{"id":22293,"date":"2015-08-26T08:00:23","date_gmt":"2015-08-26T12:00:23","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.yiddishecup.com\/blog\/?p=22293"},"modified":"2015-08-26T08:37:33","modified_gmt":"2015-08-26T12:37:33","slug":"the-day-my-dad-went-to-prison","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/www.yiddishecup.com\/blog\/2015\/08\/26\/the-day-my-dad-went-to-prison\/","title":{"rendered":"THE DAY MY DAD WENT TO PRISON"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/p>\n

Friedman from<\/strong><\/span> the bakers’ union didn’t look too good. Neither did Presser from the Teamsters. Shondor Birns, the numbers guy, was dead — blown up. My father — my thieving<\/em> father — faced a 10-year sentence, which meant at least five years, which meant he would die in prison because he was so sickly. He had dreck stains on his pants, a severe shuffling gait, and a 250-pound man’s clogged heart.<\/p>\n

Could I erase all this? I tried. I put Hello Kitty stickers on everything, but it didn’t work.<\/p>\n

I was at my dad’s apartment, looking at a spider on the ceiling. My dad said, \u201cToo many times I\u2019ve let you down.” True, Dad.<\/p>\n

He tried to kiss me on the forehead but missed because my head was looking at the spider.<\/p>\n

The deputies <\/strong><\/span>escorted my father to the parking lot to ship him off. Next to the car, he bear-hugged me. With each squeeze, my ribs cracked slightly.<\/p>\n

My dad died in prison. I can’t say that I missed him. My dad tried to learn Hebrew in jail. He never got past transliteration. He was good with numbers but not letters.<\/p>\n

\"dad<\/a><\/p>\n

—-
\nFive percent of the above is stolen from the Poetry Project Newsletter (Dec 2014.\/Jan 2015).\u00a0 The post is fiction.<\/em><\/small>
\n—<\/span><\/p>\n

Here’s Yiddishe Cup’s mash-up of\u00a0Fiddler on the Roof<\/em> and The Temptations:<\/span><\/p>\n

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