I went to see The Namesake yesterday. It is the story of a son of Indian immigrants who struggles to escape his Bengali culture, symbolized by his name, Gogol Ganguli. He feels oppressed and uncomfortable with his parents and their traditional ways, as he feels very American. He prefers to go by Nick.
Early in the picture when the grandfather dies, Gogol's mother cries out, wracked with grief. Later in the film, Gogol's father dies and and the son is deeply affected and transformed by the loss. I was moved by this film, especially by these two scenes, but I had to think about why this was so.
On the way home from the theater, I had some time to think while driving down the freeway. Off in the distance, I could see the condo complex where my parents lived until recently. The emotion from the movie hit me again, and I realized why this movie struck a chord. It was not because I anticipated that I would miss my father when he dies, it was because I knew that I would not.
Gogol's father and grandfather were wise, loving men who put their children first, provided thoughtful guidance and imparted moral and intellectual education for their children. Mine did not. I was lightly parented at best. My father mostly ignored me, but on those occasions when he turned his attention my way, he was derisive, insulting and cruel. To this day, he seeks to elevate his self-esteem by lowering that of those around him.
I will not miss that.
As I grew up I, like Gogol, saw myself as being stuck with an unusual name that I wished I could escape. I no longer dislike my name, but unlike Gogol, I have not come to appreciate my father or seen the light of his love and wisdom. Nor do not think this will ever happen. I will not mourn him when he goes, for I have already mourned my lack of a father.
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