Happy Father's Day

"We need to secure your permanent residency through the spousal route if you’re going to stay here," my husband-then-boyfriend said one night as we lay in bed, replete from our dosa delivery. While today was my designated cheat day, I knew I had to return to my disciplined regimen soon. My eyes wandered to his collection of Final Fantasy figurines on the dresser and the Hufflepuff flag hanging on the wall.

I was itching to redecorate the place.

"Are you sure about that, sweetie?" I asked, knowing it meant a lifelong commitment.

"Yes, it’s not ideal. My parents would have preferred a proper Jewish wedding, and preferably after your conversion, but this is what we need to do for now. We can have a proper wedding later."

"Okay."

I was going to marry this man anyway. The wedding itself doesn’t matter because I love him and feel like our love could grow. What truly matters is the marriage, and my side of the aisle would be empty anyway.

The next evening, we ventured to the Bloor-Yorkville area. It was raining, and the streets were littered with discarded McDonald's cups, straws, and wrappers from various shawarma and Asian dive joints. Construction had narrowed Bloor to a single lane each way. This was the high-end shopping district. Security guards stood vigil outside many stores, admitting wealthy Chinese housewives in Porsche Macans, these women with plump allowances and taut blanched calves in stilettos and Golden Goose sneakers, escaping their belching factory-owner husbands in Guangzhou.

Tiffany & Co.—Louis Vuitton—Gucci—Chanel—Prada—Hermès—Holt Renfrew—Cartier—Burberry—Versace—Dior—Hugo Boss—Salvatore Ferragamo—Moncler—BVLGARI—Rolex—Saint Laurent—Max Mara—Ermenegildo Zegna—Montblanc.

I had walked this stretch many times, noting the declining quality of the merchandise every time I glanced at the storefronts. But today, we were headed to Birks. I felt a sense of dissonance amid the bright lights and glass-encased display cases.

Everything was happening so fast.

An elderly woman greeted us. She resembled a toucan with her bright thick-framed red glasses, layers of statement jewelry—chunky necklaces, large bangles, bold rings—and a stately Aquiline nose.

"Hello, welcome to Birks. How may I assist you?" she asked, guiding us to her sleek wood and glass desk.

"Umm, we’re getting married and thinking of engagement rings? Or platinum bands? We’re getting married very soon," my fiancé responded.

"Oh, you’re basically eloping," she said, smiling as she typed our information. "A lot of young professionals these days forgo the engagement ring altogether and opt for a simple platinum band. It’s more tasteful."

My fiancé and I exchanged a look, silently agreeing.

"Yes, that works," he told the sales lady.

A week later, Toronto's December end unleashed its trademark weather: a torrential downpour amplified by the bone-chilling humidity drifting off Lake Ontario. Accompanied by my fiancé’s sister and her socially awkward Swedish boyfriend as witnesses, we embarked on our journey to an apartment complex nestled near Scarborough—an unexpected choice for our nuptial celebration. Memories of a previous visit to Bluffer’s Park flooded my mind, soured by encounters with a multitude of New Canadians—those salivating subcons unaccustomed to the sight of a woman sunbathing in naught but a bikini.

The complex's exterior had small, neglected grass patches overgrown with weeds, rusting playground equipment, and overflowing dumpsters. The lobby reeked of Mary Jane. The flickering fluorescent lights cast a sickly incandescence, highlighting the grime and dirt that clung to every surface. Graffiti and deep scratches on the metal walls marred the elevator’s interior. We pressed the sticky button for floor nine.

As the doors slid open, we passed by two men clearly engaged in a drug deal.

My fiancé rapped on the door at the end of a threadbare carpeted hallway. Opening it was an exceedingly tall Anglican reverend in traditional clerical attire—a black cassock paired with a crisp white clerical collar. His silver hair framed a gently creased face, and though neatly groomed, it receded slightly.

"Hello, are you the couple to be wedded?" he inquired, to which we replied affirmatively, before being ushered into a studio with a ceiling too low for his towering frame. The room was a festive hoarder’s spectacle with an abundance of Christmas decorations—three fully bedecked trees, giftwrapped presents, a train set, two nativity sets, a profusion of multicolored and white string lights, ornaments, candy canes, and various light-up LED Santa and reindeer sets, all accentuated by strings of thank you cards and mementos, crosses, and red and green ribbons.

"This is goyishe as hell," my fiancé murmured to me as we filled out forms. "My father is going to be so displeased."

"It's a court wedding," I replied in a hushed tone. "What did you expect?"

After exchanging vows and rings, we prepared to take pictures, per the reverend's suggestion. My now husband, attempting not to appear impolite, gestured, "Um, we'd like to take a picture in front of that painting."

In a corner of the studio, an oil painting of the queen stood, far removed from the Christmas décor. This choice satisfied my husband, as his father, while very much so a Jewish supremacist, held a deep affection for all things Anglo.

The pictures turned out remarkably well, given the circumstances.

Stepping outside, I narrowly avoided tripping over road-killed coon. Its stout limbs and shrewd gaze conveyed a sense of the wild, even in death after rummaging through urban rubbish, as it lay sprawled on the roadside, its fur disheveled and matted. In my attempt to evade the coon, I ended up ruining my modest yet steal-worthy dress by stepping into a filthy puddle. We returned to the apartment, soaked, but decided to celebrate nonetheless with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and German chocolates filled with kirschwasser.

Now, all I had to do was wait for my work permit. Little did I know that this process would take over a year. In the meantime, I continued with modeling. This period of dependency, encompassing my entire marriage during the Plague, unraveled me more than I could have ever imagined.

