the absolutely most wonderful people I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting, and I am honored to call you my friend, and to promote your first published novel. I am so ridiculously, incredibly proud of you.

For my part in the lack of chat, I apologize. My life has been a bit crazy as of late, but that is no excuse. I hereby state to you that starting now, I will do my best to do better…to call more, to email more, to facebook more, to snail mail more. You are far too precious to me to not get to be in contact with you more often.

You’re amazing. A rock star, one might say. I am so honored to be your friend, and I miss you like the buggering bloody dickens!

-Essin’ Em

The result? Right now, we have an incredibly mercurial relationship, almost bi-polar. One minue, we’re holding hands, looking into each others’ eyes, sharing frozen yogurt, being all lovey dovey. The next, we’re arguing with each other about little things, being nit picky, almost ignoring each other.

People keep telling me it’s Mercury in retrogade. I don’t normally believe in that, but we all like to cling to something to explain why our lover and ourselves have suddenly started acting bi-polar towards the relationships…and I mean hell, Mercurial (the temperament/actions) and Mercury sure sound alike, right?

But it’s made me realize, along with some posts on Alphafemme’s blog, that relationships constantly require work, even if they’re working out just fine. Being complacent about the relationship leads to things getting stale, or issues not being worked out. However, I’m also realizing that working on and improving relationships takes a lot of hard work.

This is the longer sexual/lover relationship I’ve ever been in. I mean, I’ve made friendships work for years. My best friend Annabelle and I have been friends since 2002, and my best friend E and I since 1999. Clearly, I can handle long term relationships/friendships, including their natural ups and downs.

However, I’m new to making long term lovers/partner relationships work. I didn’t realize how hard it can be, how much effort need to be involved in truly communicating (instead of just saying yes and no, or I like this/don’t like this), how much it can hurt as we work through our issues, as well as personal issues that get brought up.

I’ve never been a highly emotional person before, but I am often with Q, because I just have so much love and trust for her, which seems to bring out this side. I need to work hard not on pushing them down, but not letting them run wild. I let little things hurt more than they should, and I feel a lot of my OCD-ness and anxiety returning, something which I would like not to happen.

Then there is the disability thing. As things get worse, and I have more bad days, and hospital visits, I always get worried that something will be the last straw, and she won’t want to deal with me anymore. I’m trying to figure out how to even phrase this feeling. I’m not sure yet.

I have a huge fear of being left/abandoned by those I love; friends and partners alike. It happened with Julius, and with Nikki, and with the Kinky Whore, and I’m terrified it’s going to happen with Q. It’s not logical, I know, but I have a history of people I love leaving me. Can I trace it back to daddy issues, and my father dying when I was 13? Possibly. Who knows? Regardless, no matter how much I trust Q, I still have this voice in the back of my head, especially whenever we’re aruging or trying to improve things, telling me that “if you don’t do it right, if you mess up at all, Q is going to leave you, just like everyone else.” I need to figure out how to quiet that voice, and trust in Q and in what we have together.

Q pointed out to me that relationships cannot thrive and grow unless we ourselves thrive and grow. Whether that is through writing, therapy, meditation (I’ve decided I’ll try it daily for 3 weeks, and then decide if it is in fact helping me), etc, we have to, as individuals, work on ourselves in order to work on our relationship.

And so, I’m working on harnessing my emotions, learning to let things go. I’m trying to not attach so much importance to little things. I’m trying to re-create more of my own life here. It’s hard. I don’t really have friends. I strongly dislike the kink community, there is no queer community, and most of the lesbians we’ve met drink a lot and do drugs, neither of which is for me. I’m having a hard time creating my own life outside of Q and my relationship because I’m in an area where I don’t fit, where I don’t belong. I think that’s part of the issue.

And I’m going to work on, I’m not sure how, but I’m going to work on this fear of abandonment. I’m open to suggestions, ideas, etc. How do you convince yourself to leave your past alone and trust in the future and in your parnter, completely?

-Essin’ Em

First of all, today is Q’s 25th birthday (she likes the TMNT a lot, hence the graphic). If you feel so inclined, leave a comment here, or head over to Q’s Twitter with your birthday wishes. Happy birthday baby! No more young driver costs on rental cars — w00t!

And now, my letter.

Dear Q/baby/stud muffin/etc,

I love you, period. I love you more and more every day. I never knew I could love a person so much, and in so many different ways, and more and more and more. I am so happy every single day of my life to have you in it.

