Saying goodbye to my daddies of American literature

A love letter to Hemingway, Kerouac and Thompson

Dear Ernest Hemingway, Jack Kerouac and Hunter S. Thompson,

You are dead and perhaps reincarnated somewhere living your soul’s purpose one way or another, perhaps even reading your own work from a previous lifetime and feeling something or nothing about it. Maybe you’ve never even heard of yourself.

At any rate, you are my daddies of American literature. You shaped me as a writer, but it’s time to say goodbye — for now.

Papa Hemingway, master of short stories, thank you for teaching how to write, how to put every word on a pedestal, how to speak the truth of the matter and never overexplain because most of the story exists beneath the details.

Papa Kerouac, rogue wanderer, prince of prosetry, King of Beats — thank you for introducing stream of consciousness to me, for inspiring me to take long pointless road trips, for showing me alternative ways of living and doing it with soul, for leading a movement and for fathering the hippies, though all you wanted to do was describe beautiful things and ugly things, and channel pure expression through your fingertips.

Papa Hunter, maverick storyteller, observer of the American human condition through the wild eyes of a man whose distorted sense of reality uncovered deeper truths, who drank gobs of Wild Turkey, chain-smoked cigarettes and weed, took bumps of cocaine as a morning routine, and whose reckless fearlessness comes across in your writing, thank you.

I got what I needed from you, and I’m moving on. You were alcoholics, white men with ists or isms, and are dead. I am not a white man, and I’m alive. But I have plenty of isms.

I do not pleasure in the hunting of animals, nor did I go to war, nor will I hang with a group of bigoted bikers and take licks for speaking my truth against them. But Hell’s Angels is one of my favorite gonzo books, particularly because of the artful way it’s written.

And I became a journalist because I wanted to learn the techniques and rules of writing, so I can use them and stretch them and bend them to my will. Break them from time to time. Good thing I never quite made it as a journalist — I was set loose upon the world disillusioned but still hopelessly idealistic, and now I must evolve.

I do not call gay people faeries, have yab-yums in my living room, and engage in eccentric displays of bravado with my pals. Though I am a Buddhist and Eastern esotericist. To think that American art and counter-culture was heavily influenced by Eastern spirituality during this time — whether appropriated — is fascinating, particularly because I am drawn to sincerity and channeling expression through writing.

I do not plan to die alone on a cold street because alcohol has destroyed my stomach’s lining, nor take my own life through the barrel of a gun. But I can’t know when and where I’ll go, and I don’t want to. My new kick is figuring out a healthy state of mind and body, imagining my own self-determination, and crafting stories using my Voice and the techniques I learned from my teachers, many of whom are you, my daddies.

So long, Daddies — not only because I’ve found other works of art I connect with, other gazes and frameworks for storytelling; so long because I want to explore these forms and redefine or abandon the hero’s journey altogether, to discover other stories and write my own, and to exist as an individual and member of several societies simultaneously, and uncover different perspectives, and unravel my worldview, and experiment with style, and sometimes collaborate and sometimes fly solo, and expand my consciousness. Do you see why I must leave you now?

Goodbye because I’m grown; I’ve found my own style. I acknowledge it is possible to love our fathers and consider them hopelessly stuck in the past, and when that happens, what you have to do is kiss them on the forehead and bid them farewell and promise to call them.

I only hope to sincerely express my authentic experiences, despite my isms unbeknownst to me, and to connect with people from all walks of life, despite our superficial differences, like you have with me.

Love,

Your Grown Womanchild

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