Seventy-three years ago today, my biological father, Simon Gerson, passed away after struggling for more than a decade with rheumatic heart disease. Born on August 18, 1918, he was only 34 years old. I never have trouble keeping track of how many years have passed since I was born just over two weeks later, on May 20, 1953. As I have written elsewhere, I was extraordinarily fortunate to be adopted by the man whom I knew my entire life as my father — a kind, generous, understanding, soft-spoken and supportive man to whom I owe all of the opportunities I ever had.
But I often wonder about Simon, of whom I know so very little. My mom passed away very young as well and there was no one to ask. I do know he was a gifted actor, turned theatre director who was deeply committed to justice and racial equality. He was the director at one of the first, if not the very first, racially integrated theatre groups in America. I sometimes think about whether if he met me today and got to know me, he would see much of himself in me. I hope so.
None of this is new and I have had many anniversaries of his passing to reflect. But perhaps because I am now just about to turn 73, I am deeply impacted by the thought that I have been given exactly what he was denied — the chance to have a full life, a wife of 42 years, three sons whom I love dearly and three grandchildren who constantly bring me immeasurable joy. One of my sons happens to be a cardiothoracic surgeon who literally saves lives every day often performing miracle heart transplants. I am smart enough to know this is not true, but sometimes I like to imagine that the universe is trying to make amends for Simon's early and tragic death by allowing his grandson to give life to so many others.
Most of all today I am appreciative that I have been given the miracle of life, of consciousness, experience and love. I do wish I had been given the opportunity to know my dad.