Thank you for putting up with me. With my crankiness in the mornings, with my epic fear of bugs (although I did kill that one — I really do hope you’re proud of me, as it was one of the scariest moments of my life), with my messy house style, with my animal print obsession, with our cats and how they get along, with my late nights and travel, with my sex toys scattered around the house, with my pain issues and migraine issues and knee issues, with me being emotionally needy at times. Thank you for working on your communication skills, and for never leaving or going to bed angry (frustrated, perhaps, but never angry).

You do so many amazing things, and I am so incredibly proud of you. The work you’ve done on the campus making it a safer and more inclusive place for LGBTQ students, staff and faculty is just unbelievable, especially given not having a budget, having four campuses, 70,000 students, and the pay check of someone barely out of undergrad. You put your mind to something, and it will be accomplished; that is how dedicated (and at times, stubborn) you are. I just wish your job appreciated you more — you completely deserve it.

I know we have rough patches…whether it’s having to learn to live my my trips to doctors, hospital and ERs, or me learning to live with your sometimes wacky school schedule, we make it work. As gross as it seems, I just can’t even imagine my life without you at this point, so please don’t ever make me have to.

I’m always a little scared. Despite what might seem to be a tough and self-confident exterior, I’m always questioning. Am I pretty enough, am I smart enough, am I dedicated enough, am I good enough. When my knees came to the forefront of our lives, I questioned whether you’d think it was too much, whether you’d give up and leave me because it’s a lot of work, and emotion and scary as fuck to deal with all this. I know it’s hard, and so I will always question how someone can love me enough to deal with it. This has nothing to do with how much I love or trust you; it has to deal with me, and how I view myself. Please don’t let this push you away.

You’re smart, funny, witty, vibrant, silly, deep, introspective, hot, studly, and just over all the best partner (and cat co-parent) that I could ever imagine. Even better, in fact.

<3,

-Essin’ Em

Anything would be greatly appreciated!! I’m out of ideas and no research on the internet has brought up anything useful yet.
Thank you so much!

-Needs Help

Hey N.H:

Thanks for writing.

First of all, you can always continue to get off by yourself, with clitoral stimulation, the way you like it.  Just because you have a partner doesn’t mean that you can’t masturbate anymore.  You can masturbate on your own, you can both masturbate lying in bed together side by side, you can have her play with your hair, neck, breasts, kiss you, etc while you masturbate. Plenty of ways to make that work.

Not everyone likes penetration, and some people like it, but very gently. Lots and lots of women of all orientations don’t get off from penetration.  So there is nothing wrong with either your or your girlfriend — it’s just trying to figure out the puzzle pieces of what feels good to you, and then practicing. A lot :).

Perhaps have her put her hand over yours while you’re masturbating, so she can see exactly where you put it, for how long, etc. Then have her try, with your hand over hers, guiding her in direction and pressure. You’re creating sexual energy and pleasure together, and you’re getting the stimulation you need while she’s helping give it to you.

It sounds like you may have a sensitive cervix. I have one of those – touch it and I want to punch someone. Q, however, likes having her cerix touched. It’s different for each person.  If you’d like, try penetration with toys on your own, but feel around for your cervix first and avoid it. See if that helps.

If you’re enjoying the sex between the two of you, why not use her enjoyable fucking of you as epic foreplay, and then have her watch you as you get off for her, your way at the end, so that everyone has fun and is satisfied.

Let me know if you try these and how they work for you. I wish you luck.

-Essin’ Em

Why, my favorite moose of course! That’s right, my secondary play partner/primadary friend from Denver is coming to visit this weekend.

Did I ever tell you how I met? I was having dinner with two members of the kink community; one in Denver, one visiting, and I mentioned I liked fisting.  The gentleman I was with suggested one of his partners was kind of queer, and would probably like fisting.  I smiled and nodded, and kind of let it go.

Later that night, I went to a play party at the RACK Room, to play pinata with my visitor from Utah. We put candy all over her, and beat it off her.  Afterwards, I met Evey, my soon to be moose.  It was one of those “ohhhh, so you’re the girl your partner wants me to meet and possibly fist, right?” moments of complete awkwardness. Remember, I’m incredibly awkward. 

She let me do a spanking and paddling scene with her. It was fun and entertaining.

