Introduction I'M A SLOW WRITER IN A RACE AGAINST THE INEVITABLE DATE OF MY FATHER'S death. He is one of the last remaining Holocaust survivors. He is ninety-three years old as I write this. He is healthy; he is wise. He insisted I tell the world that he still gets it up (with a little boost from Viagra). Writing his story is tough for me. I can't shake the feeling that nearly every child with a parent connected to this unique history has already published a book about it or created a provocative work of genocide-themed art that hangs in a museum or is proudly displayed in the home of a prominent Jewish family on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. At this point, I've got a few index cards with general thoughts and outlines. I am way behind, but my father is a survivor, so I expect him to hang around long enough to read some of it, hopefully most of it, and ideally a first draft. My father knows I'm attempting to write his story. He did have one request. He said, "Please, just not another Holocaust memoir with the long-winded descriptions and elaborate accounts of the smells in the Ghetto, the corpses. Everyone knows this already. Elie Wiesel, Primo Levy, Anne Frank, that guy who wrote the comic book about the mouse, they all covered it. Spielberg, too, such a genius, so do something different. Don't be afraid to slip in a few jokes. What do you call it again . . . that bullshit you always say . . . ? Oh yeah, write something poster-punk." He meant to say, post-punk. My father concluded his appeal by saying, "And besides, you're no Elie Wiesel." Indeed. The truth is, I am an advertising copywriter. This book is different, it's difficult, and I'm afraid I won't meet the deadline. Excerpted from Pass the Trauma, Please: My Father's Not-So-depressing Holocaust Memoir about Love, Loss, Laughter, and Legacy by Todd Diamond All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
