When I was 19 my father was diagnosed with Pick's disease. At the time I was living in Tokyo as part of a study abroad program. My sister emailed me the news. At first it didn't mean much to me, a possible explanation for the strange and inconsistent behavior that my father had been exhibiting, but mostly it seemed abstract, something to be dealt with later. It was on Christmas day that I received a call from my brother and sister and dad, hanging out, laughing about their experience in Church the prior evening, where a talking Darth Vader pen my brother was carrying broke the staid silence of the Christmas Eve ceremony with "I want them alive!" At first my dad tried to tell the story but his confused ordering of events got in the way. My sister took over and I understood. That spring I received a letter from my father, the first I had ever gotten from him, a single page ending with the line, "I'm so proud of you."

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Things began making more sense after that, thinking about the past and making the appropriate revisions to my memory and the logic behind events. My dad and I wrote each other emails when I had first left to Japan, until one day when he wrote that if I wasn't going to write back than he wouldn't write anymore. Later, when somebody showed him how to check his in-box, he apologized and continued writing, sometimes strange stories about the dogs and the farm, pouring gasoline down snake holes and his adventures with Susan. At the end of one of these emails, he concluded, "I hope you find something funny everyday."

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When I came back my brother said I had changed, that I was acting too much like Nate, who my brother thought to be arrogant and aloof. My brother, dad, and I were all staying at a house my sister was taking care of for the summer in DC. My dad's odd behavoir was more pronouced now, and he would burst with non-sequiturs, anger, confusion, and clarity at uneven intervals. While driving back to Wisconsin, I put some music on in the car; Stereolab, a droning rock band with a french singer. He mumbled something in the back seat and then exploded in anger thirty seconds later, mocking the singer's voice, "la la la la la, la la la la la, turn it off or I'll throw the goddamn tape out the window." My brother and I smiled at each other but I felt embarrased.

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It feels odd to me that I should reflect on these things when I'm not really that far removed from them. My dad is still alive, mute and damaged from the disease; but he's still alive. I'm very much still in a post-college haze in many ways, unsure of my place and how I should spend my time. Is it healthy to dwell on the not so recent past? Have I earned any perspective on the matter? Am I different in any way? My dad always told us to be ourselves but more often than not I'm absolutely confused as to who that is. I've been teaching the last three months and with each class I get more and more lost in other people's expectations of me, how it seems impossible to distinguish what I want from the wants of those around me.