Since then, we’ve built our relationship in various directions. We’ve played together, I’ve played tic tac toe on her with a knife, we’ve had sex, I’ve tied her up, she’s cleaned my apartment, we’ve cuddled, hugged, chatted, cupped, fired, talked, and much much more. I love her to death, and view her as a partner, even though we’re no longer sexually active.

I can’t wait to see her, and spend the weekend with her. I have many a plan, and look forward to enacting them.

She writes her own blog; Voyeur on Display – you should check it out!

And with that, I’m off to go have fun with my moose! I have some surprises in store.

-Essin’ Em

PS.  Isn’t she adorable?

How do I find you sexy? Let me count that ways…

*When you open the car door for me, and close it after I’ve eased myself into the seat, I find you to be chivalrously sexy.

*When we lie in bed at nice, and you are the big spoon, holding and protecting me, the little spoon, your whole body up against me, skin on skin, I find you to be comfortingly sexy.

*When you make silly faces with me, or quote Glee and How I Met Your Mother, and our eyes connect, and there is that spark, I find you amusingly sexy.

*When you’re fucking me silly, and I look at you, deep in concentration, a bead or two of sweat rolling down your face, I find you earth shatteringly sexy.

*When I’m fucking you, sliding in and you, making you moan and groan and make those noises I love, I find you just fucking sexy.

*When we cuddle afterwards, and we are just a pile of skin and sweat and shakey-ness, I find you handsomely sexy.

*When you talk to our cats although they were our children, I find you fatherly sexy.

*When you are in my life, you make it so much better from making me food to stroking my hair, from keeping the worst issues at bay and celebrating the best. Everytime I see you, my heart jumps just a little bit. I still get those butterflies in my tummy when I see you in a tie, or you kiss my neck. You are, without a doubt, the sexiest person I know, and when I see you, or hear your voice, or get a text from you, I find you sexy. Always.

That’s me on the right, at an ice show rehearsal circa 1995?

Today, April 23, 2010, is the 11th anniversary of the death of my father, the greatest man I will ever know. He was one of the most amusing, inspiring, intelligent, wonderful people to ever grace the face of this earth, and that’s not just my biased view. You didn’t see the number of people at his funeral, the number of people who came out of the woodwork to tell him goodbye and to tell us how much he had meant to them, the kind words written about him online by people all over the world, and so on. He was a great man.

When I was younger, I remember visiting him in the hospital in my Care Bear outfit (yes, I’ve been a nerd since a very young age). He had cancer (non-hodgkin’s lymphoma) and was occasionally hospitalized for pneumonia, or other infections. He went into remission in the early 90’s. Then, summer 1998, when we were in Europe, he started feeling off again. He was re-diagnosed at the end of the summer. My family didn’t tell me until Feb 1999, because they didn’t want to throw off my skating competition (WHAT THE FUCK — I still resent this immensely) or worry my sister and I.

Now I know why he cried at that competition when I put my first place medals around his neck and told him it was all his fault that I’d won. It’s a good thing they told us when they did – my dad ended up in the hospital the next week. It was a hard time – mydad was constantly in chemo, and was in and out of the hospital. I stopped doing my math homework; who cares about algebra and equations when your father was sick and his life hung in the balance? I spent every night after school either at rehearsal for my play, or with my dad at good old St. Joe’s, getting him ice chips, and joking around about the disgusting food, and taking the crosses off the wall.

At the end of March was my last show at the Logan School for Creative Learning (my elementary and middle school). I had a starring role in “The Madwoman of Chillot,” but didn’t think my father in his weak state could go – 3 flights of stairs, and sitting in a folding chair for 3 hours just wasn’t going to happen. My school loved my dad though, and banded together. They were able to help him up the stairs, and put him in the tech director’s special high backed rolling arm chair so that he could keep his neck upright (carried up those 3 flights). At the end of the show, they unrolled a banner signed by every single member of the cast and crew that said “We love you Sol!” and dedicated the show to him. By this point, he was bald (I called him Daddy Warbucks), and had lost more than 50 pounds. He was sunken in his chair, but had tears streaming down his face at this show of love by the people in his life. It was an amazing night, and the best performance of my life, bar none.

He started getting better, and was put on a list for a stem cell transplant. Every night before he went to bed, I told him how much I loved him…that’s just how we were. Until the morning of Friday, April 23, 1999, when I was woken up by my mother at 10am, which was odd, since it was a school day. She took me into my sister’s room, and told us that he had died in the night. She had woken up when he made a noise, and called 911, and tried to give him CPR, but it hadn’t worked. She was terrified that we would wake up with the ambulance’s sirens, and paramedics running through the house. We didn’t.

