an old writer and his words

  • ON LEARNING PAINFULLY

    I cannot begin to tell youhow glad I am that I neverfollowed through on the ideaof flying to Lisbon and searchingfor you or some record of you.After all, she told the adoptionagency when she gave me upthat you were a Portuguese Jewshe met in Washington, D.C.so the odds were good you couldbe found in the…

    Lou Faber

  • ONLY ONCE

    I don’t know who decided that we,as a group would go to the jai alai frontonthat evening, but as the junior-most memberof the management team it seemedat that moment less of a request or evenan invitation and more a command performance.I knew nothing about jai alai and the namesof the players, all in Portuguese might…

    Lou Faber

  • EIRE

    They say you must cherishyour memories lest they slipaway in the night, trying fora freedom you deny them. I remember Ireland, knowingit was home although at the timeI thought I was Ashkenaziand Portuguese, but my geneswere trying to tell me something. I remember driving a stickshift down narrow roads,always keeping in mindthe advice, “if you…

    Lou Faber

  • SONNET TO A PORTUGUESE

    You came into my life last week, your nameforever locked away inside her mind.My life, she felt, would never be the sameand therefore left all thought of you behind.You loved her, I suppose, that summer nightthen left her, bearing me, until she turnedme over for adoption, that she mightforget the love that you so quickly…

    Lou Faber

  • LIAR

    It is a strange feeling to discover that youhave been made a liar by your own DNA. For years I was Jewish to the core, halfat least Sephardic, Portuguese, and thatnot merely extracted but fully blooded. My diet at Passover expanded greatly,no longer dictated by Northerners whoeasily banned that which they did not grow. But…

    Lou Faber

  • DISCOVERING ME

    They were always almost mythological, heroes of a people I could only imagine as my own, knowing I came from a far different place, one of shtetls and pogroms, of seaside villages, the beaches of Cascais. It was half a lie, but I couldn’t know it then, couldn’t guess my dream was reality, my reality…

    Lou Faber

  • ADOPTING A NEW SELF

    At some level, he always knew. It was what he hoped, but he had given up hope. He was glad when he was Portuguese, imagined himself on the beach at Estoril or Cascais. Imagination was free and unfettered, and he was a bronze god in those dreams, chiseled of flesh, wanted by all. You don’t…

    Lou Faber