~4~
Oh! Darling
Hey dad,
Sometimes I wake up and remember your whole crazy story all over again. This morning was one of those mornings. I couldn’t tell you why, but I woke up thinking about mom’s 54th birthday party. I thought about the drive you took from our house down the road about ten minutes away from where you’d find out the biggest news of your life.
I thought about what the words must have sounded like coming off of our cousin’s lips: “you’re adopted.” Fifty five years of D’Agostino blood washed away in a moment’s murmur. I sometimes still feel fraudulent for correctly pronouncing “mozzarella,” thinking that maybe I should conform to the rest of the world no longer having any Italian heritage to fall back on. Then, I think: your blood doesn’t determine who you are.
I think about you as an infant, nameless boy in a hospital about to be adopted by the D’Agostino family. I think about the fifteen-year-old Jewish girl who kept you a secret until she was being rushed to the hospital; I think about how it must feel to give a baby up for adoption and how very thankful I am that she chose to do so.
Anthony D’Agostino was a great man. Despite only getting the chance to know him for the first four months of my life, I feel like I know him through family stories and old videos. I can perfectly hear him belting crooner classics and envision his smile as he watched you and mom walk down the aisle. Especially now after learning that he was the reason you never knew you were adopted, I have such a deep appreciation for his commitment to loving you with every ounce of his being. Pop Pop Anthony never would have thought about family health history or any of the arguably necessary aspects of knowing your biological parentage. He was an Italian man from Coney Island concerned only with ensuring you felt like you were his son every day of your life.
If only he could see how truly incredible you are; you amaze me every single day. It’s not just the ability to effectively run your law firm or pursue your passion through a music publishing company; it’s the fact that you play Peter Pan through it all – always making time for family and prioritizing what means most. I’m not entirely sure where he is now. I don’t know where I stand on the whole “after-life” thing, but I know that wherever he is, he would be so overwhelmingly in love with the life you have made and continue to make each day.
I can’t believe you learned you were adopted at fifty-five and have yet to do anything crazy or impulsive (except maybe buying an airstream RV or writing and producing an entire autobiographical musical). You have continued to treat life as a treble clef and orchestrated each moment so beautifully. Even when life has thrown you an unexpected sharp note or has failed to stay on pitch, I cannot even begin to understand how you do it. Perhaps I’ll have to wait for the "How I Did It" autobiography you always joke about writing, or maybe I’ll understand as I get older.
Whatever it is, I sometimes wake up sad about all of this. I wake up and miss the days of being a self-proclaimed “Pizza Bagel” (Italian and Jewish). Even now as more of a bagel with lox and cream cheese, I think there will always be a hint of leftover pizza somewhere in the mix. (Maybe I should get away from the food metaphors… this combination is starting to sound gross). You get the point.
It’s not all about blood. It’s about love and memories and traditions. It’s about knowing that whatever meal you’re eating, there will be Peter Luger’s sauce waiting on the table for you. It’s the little things – as cliche as that may sound.
Anyway, I’m so glad you were adopted and then proceeded to meet and marry the best and most beautiful woman in the world. And now I get to have you guys as parents? Feeling really lucky today from miles away.
Give mom a hug for me!
Love,
Jess
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