That day, I missed school, but they held an all school assembly in memory of my dad. I stayed home, cleaning up the house for the after funeral party. It snowed that day, a lot, given that it was April. I answered the door for the people coming by, took the flowers and arranged them. That night, I went to rehearsal for the ice show, because that’s what my father would have wanted, and I didn’t see any reason to not go.

Saturday, I went to the funeral home with my mother (Jews don’t believe in embalming, so funerals happen fast), and she was a wreck. I helped to plan my father’s funeral, to pick out his casket, to figure out how many police on motorcycles we needed. I was 13, and making choices as to how my father would be buried. Try telling me that hasn’t affected me every day for the rest of my life.

We asked for the small, 75 person chapel at my temple. When we arrived on Sunday morning, they had already had to move it to a large chapel, because too many people had already shown up (which was unexpected – we didn’t even publish an obituary with a funeral time). By the time the service started, it was standing room only. I wore a black dress with one of my father’s Hawaii shirts over it. He wore a Hawaiian shirt every day – to work, to skating, to school, etc. So I wore one. I read a poem, and after the service, my mother, sister and I opened the casket, alone. He was wrapped in a traditional Jewish Shroud, but underneath, he was in his $6 goodwill tuxedo he had bought for the father daughter skate, a Hawaiian shirt, and his rainbow suspenders. I left a little pig scupture in there with him.

We underestimated how many cops we would need to get to the cemetery. It was ridiculous – we figured just a few friends would come along. Everyone did. It snowed a little as he was buried. I remember the vase of flowers we left on his grave; we had too many at home already.

A few weeks later, his doctor called, and told us that his last tests had shown the cancer had spread all over his body – nothing could have stopped it, and nothing could have prevented him dying. Funny you know, because non-hodgkin’s lymphoma is considered a generally non-fatal type of cancer. A week or two after that, we got a message from the hospital – my dad was now at the top of the list for a stem cell transplant, and could he come in the following day? That was hard. As were all the calls from solicitors…especially the one when I said “No, I’m sorry, he’s deceased” and he said “when would be a good time to call back?” I asked him if he believed in reincarnation. What can you do?

My dad was a wonderful man. He was born in Sweden, moved to the US at age 1, and learned to speak Yiddish. English was his second language. He was kicked out of several schools for making mischief after he finished his school work before everyone else. He was in the air force for 3 years, stationed in Germany. He came back and got his bachelor’s in 2.5 years by working the hell out of the system. Then he got a Master’s in geology. After years with the government (BLM) as a geologist, he went back and got another degree as a computer scientist and stayed with the BLM. And did a lot of fancy computer programming stuff that I really don’t get, but he’s been called a pioneer in the field of meta-data analysis, and there is an award out there in his name.

He was a field trip parent for my classes – he had a giant suburban with a CB radio, and would show up for almost every trip. He came in to read stories to my class. Every year, we made latkes for everyone. At our roller skating parties, he’d be out there teaching every kid how to skate. Around Channukah, he’d dress up completely like a traditional Eastern European Jew, and re-enact (with my help of course) “Herschel and the Channukah Goblins.” Everyone knew and loved my dad.

When I took up figure skating, he did too, so that he could stay a little ahead of me, and help me learn things. After a while, I by-passed him in skills, but he kept skating. He even got a few jumps (he took this up at 44 or 45!), and quite a few bruises to prove it (never skate with a pocket knife in your pocket). One year, my sister and I skated to “the Sorcerer’s Apprentice” in an ice show – she was Mickey, and I was the Sorceress. Well, my dad put all on brown, tied some grass skirts around his knees, grabbed some buckets, and he became the brooms. I’m so not kidding. It was hilarious. In the father daughter skates in the ice shows, he had found a $6 tuxedo at goodwill, and wore it with a giant sequin bow tied and matching cummerbund, every year. And every year he’d try to throw some of his cool moves in (a little bunny hop here, some backwards skating there), and every year he’d get yelled at by the ice show director.