We didn't have a honeymoon, and this marriage disheartened my mother-in-law, suffering from malignant pancreatic cancer, as she was unable to witness her son's hasty and relatively informal wedding. However, there was a family vacation to Grand Cayman over the New Year.

Even my sister-in-law’s Swedish boyfriend joined us. Like me, he was adrift without a family of his own. He was alien and inscrutable to me because he was so distinctly Swedish, yet he felt like a kindred spirit, bound by the same rootlessness. We were both warmly welcomed by the in-laws, but deep down, we knew this affection was conditional, like all the love we had known. We are often asked by people with families, even dysfunctional yet lovable ones, why we can't just make up with our parents. We sigh, knowing that explaining is futile and reaching back out is potentially fatal, but we sound insane if we say that.

"Reach out," they say. "One day your parents will die, and you'll regret it," they say. "Honor your father and mother," they say.

I want to honor them, but they killed me first.

If they didn't kill me, they at least stunted my growth. There's no clear distinction between reality and my inner world; my thoughts and emotions manifest externally. I was never allowed to develop boundaries or individuate from my parents. Imagining or anticipating abandonment feels as real as if it had already happened. Whether it truly occurred is irrelevant because my internal experience feels just as real.

Those without families often latch onto those who do, like lampreys. We go to great lengths to please our in-laws, believing this is our only chance at having a family. In the process, we often sabotage ourselves, attempting to preemptively avoid the rejection we've come to expect.

I also knew that my sister-in-law and my husband were aware of their father's ambivalence toward the Swede, who would never convert for his daughter, an anti-natalist by conviction.

My husband confided in me as we sat outside the Westin, sipping our mudslides and mojitos. "My father tolerates Rolf the Swede but isn’t particularly warm toward him. He knows someone like Rolf would never convert. On the other hand, my parents adore you for your willingness to convert, much like my mother did. And the fact that you embarked on this path even before meeting me means the world to them."

As my husband spoke, I watched the Swede by the shore. He fidgeted with a twig and inscribed shapes in the sand.

Upon returning to Canada, I made the journey to Montreal to immerse in the mikvah, a culmination of years of effort. Two rabbis, countless chevruta sessions, sacrificing a normal social life, completely overhauling my dietary and dress habits, and burning bridges with priests and loved ones—all for what? At this juncture, I questioned my motivations. It felt like a sunk cost; I had ventured too far to turn back, even as I skirted the boundaries of the law. I wasn’t the most machmir of gerim, often failing to dress modestly and indulging in non-kosher dairy and pareve foods at restaurants. I wrestled with guilt if I didn’t pray three times daily. Many non-Jews jest that observant Jews "trick" God with their orthopraxy, yet I was merely scraping by, aware that this path can easily lead to a life that would make Sharia blush.

In Canada, I led a double life: studying Torah and observing Shabbat, but rarely attending shul or fully integrating into the community. Upon arriving in Montreal, clad in a long skirt and turtleneck, I faced the scrutiny of three black-hats, who posed myriad questions.

"How often does Rosh Chodesh occur? Do you believe in the divine origin of the Torah? What is your hashkafa? Are you pursuing conversion for marriage?"

Following the questioning, I underwent a test and submitted a dossier outlining my conversion intentions. I studied the law and billed my hours. That dossier was stacked. I was mostly honest, yet I couldn't divulge to these men my psychosexual underpinnings—my masochistic tendencies—or my deep-seated desire for transcendence, desires that operated well outside the psychosexual. It remained unspoken that my father-in-law's connections played a significant role in securing my conversion recognized by the Chief Rabbinut of Israel. Even in matters of piety, biblically knowing others mattered, in this instance through his son.

After the interrogation and before immersion, they inquired about my Hebrew name.

I chose Batya bat Avraham v’Sarah.

Batya defied her father's decrees, and her father, much like my own father, was a Pharaoh with a hardened heart.

I finally updated my mother over the phone about my current whereabouts and my discreet marriage followed by conversion. My mother showed tentative interest, while my father remained stoic—neither positively nor negatively responsive.

His indifference was felt.

Casually, my mother suggested, "Ven vill ve see you? Ve should all go on vacation togezzer in Canada."

But I sensed the insincerity in her words, tinged with a reluctance to open their wallets, something that went against their principles and agoraphobia. Moreover, my husband had no desire to meet them.

"Remember when I invited you to meet my future spouse in North Carolina, and then you guys changed your mind?" I gently reminded my mother. "That deeply affected him."

By this point, I hadn't seen my parents in person since I was nineteen. All our communication was reduced to terse, biweekly calls just to confirm I was alive—calls that rarely lasted more than ten minutes. Each time I extended the conversation beyond that limit, I was reminded why I stopped seeing them in person and why my younger brother did the same.

This is why I lack a core identity.

Panta Rhei—it all flows.

When you meet me, I'm passionately consistent yet mercurial, temperamental, and romantic.

You can never step into the same river twice, and you can never encounter the same version of me twice.

Reflecting on my conversion, I see how I constantly violate my own self-imposed rules, limits, and boundaries. These boundaries mean nothing because I am in flux. My dissociation fuels my craving for stability around men, as objects and regulators of my self-worth—the axis of self. The rituals and rules ground me.

I yearn to be reduced to a mute witness to a man's grandeur, to be transformed into a mere function or an extension—only then do I want to kill my father.

But inevitably, rebellion seizes me. I lose control and must label you to emancipate myself. I'm not your daughter. I'm not your chattel. I am an autonomous being—independent, accomplished.

I am a woman desired by other men.

I’m skinless.

I’m drowning.

I’ll deep throat you till I die.

I’ll choke on you, and I want you to asphyxiate me.

My daddy issues have shaped me into the irresistibly captivating woman I am today.