The Salt Lake Tribune ran a nice piece about me in the Sunday paper. There are a few minor things in the article that aren’t entirely accurate or complete—like Deanna’s age in Story (16), the name of my college (San Francisco State University), and the fact that there were three other books vying for the NBA in 07: Skin Hunger, Touching Snow, and The Invention of Hugo Cabret (and it was probably really Hugo that was neck and neck with True Diary, if anything was). But that’s the kind of stuff that’s often wrong or left out or not an important part of the story that the journalist wants to tell—that’s the way it goes. What I want to talk about is this: “Zarr is the daughter of a special-education teacher and alcoholic father who worked in retail.”
When I read that, I swallowed hard and thought about all the things I tend to leave out when the subject of my father comes up. What I know is what I experienced, and by the time I was aware of what was going on in life, “alcoholic” was the primary identity by which I understood my dad and his effect on our family, and that is certainly a big part of what shaped me and the environment of my childhood. And, when I speak at high schools I make a point of talking a little about my dad’s drinking because if there’s one kid in the room who has an addict parent and is feeling ashamed or alone or overwhelmed I want that kid to see that a person can come out of it with a sense of humor and leading a relatively normal life. It doesn’t necessarily sentence you to anything.
But, there’s so much more to tell about him. Wayne Zarr was a highly intelligent, creative man. He held a PhD from the music school at Indiana University, where he met my mom, also a musician. He taught college level at music schools, conducted, and composed. He was extremely passionate about beauty—in music, in the natural world, in people. In a lot of ways, he loved life, wanted to devour it. He had a great sense of humor and loved to laugh. When I was a kid, there was a period he and I spent a lot of time together riding MUNI around San Francisco, going here and there. Back then it seemed to me he could fix anything. I remember the way he shaped the cotton on a Q-tip into a tiny point to get an eyelash out of my eye without me feeling a thing, how when I lost my favorite doll he took me all over town retracing our steps and then took me into stores to find one just like it (we never did), him reading “I Can’t Said the Ant” to me and then that very moment a real, live ant crawling across the page of the book and us laughing. Somehow I joined this YMCA kid basketball team and he gave me a basketball and watched me practice and play. When he did lose patience with me I could see how terrible it made him feel that he made me cry. He loved the ocean, the Beatles, Bach, cooking, collecting stamps, and he loved us.
He had a lot of demons, yes. He got a lot of shit dealt to him genetically and circumstantially, and the way he was or wasn’t able to deal with that stuff led to him gradually not being able to do what he loved for a living. The “working in retail” part came at the very end of his life and even then he was working with church choirs as he could. Our relationship was hard, no doubt. But I know he loved me, and my sister, and our whole family, and always wished he could break free of himself and become this other person who could show that love and enjoy everything there is to enjoy about life without the shadow of addiction and everything that went with it. We all run up against our limitations. His were harder than most.
A lot of who he was is in me, the good and the not so great. Sara Zarr is the daughter of a teacher/musician/cellist/guitarist/songwriting/Jesus-loving mother, and a teacher/musician/conductor/composer/passionate/alcoholic/genius father. Gorgeous people who both loved their children, and by the grace of God both of their children are doing just fine.
23 comments for this post
Wow. You have encompassed some beauitful thoughts about your father, despite his alcoholism.
I’m not so far on that journey, but your books give me solace that one day I can write about it.
Right now, I just tend to kill off the fathers in my books.
But, perhaps we can change. Thanks for the post.
-Bett
Sara Reply:
November 17th, 2009 at 10:07 am
@Bettina Restrepo, Takes time. My dad passed away 4 years ago Thanksgiving, and I think writing this was the first time I thought, “He loved me,” and really believed it without adding any “but” to that.
Thanks for that post, Sara. I think it speaks so well of the unique feelings of someone who has experienced that childhood. (like my mom.)
Loved it.
Sara Reply:
November 17th, 2009 at 10:08 am
@Brodi Ashton, thanks, Brodi
Beautifully written; I can identify with the twisted emotions of growing up in such an environment.
Isn’t it strange-funny when someone else tries to label a person we love? The label is never enough, but sometimes too much. This is a beautiful tribute (and don’t you want to send it to the SL Trib so they can show it to everyone who read the article?).
Sara Reply:
November 17th, 2009 at 10:06 am
@Becca, I left a comment on the online archive and linked to here–hadn’t thought about sending it in but maybe I will craft it into real essay and do that. Thanks.
Thank you so much for addressing the part of the article that gave me pause. I realized then that although I didn’t know your father’s profession, I remembered you getting a copy of his dissertation from the library.
I agree with Becca–the labels others give are never enough, but sometimes too much. Thank you for showing us these part of him; and in turn, parts of you.
Sara Reply:
November 17th, 2009 at 10:08 am
@Emily Wing Smith, Yeah, it felt sort of like a punch in the stomach, that sentence…glad you noticed, too.
Thank you for this, Sara. But now my mascara is everywhere but where it should be!
We are all so much better (and worse), bigger (and smaller), and endlessly more complex than any word(s) could ever capture.
What a loving way to talk about your dad, Sara. I, too, thought that line in the article stuck out. Just very blunt and well, an odd way to sum up a life, let alone the life of someone’s father. Thank you for having the grace to write this.
what a very brave and powerful post. thank you for sharing that.
Thank you for reminding me that people are made up of so much more than the pieces we get to see. This could not have been an easy thing for you to write/talk about, but I know it at least helped me.
Wow, Sara – That does far more justice to you and the man I had the chance to know. Well said.
XO
What a beautiful portrait. Thank you.
Oh, Sara. Thank you for this.
Thank you for writing this.
A big thanks for sharing this piece of your journey navigating your relationship with your dad. It gives me hope that I’ll someday be able to more fully process all the facets of the mixed-up mess that was my bipolar father, gone six years this month.
Sara Reply:
November 19th, 2009 at 10:05 am
@Laurel, My dad was bi-polar, too…not uncommon with addiction. My dad’s been gone four years on Thanksgiving…I think I soften a bit every year.
Sara,
Addiction creates such tragedies, doesn’t it? You’ve described its curse, but you’ve also captured your family’s love, hope, and joy. Too often our society simplistically and erroneously dismisses addicts as evil people. What an incredible journey you’ve shared with us. And I SO applaud you for reaching out to the kids in your audience who feel isolated and shamed.
Jean
Sara Reply:
November 19th, 2009 at 10:05 am
@Jean Reagan, Thanks – I always feel like it would be a big fat lie to stand up in front of kids and omit that, you know? It’s so much a part of who I am.
Sara, thank you for the reminder that alcoholism does not make up the total person. Whenever we try to sum up a life quickly and succinctly, we do a disservice.
I admire your understanding and love for your dad. It took me 25 years to get there with mine. I now figure he was too gentle and kind for this world. And some of my best qualities do come from him- much as I tried to deny that for a long time.
Thanks for your beautiful blog.
Thank you, Sara, for this beautiful tribute to your father. He was
my very good friend in graduate school at Indiana University and
I kept up with him for many years after we graduated. He was one
of the most intelligent and talented people I have known, and I’m so sorry we fell out of touch. I would talk to him on the phone every once in a while for years and once, when you were a child
I visited with him and your family in San Francisco. I’m very happy
to hear of your success and would like to learn more about Wayne
in the years when we were no longer in touch. I would also like to know how to be in touch with
your mother, who was also our friend in graduate school. I have
thought of Wayne often over the years and just now googled and
found your posting. With warm regards, Tom Lancaster