We used to see the circus every year, and one time, it was like our personal family at the circus day. My sister and I got picked from the audience to fly in a toy plane from the top of the coliseum, and then my father was picked for a clown skit. It involved “lay-people” tossing plates at each other, that broke when caught, and the audience people were supposed to just look confused and upset. Well, my dad started juggling them, throwing them under his leg, clapping them together, etc. He even followed the main clown around, mocking him (to the amusement of the crowd)…he told us later the clown told him in a heavy Russian accent to “cut it out! This is my show!” Later on, everyone was asking him if he was a plant, because he was that funny.

In 4th grade, I was farther ahead than everyone in my Hebrew class except for one girl. He volunteered to teach, and came in every weekend to teach special lessons to the two of us. Didn’t get paid, and got a lot of crap from me, but he did it, Sunday after Sunday.

When my girl scout troop was without a leader, he stepped up, becoming the only male leader in the Denver area. We learned knot tying, macramé, fire starting, archery, etc. I used to go to the “parent-daughter” girl scout camp weekends, and he’d go with me – usually one of only 4 or 5 dads (so we’d get the nice cabins with plumbing!).

On our own, he taught me to use a bow and arrow, how to play catch, how to carve words into sticks and trees. He made his own fireworks with steel wool. He took me with him to work all the time, not just on the official day. We had matching beanie propeller hats, except his had a little pig, and mine had a frog. He drove me religiously to dance and horseback riding lessons, and we’d listen to NPR on the way. We used to go thrift store and garage sale-ing every weekend spring-fall, and in the winter, we’d go to the lumber store sometimes. He built a two story play house for my sister and I in our back yard…that never got finished because of his death. It’s still there.

When I wanted my hair French braided, he went to a hair styling for kids class with me at Kazoo and Co. He was the only male there, but volunteered to practice for the demos, etc. We used to build hyped up remote control cars together for the critter crunch – trying to demolish our opponent’s cars. When I ever wanted a “new” computer, we’d build it together from spare parts, just the way I wanted it, even if that meant 3 floppy drives (totally pointless by the way). He got me games for DOS from all over the world. In NM, he used to take me shooting with my uncle, and was so proud of me when I turned out to be good at it. Once, we made our own wine…from a jury-rigged distillery we made in our kitchen. He taught me how car engines run, how to use a power drill, and how to waltz and summersault. Even our cats liked him best – always following him around, sleeping with him in his arm chair, leaving mice under his chair.

My father was my everything. He taught me so much, even when I didn’t want to learn (like the one summer he made me fill in a blank multiplication table every day, or the next year, when I had a daily long division problem). His crazy shirts, bolo ties, and tucan hats (as well as the rest of his antics) made me realize how important it is to live life to the fullest every day, because you never know what might happen. I even wrote my college essay on him. I got into my first choice because of him.

He never got to see me do my bat mitzvah, even though I wore his toucan hat during it (which miraculously survived the house fire we had a month after his death). He didn’t get to see me go to high school, to see me win any awards, to see me graduate high school, college or grad school. He never got to see me direct my first play, or sing in a musical. He would have been astonished that I was the President of the Jewish group at CC. He never got to threaten my partners with his .22 like he always promised. He would have LOVED Kinsey and Athena and Kali and Jasper, and would have played with them more than I do.

That day, not only did I lose a wonderful father, a great friend, a teacher, but the world lost a great man. It’s only in the last few years that I realize not only how much he influenced me, and how much he brightened my life, but that he did the same for hundreds of other people. It’s hard now – none of my current close friends, or my partner Q have ever met my dad, so they don’t know what exactly I’m missing, what piece of me is gone…I reacted differently to his death than most people react when they lose a loved one. We had never left anything unsaid, and I had nothing to feel guilty about. But the farther away I get from him, the more sad I am. I don’t remember anymore exactly what his voice sounds like. I don’t always remember his wry smile. I don’t believe in heaven or hell – I believe that when you die, your body is done, and your spirit goes into those whom you loved. I feel that as life trucks on and on, there is less and less of him in me, and that’s so hard.

Q often reminds me of him. Not all the time, but just here and there. Don’t they always say that girls go after guys that are like their daddies? I guess I found one like my dad in Q.

People ask me how long it took to move on. I tell them you never move on, you only work on healing.  How can you ever move on from someone who created who you are?

Here we are making potato latkes in my middle school

If you feel so inclined, wear a Hawaiian or brightly colored shirt today, in honor of him and his vibrant life. Or please donate to the American Cancer Society.

Thanks for reading that huge diatribe.

-Essin’ Em