Inspired by his distant relationship with his father, writer and PhD in Communication Sciences, Jeder Janotti Júnior , launches “Mãe, o pai não vai chorar?”, a work that explores the emotional scars left by men with rigid routines and restrained affections. With lyrical and detailed language, the author revisits childhood memories and the last days of his father to discuss the rituals of masculinity, the emotional gaps and the emotional legacies that span generations, placing the mother as the bond of affection that sustained the family.
The rigid and emotionally distant father figure seems to have left a deep mark on your memories. When you recall the construction of the family home, one of the moments mentioned in the book, how would you describe your father’s emotional presence — or absence — in those days?
In fact, it is much more about the absence of the father, a contradictory figure in the formation of the Brazilian family, since his presence, when required, especially in middle-class families, is much more about a financial presence, materialized in the contribution of resources, in the idea of provider, than as someone who is emotionally present, who shares his time with his daughters and sons.
In the book, you highlight the contrast between the figure of your father and the strength of your mother, who was the family’s breadwinner. How was it for you to revisit, through writing, this dynamic between them and the way it shaped your perception of masculinity and affection?
The process of writing the book was a kind of self-analysis, as occurs in a therapeutic process, keeping in mind the differences, narrating, organizing my memories was, at the same time, a process of catharsis and evaluative remembrance that affected my own dynamics in the role of father.
The idea of “ pharmakon ,” which you mention as a kind of healing through writing, is powerful. How has the process of putting these memories on paper helped you see your relationship with your father in a new, more thoughtful and perhaps more generous light?
First of all, and I think this is noticeable in the book, I have a relationship of deep loving affection with the memories of my father, but as I said, when weaving the plot, tying up the loose ends, I saw my father as an obliteration of affections, a commonplace in the figure of the father in his generation, and unfortunately, perhaps in mine. But as I unraveled this thread, I began to realize that what heals can also make you sick, precisely because it makes absence present.
Moments like mourning, final meetings with your father, and even the silences between you appear as defining chapters in your life. What lessons did these silences teach you about communication — or the lack thereof — between parents and children?
I believe that silence is also a necessary commodity, often scarce in a society whose metrics seem to be continuous connection and engagement. Anyone who has had the opportunity to live with teenage daughters/sons knows that the insistent question, “What’s wrong with you? What happened?” is often ineffective. On the other hand, silence is relational, it is always the other of an idea of noise, of uproar. Just as it is impossible for us to live amidst incessant noise, silence as a whole presupposes an absence, which in the case of the book is the absence of a father and the lack of affection. Today, I find it strange to hear stories of affective memories of fathers who are described as taciturn, self-absorbed, silent as loving traits.
In “Mãe, o pai não vai chorar?”, you navigate through memories that touch on the fear of aging and the passage of time. How did writing about your father’s slow decline change the way you deal with your own finitude?
I had the illusion that writing about death would be a catharsis, a way of irrevocably coming to terms with the idea that we will all have an end. After finishing the book, another illusion disappeared, a romanticization of writing, but on the other hand, fiction, experiencing other possibilities of the world, is still a resilient and reflective way of facing this process, including realizing that it is not just an individual issue, but a generational one, as I wrote in the book, Rita Lee is gone, Gal Costa too, my father had nothing to do with them, but he is also gone.
The book is for anyone who wants to make peace with their inner child. What was it like for you to find and communicate with your “child self” while writing, especially when revisiting such intimate and familiar memories?
The child that lives within me is a construction of the present, remembering is bringing to the present what we think was, if we can tame to some extent the idyll with this time in which we think we are immortal, where the passage of time seems elongated and tenuous, perhaps we can alleviate part of the anguish that afflicts us when we come across this inflection in the passage of time.
The work also touches on universal themes such as sexism and social inequality. How do you believe that your family’s stories can open space for broader reflections on these themes in today’s society?
As I said, organizing and sharing these experiences made me see from another perspective facts and relationships that we normally approach in a complacent way, as if they were “natural”.
Ultimately, by putting your memories into words, you open a window for readers to connect with their own stories. What message do you hope each person takes away when they close the book, even if they carry their own pain and unspoken memories?
Perhaps we are beings told through multiple stories and perspectives, which are similar, have points in common to all of them, such as being born and dying, but which are also different, as each one seems to follow a unique path along this trail.
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